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

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 lounge 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