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

“What did you have in mind?” asks Haynes in a quiet voice as he hobbles into the clearing.

“Like I said, this group is as good as caught and thrown back in their cells. I kinda got my hands full here and could use a partner. Now, I found about twenty sets of shackles in the wagons under the drivers' benches; they did carry slaves after all. All we got to do is chain these guys up, load them in the wagons, and drive right back to where we started. I collect the bounty, and you and I ride off into the sunset, free men. You'll be under my protection from here on out.”

“The alternative being, you kill me and Caleb, and take the rest anyway? Or we kill you and then die or be captured tomorrow at the gate? That it? Did I get it all?” Haynes asks, careful to not let all his contempt bleed into his voice.

“Well, as you'll probably find out, I'm not all that easy to kill. Ask your buddy over there.” He tips the barrel of the gun at me, but otherwise, it doesn't waver.

“Well, Jesse, we've been friends and comrades in arms for what, two and a half, maybe three years now, right? And I figure I owe you a bit of loyalty, but this just doesn't sit right with me for a few reasons.”

“Sarge—” I try to cut in, but Sarge talks over me.

“Not now, Son, grown-ups are talking.” He doesn't look at me but keeps his stare fixed on the gunman. I shut my mouth and wait to see where this is going.

“Well, Sarge," Jesse says, casually, never letting the gun in his hand drop, "let’s see if we can work through these 'reasons' and come out on top together.”

“Look, Jesse, or whoever the hell you are, let’s just cut the bullshit. I'm almost willing to overlook the loss of your 'good ol' boy' drawl, and the promise of money and freedom does sound pretty good, but I don't think that I, or the real Jesse, would fuck over all these people after we've made it this far.”

“Shit. What gave me away, Sarge, besides that tiring drawl?”

“Two things. First, I got here in time to see Caleb beat you to death and see you get back up like nothing happened. And second? Jesse ain't left-handed.”

“Well, sometimes I forget the mirror image thing. Like, there was one time…” His body shifts a little, and then all hell breaks loose.

Everything seems to happen at once. I hit the deck, trying to avoid Jesse's shot, not seeing his pistol swing toward Haynes. The Sarge drops his walking stick and skins the .45 out of its holster faster than an eye blink. Thunder erupts in the quiet night as both pistols fire at almost the same time.

Jesse pitches backward, and Haynes drops to one knee but keeps firing. Eight more shots ring out, and six or seven more bullets slam into Jesse's supine body. Sarge's gun clicks and locks open, empty. He ejects the empty magazine and slams home another.

He turns and looks at me with that 'thousand-yard stare' that some people get after they've seen or done too many things that they just can't make right in their own heads. I guess gunning down an old friend would qualify as 'traumatic.'

“It’s a trick. He's not dead yet. I fell for that twice. Let’s get those shackles on him and maybe get some answers when he sits up again,” I say in my most calming voice from my position in the dirt. I can't help but notice Haynes still has not holstered that big .45 of his. “And whatever you do, stay out of that fog!”

He blinks once at me, then nods his head slightly. “Go ahead, I'll cover you.”

I trot over to the wagon, moving as fast as I can, all things considered. I pull open the driver's bench and find coils of shackles and chains in a messy pile. I pull out three sets, thinking I'll cuff his hands, then his legs, then chain all of them together, pulling it tight in a giant metal hogtie kind of thing.

I flinch as two more shots ring out.

“Caleb, hurry up, he keeps trying to move!” Haynes shouts.

I head back over to him with a broken limp-run gait. Haynes stays about ten feet back with the pistol trained on Jesse. I stop next to the body and attempt to flip him over with my foot so he's face down, but he resists. His eyes open, and I catch a flash of that blasted copper rod in his hand.

Without conscious thought, I swing all three sets of shackles and chains down on his head. Skin flays from the bone as the skull cracks.

“Damn it! Just stay down!” I shout. The next few moments are kind of a blur to me. I dimly remember swinging my improvised flailing weapon over and over and over again. I can't seem to stop myself, and to be honest, I don't think I really tried too hard. I keep hitting even after I see gray and pink brain matter scatter across the clearing. I continue pummeling whatever Jesse is even once most of the cranium is pulped and ground to a powder. The heavy chains bash what’s left of his skull off his broken neck. I finally take a fast step back in surprise.

A sickly green light emits from the decapitated head and neck. It grows and travels across the body with a sizzling sound. When the light fades, what’s left cannot be described as human.

The headless corpse is now naked and a deathly pale gray color. The skin stretched tightly over thick, ropy muscle, is segmented and bloated, almost like a maggot’s. At a glance, the physiology is all wrong for a human. Too many bones in odd places, and unusually placed muscles that don't seem