Stolen Lives: A LitRPG/GameLit Novel (The Underhill Chronicles Book 1) by Keith Ahrens (interesting novels to read .TXT) 📕

I keep my hands open and low, away from my body. It stares at me for a few more long moments and makes a harsh snort, its nasty breath rustling my hair. Then it steps back and reaches for something along the wall outside of our cell. Its right hand comes into view as it returns, and I catch a glimpse of a three-foot wooden club decorated with dark brass studs.

With a disappointed grunt, it tosses a key in the middle of the room and kicks over the water bucket. For good measure, it spits a wad of brown phlegm into the puddle and leaves. From here, I can see a steady stream of dirty, disheveled people walking past the doorway, all heading in the same direction.

I let out a breath I didn’t know I'd been holding and notice my hands are shaking a little. Now, most people would think this is from fear. It’s not or, at least, not all of it is. The shakes are a normal adrenaline reaction from the fight or flight reflex that every human and mammal have. Fear is nothing to be ashamed of; it’s a person's reaction to that fear where problems usually arise.

“Okay, today is gonna be a bit of a shock to you. Stick close to us, don’t stare at anyone or anything, and just do what we tell you. Above all else, don’t get separated from us. Do you understand?” Haynes says, grasping my shoulder. Des has already retrieved the key and is busy unlocking the chains from our ankles. Kearningham continues to stare off at the wall like nothing is going on around him. I just nod ‘yes’ to Haynes and watch as Des kneels by my ankle.

“You ever learn to fight?” Des asks in a conversational tone as he unlocks my shackle.

“Huh? Yeah, a few years of Martial Arts. Kempo,” I answer, though I’m distracted, still thinking about the thing with the club.

“That's… good, but did you ever learn to fight with a knife or a sword like in those Kung Fu movies?”

“What? No, never got up to weapons training. Why?”

“Well, then, you're in luck! Today, you’re gonna learn to fight by training alongside the rest of us. We’ll start you off slow, so don’t you worry none.”

“Are you kidding me? Why the fuck would I want to learn to fight today?! I don't know what the blazes is going on here, but jokes over! This has got to stop!” Now I'm getting stubborn and putting my foot down because I hate feeling like everyone else is in on some gag I have no clue about. And I'm still trying to catch on to whatever the blazes is going on.

“Calm down, Son. We don't have time to explain everything right now, but trust me—we have to get moving now. If you don’t, that eight-foot pig, or one of his friends, is just gonna kill you, and then we have to start all over breaking in another new squadmate,” Des says with a pleading look in his eyes.

Haynes interjects, “Enough questions for now. Save ‘em for later. The only things you need to know right now are—to shut the hell up and do what we say. Do that, and you’ll have a good chance of surviving for the next few hours.”

I open my mouth to reply—

“I said shut the hell up! Were you or were you not just listening to me? Or were you born without the good sense that God gave to a fucking dog? Keep your mouth shut, your ears open, and follow some simple fucking instructions!” Haynes barks, not quite yelling, but with a voice that becomes more forceful and commanding as he speaks. I take the hint and shut up.

Kearningham giggles a little bit and mutters to himself, “Ogres are going to eat the new guy… pigs eat anything…” He just kind of lives in his own little world, doesn't he?

“Easy now, Jesse,” Des says as he guides him to the door with practiced ease. Jesse Kearningham puts his tattered green coat on as he exits the room, continuing to giggle and mutter to himself.

I stand and wait for everyone else to leave before I follow them. We turn right into the hallway and join the flow of people walking in a ragged parade. Glancing around, I can see that there are men and a few women around us, all in different styles of clothing. Most in military-style BDUs or uniforms (all without insignia or patches), but some are in older, civilian dress. Older like, faded tie-dye shirts or t-shirts of bands that were big in the 1980s.

Everyone is a bit dirty; some have dried blood visible on their heads and faces and smell a little ripe, to be honest. I rub my eyes when I think I spot a man with blue-colored skin in the crowd. The light is bad in here, but I start looking a little closer at the folks around me. I see a few people with pointed ears, and one lady with small horns peeking out of her dirty gray hair. Des drops back and grabs my arm. He puts his face by mine and hisses, “I thought we done told you not to stare!” He pushes me forward.

The hallway is about fifteen feet wide with a packed dirt floor and stone walls broken every few feet by heavy cell doors. More dim light comes from the weird bulbs set into the ceiling and guides us up a slight incline toward a T-junction. Most of the crowd turns left, and I go along with the flow, studying the folks around me, though a bit more inconspicuously now. Wracking my confused brain, I try to make sense of the scattered clues all around me. A strong hand grabs my right shoulder and pulls me back toward the other hallway.

“Stay with us,” Haynes says as he propels me in front of him with a