Stolen Lives: A LitRPG/GameLit Novel (The Underhill Chronicles Book 1)

by Keith Ahrens

  He lunges with his knife, and I swing the Maglite at his hand. I feel bone crack, and the bulb bursts and goes out as the rest of his two hundred and sixty pounds of raging momentum connect with my form.

  We fall back, smashing the headlight on the passenger side of my ambulance. I can't see where the knife lands as it falls from his hand. The area around us is now lit only by the flashing red and blues from the emergency vehicle's light bar, creating a surreal slow-motion effect. I roll across the pavement with our momentum and try to get clear of his grasping hands, but damn, he is fast.

  The icy mud puddle soaks right through my jacket like a dry sponge as I block several punches thrown at my face. Blood from his torn and broken fingers sprays hot liquid across me. His face exudes pure rage and hate, his eyes now wild and unfocused. I don’t know what he is seeing, but he isn’t seeing me. He's not even really fighting me; he's fighting whatever's in his head. Unfortunately for me, the effect is the same.

  Now, like doctors, we've taken an oath to do no harm, but most doctors don’t find themselves in this situation. Not having any real choice, I start to fight back, maneuvering for a submission hold. It does me no good. I can’t get the leverage. So, I reach up between punches and blocks to grab his right ear. With a firm grip, I yank it up and back to make some room between us. It allows me to drive the open palm of my left hand into the corner of his jaw.

  This works to my advantage and stuns him for a moment, giving me a chance to flip him off of me. My partner has just come to the front of the vehicle and is shouting into his radio for backup. He rounds the side of the ambulance and tackles the guy right back into the mud.

  The struggle gets intense for a minute, the three of us rolling around on the icy sidewalk, splashing through the mire. Our patient screams and fights back even harder.

  After what feels like an hour, we wrestle his arms up behind his back until both fists are almost touching the opposite shoulder blades. It’s a painful hold, but it shouldn’t cause any permanent damage. My partner, also a big guy, gets one knee on the upper back of our assailant's neck and uses his other to help pin his hands down. This gives me a chance to plant my knee into the lower back of the burly, crazed man, and gain control of both his legs. With my hands free, I pull a vial and syringe from my belt pouch.

  I spend a difficult few seconds trying to get the needle through the rubber top of the vial while being tossed in the air by the thrashing person beneath me. Finally, I manage to draw up a few cc's of Versed. This is not as easy as it sounds, considering this guy is still doing his best to get up and literally kill us.

  I make a mental note to remember this address for the next time we get a call here.

  With limited options, I jab the needle into the side of his leg, through his filthy boxers. and push the plunger in fast. Contrary to what you may have seen on TV and movies, you can’t just stick the needle in someone’s neck, and it never works in mere seconds. Stabbing a person in the neck with a needle is a good way to kill them, not give them medicine, and most sedation drugs take anywhere from five to forty-five minutes before they work. So, my partner and I settle in for the long haul.

  Thankfully, the first backup units start to arrive. Other medics and EMTs jump in and help us safely restrain this guy.

  I roll off the thrashing lunatic while dripping with sweat and icy rain. Wiping my sleeve across my face, I accidentally leave a trail of cold, slimy mud on my cheeks. Two minutes later, the cops finally show up. They put some handcuffs and leg restraints on our patient, allowing everyone to back off for a minute and let him calm down. About another five minutes pass, and the Versed does its job as our patient is finally sedated.

  I can feel my adrenaline starting to wear off while my co-workers begin giving us shit for being soaking wet, muddy, and on the wrong side of an ass-kicking. Hell, I would have done the same to them. Without further ado, we get back to the business of treating the patient and transporting him to the hospital.

  I take a minute to get a quick look in the side-view mirror of the ambulance and see that most of his blood landed on my cheek and not in my mouth or eyes. As I turn away, something catches my eye: a fleeting shape, perhaps a face, appears over my shoulder in the reflection. Peripheral vision can be unreliable in the flashing lights of the emergency vehicles, but humans have evolved enough to notice obscure motions as a survival trait. Something had flickered in the mirror. I stare for a moment, but I just see myself staring back. I shake my head and chalk it up to strobe lights and nerves.

  One of the EMTs has splinted and bandaged the patient's fingers by the time I get in the back of the truck. By now, the cops find a few empty packets of angel dust and a crack pipe in a pile of clothes, along with the man's ID. Self-medicating at its finest. This happens a lot. A person runs out of meds or maybe has never seen a doctor, but he knows something is wrong with him. So, he takes some drugs to try to feel normal. The problem with street pharmacy is a person thinks it will work if they just find the right drug or combination of drugs. So far, I’ve never seen it work.

  My partner radios ahead to the local hospital and gives them a heads-up that we’re on our way, and we start rolling. I turn the heater on high and throw a blanket over our sleeping beauty.

