Stolen Lives: A LitRPG/GameLit Novel (The Underhill Chronicles Book 1) by Keith Ahrens (books for 8th graders .txt) 📗

Prisoner# 5925

Fighter

Name: Caleb Bastion

Race: Human

Class: Fighter

Level: 5

Attacks/Round: 1

Hit Points, Max: 55

Hit Points, Current: 30

Special Conditions: None

Strength: 16 (+3)

Constitution: 14 (+2)

Dexterity: 12 (+1)

Intelligence: 16 (+3)

Wisdom: 16 (+3)

Charisma: 12 (+1)

Saving Throws For:

Fortitude: +6 Reflexes: +3 Willpower: +4

Armor Class: (Base) 10+1

Bonus Armor Proficiencies: All Light (+1 Dex), Medium (+1 Dex), and Heavy (+1 Dex)

Armor Class Total: 11

Armor Equipped: None

Ranged Weapon Proficiencies: (None Equipped) Firearms, Specialized (+5/+1)

Melee Weapon Proficiencies: (None Equipped) +8/+3

Unarmed Combat: +8 (Level + Str.) /+3(Str.)

Weapon Group:

Skills: Animal Handling 3, Profession (Medicine) 10, Driving 4, Swim 1, Sense Motive 3, Intimidate 1, Survival 2, Alertness 2, Toughness 1

Equipment Carried: None

Base Movement: 30 feet

Property of Lord Dullahan of Terram Caeruleum

The other man, the one with the thick beard, sits up and whistles a low note of appreciation. “Damn, Son, not bad for a new guy.”

Quickly, I try to cover my wrist with the palm of my other hand. The image winks out as soon as I move my finger off it.

“Yeah, try to keep that to yourself. We’re on your side here, so it's okay, but I'd try to keep it hidden from anyone else,” Beard-Face warns me, and I quickly clap my hand over my wrist.

The first guy, with the dark skin and military cut, clears his throat for attention. I have no reason to believe that these guys are suddenly my friends, but I heed the warning. Keeping that kind of info to myself seems like a good idea right about now.

He waits patiently for me to look at him. “Son, I don’t know exactly what you went through to get here, but it looks like it was a rough way to go. As for what that is," he points to my wrist, "and where you are, and why you’re here, you won’t believe me right now. Stow those questions and ask me again in a few days. For now, just lay back and try to relax.”

I ignore his advice and sit up. Letting my legs swing to the ground, I brace my feet wide for some stability as my head spins again. The same looking heavy, brass shackle connects my left ankle to the wall behind me with an eight-foot brass chain. Each link is about an inch-and-a-half wide and substantial in weight. My uniform pants and boots are filthy with dirt and dried blood. The blood is difficult to see against the navy blue, but the stiffness of the fabric is a dead giveaway. My medic shirt is torn to shreds, and all the patches are ripped off. I can see my white t-shirt through the holes.

“They remove all patches and unit insignia before they bring you in,” says my new pal as he notices where I'm looking. “What branch were you?”

“Branch? Oh, no, I’m not military—EMS,” I reply, still feeling a bit groggy. “Did we get hit again?” After making it through a rather significant terrorist attack and a few other smaller-scale ones, it’s never far from my mind that it could happen again at any time.

My head is pounding like a bad hangover, making it difficult to concentrate on the conversation. I struggle to remember what happened last night for me to end up here. Did I get arrested? The things I can recall don't seem right. The best answer I can give myself is that I was punched harder than I thought, or maybe I got drugged somehow during the fight with that crazy pig-fighting man.

“Hit again? What do you mean?” the man asks, interrupting my train of thought.

I stare at him for a minute, wondering if he’s messing with me. “Yeah, hit again… another bombing or a shooter on a crowded street? Terrorist attack?” His face remains impassive… “You’ve got to be kidding me… aren’t you military?” I gesture toward his tattered uniform.

“Sure am, Sergeant Elias Haynes, US Army, 5th Special Forces Group. So, what’s this EMS? What does it stand for? Are you some kind of fireman or something?”

“No, I’m a Medic—Emergency Medical Service. Are you seriously telling me you’re unaware of the terrorist threats in New York, hell, all over the damn place for like the last fifteen or twenty years?”

“Keep your voice down; you’re gonna draw attention. They don’t like us talking among ourselves too much.” He puts one finger to his lips in the universal ‘shut the hell up’ gesture and tilts his head toward the door. I listen as well and hear a ponderous step, drag, step, drag coming toward our door. Whoever it is, must be heavy with a bad limp. The sound gets louder as it slowly works its way toward us.

The labored steps come to a halt outside the heavy wooden door, and a small window swings outward. It has a brass frame and is set into the door about six-and-a-half feet up from the ground.

Thin bars cross the opening, and a large, yellow, bloodshot eye peers through. Staring at me. My mouth goes even dryer, and I automatically clamp it shut. The eye shifts to Haynes, lingers for a moment, then the little door slams shut. The step, drag cadence slowly recedes down the hall.

Up until now, I feel like I've been keeping my cool and handling everything as if it's all normal. But everyone has a point where he or she just can’t take more weird shit stacked up any higher. I take a deep breath and whisper (not hysterically… or at least, I hope not hysterically), “What the fuck was that?”

“I told you to ask me again later," Sergeant Haynes reiterates himself. "You’re not going to believe me now.”

“Stop the cryptic shit for a second, all right? That guy or thing, or whatever the hell that was that just looked in here, had to be at least seven feet tall to look through that hole, and its eye color was not natural," I keep rambling, "…that eye was too big to be a contact lens and too intelligent looking to be a fake. And the skin around it looked kind of greenish. Like lizard