Stolen Lives: A LitRPG/GameLit Novel (The Underhill Chronicles Book 1) Keith Ahrens (best e reader for epub txt) 📖

The annoying throbbing in my head begins to roar, and my vision starts to go dark at the edges. I try to get up, try to speak; I have to…. dammit.

“Idiot,” she says with a light laugh. Reaching out, she grabs hold of my left hand and flips it palm up. I try to pull away, but all the strength is rushing out of my limbs.

She traces a finger around the circle on my wrist. Through bleary eyes and double vision, I see the red circle and black wedge start to fade to a grey color.

I try to speak one more time, but nothing comes out. The circle goes completely grey, and I’m out.

3

“Time to get up, pal.” A rough hand shakes my shoulder. I sit up fast and seize the hand, confused. I recognize the face, but the name escapes me for a moment. Dim light, stone walls, stinking straw, locked door… yeah, this is still happening.

Haynes (Haynes, that's his name!) twists his hand from my grip with ease and asks, “You hungry?”

My stomach growls right on cue. The other two guys are awake, sitting up on their bunks and looking at me. “Sure am.”

He hands me a small package in thick brown plastic. “MREs?" I look at my dehydrated meal with disdain. "What the hell is this place? A government facility?”

“Nope. Just a prison run by some sadistic jerks. Enjoy the grub. If you’re lucky, you’ll get two of these a day. Maybe more if you prove your worth,” explains Haynes with a small, sad smile.

“Prove my worth? To who, you?”

“Nah, not me or any of these guys in this room, either. Eat up while we make some introductions.”

Obviously, I'm still suspicious of the men around me, but no need to let them know that. I'm pretty sure I was drugged by that mystery lady dressed like a classy gypsy, but I don't know why. Not much to build trust on, especially when everyone but me seems to know what’s going on. I glance down at my tattoo; I doubt they respected my privacy enough not to check my information while I was out.

I inspect the package in my hand. The seal is intact, and the expiration date is still good. If they wanted me dead, they had plenty of chances before to do it—why waste the time and effort now to poison the food? Sound reasoning, right? Whatever, I'm too hungry to care. Besides, I survived the last drugging, didn’t I?

I tear open the MRE or ‘meal ready to eat’ for those who don’t know. These are prepackaged meals designed and made for the U.S. Armed Forces, with a shelf life of a few decades, I think. Yup, beef stew or some such in a bag, good for a generation or two. Sounds delicious, doesn’t it? The label on mine reads: “Chicken Chunks with Cheddar Cheese Spread and Hot Sauce, Buffalo Style.” Not one of my favorites, but I’m starving, and it doesn’t look like there is much of a choice in the menu. I tear open the package and dig in with the provided plastic spork. Or is it ‘sfork’? Either way, I hate these things; they're useless as an eating implement.

I eye the bucket of water sitting on the floor in the middle of us.

“Don’t worry, that stuff's clean,” says Beard-Face. I look up at the guy with the blue jeans and beard. He sketches a small salute with a wooden cup and sips the water from it. “I’m Desmond, but everyone calls me Des. You’ve met the Sarge, and that’s Jesse Kearningham.” His tone and demeanor are friendly and disarming. I make a mental note not to trust him the most.

He nods toward the third man, the one dressed in dirty green rags. Dirty Rags, or Jesse Kearningham as Des calls him, just kind of stares at the wall in front of him while he slowly eats. At least he's put a shirt on—a four-button, long sleeve, white pullover—albeit filthy. A crumpled green coat lies on the bed next to him. Getting a good look at him, I can see that he, too, sports a full-size beard, though quite unkempt, giving him a rugged mountain man appearance.

“I’m Caleb,” I say around a mouth full of food. “Can you tell me what the hell is going on here, and why that lady drugged me?”

“First things first, before I forget. Put this on your wrist.” Des tosses me a wide leather strap with a leather cord punched through a few rough holes. He holds up his arm and points to a near-identical one on his own wrist. Glancing around, I see Haynes and Jesse also wear the same bands.

“Is this like some kind of friendship bracelet?" I ask. "Are we all gonna be BFFs now?” I can’t help it sometimes; sarcasm is my default setting.

“Trust me,” he says. “Like I told you before, you're gonna want to keep that hidden.” He holds up one finger, forestalling my next comment. “You’ll see why later.” This time, as he speaks, I can hear his light Southern drawl.

“Did you assholes put this tattoo here?” My question is blunter than I intended, but at this point, I'm ready to burst not knowing what is going on or where I am.

“Not us, and stop asking so many damn questions,” Haynes says, not offended. “Now, feel your face… notice anything different? And I bet your head doesn’t hurt anymore, does it?”

I drop the spork into the small cardboard food tray and feel the right side of my face where the glass was. Now that he mentions it, I don’t feel any of the aches and bruises I would expect after receiving an ass-kicking like that. My head isn’t spinning anymore, and there is smooth skin where I know glass was previously stuck inside a deep cut.

I begin to wrap the leather band around the new tattoo when I remember it had been turning grey right before I passed out. Maybe it