  A few minutes later, we pull into the ER, and the triage nurse greets us with no pleasantries. “What the hell did you bring him here for?” she demands, filled with the wonderful compassion these city hospitals are known for.

  I raise my eyebrows. “Well, ma'am, he's a patient, and this is a hospital, so we thought we should get you guys together—”

  The nurse cuts me off before I can get any wittier. “We don’t have any beds, and we have two codes running right now. Park him in the hallway until I can get to you,” she directs us with an annoyed sigh. This is typical in most city hospitals—overcrowded, overworked, and understaffed.

  I look past her to the teeming hallway and see a long line of people bleeding or passed out in chairs or stretchers. I shake my head as the nurse locks eyes with me, daring me to say something else. I smile a little, knowing that if I utter another word, we'll end up waiting even longer.

  Our patient is still snoring and handcuffed to the stretcher, so I say to my partner, “Bill, gimme a minute. I gotta go wash my face.”

  “Oh, I thought you were going with a new look," he quips before he nods. "Go ahead and make yourself pretty; I'll babysit him.”

  I flash him my middle finger in a gesture of thanks and head toward the men's room.

  “Yo! Grab me a cup of coffee on your way back,” he yells over the general din of the emergency room. I wave my still-extended finger over my shoulder without looking back, and keep walking. A janitor glares at me for leaving muddy boot prints on his already wet and dirty floors. I nod an apology to him, but he just scowls back. I make my way to the staff lounge and the dingy bathroom located at the back.

  Once inside, I flip the light switch once or twice until the weak florescent bulbs buzz and flicker to life. The off-white and green tiles look kind of dirty, but at least it doesn’t smell nearly as bad as the public restrooms. Also, as a bonus, no drunks are sleeping on the floors like in the waiting room.

  I peer into the small mirror over the sink while turning on the hot water. For the first time, I see what a hot mess I look like. There’s mud in my hair and on my forehead, streaked under my eyes like running makeup. The rain didn’t quite wash off all the blood the psycho had spattered on me during our brawl, and I have a cut to my lip I didn't remember getting. Also, I could use a shave.

  Suddenly, I see a flash of movement over my right shoulder; I spin around and notice the door behind me is ajar. Drawing myself up to my full six-foot-two-and-a-half inches, I peer around the door jamb, expecting to find someone trying to sneak up on me.

  A quick tap, tap, tap sounds from behind me. It sounds like a fingernail on glass. Glancing back, I note that there is nothing unusual, just hot water steaming into the sink. I step out into the lo
unge with my hand on my trusty Maglite and find the room empty and the door to the hallway closed.

  Theft from the employees' lockers isn’t exactly unheard of around here. I rattle the doorknob and feel that it’s still locked. A person would need an ID badge to swipe the door to unlock it. Satisfied that there is no one here and nowhere around to hide, I shake my head and tell myself to relax a little. Turning back into the tiny bathroom, I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding.

  But something is wrong. It takes me a second to realize what it is.

  The water is now shut off.

  That doesn’t seem like much, except I sure as hell don't remember turning the faucet off.

  And the sink is dry.

  I sure as hell remember turning the faucet on…

  A flicker of movement crosses my peripheral vision. I turn my head to the right and catch a glimpse of my unshaven mug smiling at me from the mirror. I shift a glance back and focus on the mirror, seeing only my wide-eyed, startled face looking back at me.

  Shit, I need a day off. I chuckle a little to myself, just to break the tension in the empty room, and reach for the faucet again. Of course, I realize that I’m being too stubborn to just leave and join the rest of the people back in the crowded ER.

  To my surprise, the tray is now empty when I reach for the bar of soap. As I try to find it, there is another flash of motion in front of me. I look up and stare into the mirror, mouth agape as I see myself holding up the bar of soap, as if offering it to me. I freeze and so does my reflection.

  Suddenly, my reflection drops the soap and slowly raises its empty hand to point to its own face… “That’s not your blood, is it?”

  Ever hear your own voice in a recording and think, ‘Hey that’s not how I sound’? Yeah, that’s what ‘It’ sounded like, but even more hollow, with a slight echo.

  The buzzing of the florescent bulb suddenly gets louder, and the light flares as the glass tube bursts. The small room plunges into stifling darkness.

  My hollow, recording-like voice says, “You'll do…” Then glass shatters in my face, the rest crashing down into the porcelain sink.

  Cold hands reach out in the dark and grab the sides of my head like a frozen vise; I throw my arms up between the hands to break their hold. It feels like I'm hitting two cold, steel pipes. The pressure on the sides of my head increases a lot, and I let loose a squeal (ahem, I mean a manly yell) as I'm viciously pulled toward the mirror.

  I close my eyes and mouth as my forehead connects with a slimy film of thick, oily liquid where the mirror should have been. With rising desperation, I keep trying to pull myself back by bracing my hands on the sink and pushing away, but it feels like my skull is getting crushed. Also, the strain on my neck is something awful, and I swear I hear a few vertebrae pop. A wave of dizziness hits me, and I feel hot blood burst from my nose.

  With a final heave, I'm off my feet, shoulders hitting the walls on either side of the mirror. More hands reach out and grab the back of my shirt, my shoulders, my hair, all pulling me in. Into where? I open my eyes and scream, this time out of real fear and pain.

  I land in a darkened room and see several large forms surrounding me. I hear loud, crude laughter and see the flash of a club. There's an explosion of pain all over my body, and I feel myself dropping to the stone floor. Next thing I know, a heavy boot comes swinging at me, and then everything goes black.

  2

  Waking up with dried blood in my mouth and a pounding headache is, sadly, not a new experience for me. Waking up chained to a wall in a room with three other guys I don’t know, accompanying said headache and blood in my mouth, is something new.

  Slowly, I start to realize that I’m lying on what feels like a wooden pallet. Judging by the foul smell coming from beneath me, it's covered in somewhat rank straw. I can only get my left eye open, so I choose to stay still and observe the room as I breathe slowly through my mouth.

  There is a single dull light suspended from the ceiling, and the walls appear to be solid rough stone without mortar lines. The floor looks damp and earthen. Three other wood and straw pallets crowd the small room, and each has an occupant.

  The first man lies facing away from me toward the wall. He has short hair, though its color is difficult to tell through the dirt and grime. Thin white scars crisscross his shirtless back, shoulders, and upper arms with some wrapping around his chest, blocked from my view. Stained, green pants, made of some sort of thick cotton material, and scuffed leather boots complete his outfit. A thick, brass shackle and chain stretch from his left leg to the wall, bolted about two feet off the ground.

  The second figure is lying on his back, a full beard obscuring his open mouth, swaying in rhythm with his loud snores. He’s wearing a pair of ripped and dirty blue jeans with an equally grubby flannel shirt. He also has thin white scars covering the left side of his face from what little I can see above his beard. A similar brass shackle and chain also connect him to the wall.

  I shift my head with slow movements, trying to get a look at the third, and final, figure. He’s already staring at me, probably studying me the way I've been studying the others.

  “A thinking man, eh?” His voice is low and gravelly.

  “Whaa…(cough… cough),” are all I can manage in a less-than-witty reply.

  “Some people wake-up screaming, full of bluster, demanding answers. Some try to figure out what happened and assess the situation. Some just kind of go catatonic. I think you might be the second kind. Of course, there’s still time for you to freak out and go crazy. Let me know what you decide.” He falls silent, calmly watching me, his dark eyes squinting slightly in the gloom.

  I see an old scar across the bridge of a nose that has been broken more than once. His grayish-black hair is styled in what the military calls a “high and tight,” and he is clean-shaven. A ripped and sewn, black t-shirt and multi-patched over, old camouflage BDUs1 complete his outfit. His worn, ankle-high leather boots are neatly within reach on the floor next to his pallet.

  I take a moment to work up some moisture in my mouth to loosen the dried blood and spit it onto the floor. Just that little movement makes my head spin and throb. I groan a little and try not to throw up. Okay… obvious concussion… I wonder how long I’ve been knocked out?

  “Go easy," he says. “You’ve been down 'bout twelve hours." Did he just read my mind? "And I think there's some glass stuck in your face.”

  I lie back down and quietly ask, “What the hell happened?” My voice still sounds strange to me. I wonder if it’s the concussion or if I just gained some more hearing damage. Or maybe it’s both. I gingerly raise my hand to my throbbing cheek and—ouch. Yup, feels like some glass and more dried blood. It’s hot and swollen too. With no mirror in sight (isn't that ironic?), there is not much I can do about it right now, except try to ignore it. The wounds are painful, but there's no active bleeding, so it’s not gonna kill me.

  Wait a sec, what the hell is this? On the inside of my left wrist is a red circle with a few dozen hash marks evenly spaced around the edge. Within the circle is a singular black wedge shape, like a standard pie graph. When did I get a new tattoo? And why? My other tattoos all have real significance to me, so why would I choose this? And what’s it supposed to mean?

  I rub it with my thumb in the vain hopes it’s just a magic marker prank or something. A flash startles me as the tattoo projects a bright light right into my eyes. Moving my wrist away, I see an image form in the air, like a hologram out of a sci-fi movie.

  It looks like a lit-up, rectangular piece of parchment paper with intricate filigree up and down both borders. Emblazoned across the center, on the top of the page, is a shield with swords crossed behind it. Flowing, delicate script covers the page, unreadable to me in some foreign hand. As I stare, agape, it begins to translate into plain English:

  Cell# K4644

  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.”