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“Mike, don’t do it—I don’t need my baby teeth, Mike!” Dustin managed between gasping breaths, eyes wide and terrified. Mike looked away from him, wouldn’t meet his eyes. He took a step towards the edge. Another step.
Dustin’s heart was pounding in his chest, shaking his whole body with the force of it, he felt like he was going to collapse. Baby teeth, they were just his baby teeth, it didn’t matter!
He needed to—needed to—his mind wasn’t working right, all of his thoughts muddled and twisting with the flood of adrenaline.
Out of fight, flight or freeze, he was frozen. His hands were useless and shaking as he tried to push at Troy’s arms where they were locked around him. But he couldn’t because there was a knife in his face, glinting and silver and so so so sharp and—Dustin didn’t want to die, he didn’t want to die!
For a second, he had been so focused on the blade, the imminent danger, that he didn’t realise Mike was still walking.
“Mike, seriously don’t!” It was desperate, so desperate. Because the quarry drop was easily hundreds of feet, hitting it from this height would be a death sentence, Mike knew that. It had been drilled into their heads ever since they were kids. Don’t go near the quarry. Don’t play near it, don’t look over it, don’t throw rocks over it because if you fall you will die. So why didn’t Mike care?
He wobbled back and forth on his feet, straining to escape without being in danger of the blade, but it wasn’t enough. Mike’s shoulders were shaking, up down up down with heaving breaths as he stepped closer, as he looked out over the edge.
His words weren’t working. He couldn’t speak, could hardly move, all he could do was watch and try not to collapse. Frozen.
Then there was a clattering sound of small rocks kicked off the edge and Dustin snapped back into himself, pushed forwards, tried to break free of Troy’s grip. He was the most scared he had ever been in his life.
“Mike—don’t do it!” The knife at his throat kept him from moving forwards, from running and grabbing the loop of Mike’s backpack and dragging him away from the edge. “Seriously don’t do it man! Seriously, don't!” There was hardly any breath in his lungs, he couldn’t muster any force behind his words, just speaking took all the effort in the world. Dustin nearly collapsed with frantic panic, Troy’s uncomfortable gift and the deadly presence of the knife the only things keeping him upright as Mike stood there.
And stood there.
The time stretched and the view burned itself into his eyes, his best friend standing on the edge looking down, cliffs and water stretching out before them. Tears were leaking from his eyes because Dustin knew Mike, he knew Mike. He knew how protective Mike was—he knew how Mike was the first to sacrifice himself in DnD, the first to draw attention away, the first to stand up to people like Troy. (And look where that had gotten him.) He knew Mike would do anything if it meant that his friends didn’t get hurt, that Dustin wouldn’t get hurt.
He knew Mike might jump. Might, and every ounce of his body and mind went to pleading, pleading, pleading with—-he didn’t even know what! God? The universe? Pleading to whatever was there to listen that this wouldn’t happen. That Mike wouldn’t jump. That his best friend wouldn’t kill himself over baby teeth.
James said something, nervous quiet tones inaudible over the raging panic of Dustin’s mind, words twisted and blurred away because it didn’t matter when Mike was shifting his weight, leaning—leaning—
“Mike don’t !” Was the only thing he could manage, because what else could he say? He didn’t know, but Mike don’t was the only thing running through his mind, the shake of his hands, Mike don’t was the beat of his heart and every shaky breath he gasped, Mike Mike Mike Mike Mike!
“Dentist’s office opens in five!” Dustin squirmed and twisted and tried to break free because five seconds, five seconds were all he had, but the knife was there and Troy was older and bigger and stronger and he couldn’t— “Four!”
Mike was still. His head was bowed, shoulders still bobbing up and down with each of his breaths. The sting of bile rose in Dustin’s throat, he couldn’t tear his eyes away.
“Three!”
He leaned further forwards, oh God oh God oh God.
“Two!” Every number echoed in his mind until the desperation was all he could hear. Dustin screamed out his friend’s name in what was halfway to a sob, loud as he could, because he was here and Mike couldn't die, Mike couldn't die he couldn’t, Dustin couldn’t lose another friend!
“One!”
The world hung in silence, the split second stretching and pulling to an eternity. Dustin was frozen, staring at the back of Mike’s head, desperately pleading Mike, please, turn around, come back, don’t do this you can’t do this you can’t leave me—
And.
Mike.
Dropped.
There was a yelp, a final high-pitched noise that echoed in the air, bounced off the rock faces until it—-it cut off.
Troy’s arms dropped loose with shock and then Dustin was surging forwards, feet scrabbling on the gravel desperate, desperate, and he was at the edge, wobbling as he looked down and.
He looked down and.
He saw it, he saw it, he saw it and he screamed loud and horrible and torn from his throat. Dustin reeled backwards already sobbing, fell back and hit the gravel and curled into himself still wailing because.
Because there he was and he was crumpled on the rocks two hundred feet below looking so so so small it took a second of squinting to even start to see the way he was twisted—the green of his jacket was there it was clear and there was red—
He twisted to the side and threw up, gagging onto the rocks in sickened heaves until he couldn’t any longer, he tasted the copper slide of blood on his tongue, blood like—
James was sobbing desperate gasps of air, sobbing and stumbling back and doubling over with desperate ugly sounds (he didn’t have the right! He didn’t have the right to cry like he tried to stop it, to cry like he gave a shit!) but there behind him was him.
Troy. Troy hadn’t moved from where he stood at the edge, neck craned out and horrified, stood stock still looking smaller than he ever had. Dustin was up again and on his feet and surging forwards.
“That was my best fucking friend!” He screamed, words scraping against his throat so raw. Was—was was was was because Mike wasn’t is anymore, he was past tense because he was gone. He shook all over, every muscle clenched and frantic, there was a manic fervour in him and Dustin welcomed it, pulled it in.
“YOU KILLED HIM!” He lunged forwards, arms outstretched (to do what?). Troy's eyes blew impossibly wider as he leapt to safety, to the road instead of the cliff. Dustin shoved him over regardless, watched him hit the ground with a feeling that was consuming, he saw the wince of fear on the older boy’s face and he wanted to–to–to–
His hands trembled. He wanted with something sick inside of him.
“You’re insane, you’re insane!” Troy gasped out as he scrambled back, straightened up as if he wasn’t the one who had—
Dustin stood very still, hardly breathing as tears poured down his face. He took a step closer to the cliff, to look, to do something, anything, he didn’t know what! There was a hand around his wrist, it yanked him back with a tight grip.
He screamed because no, no they couldn’t hold him back, Mike he had to save Mike!
He screamed and he thrashed and he collapsed to his knees again, hands in his hair.
Somebody else was yelling too, yelling all panicked and horrified, “—Troy, Troy how could you—Troy he jumped, he jumped because you told him to, you killed him! You killed Mike Wheeler!”
Killed Mike Wheeler.
Mike Wheeler, one of his best friends, the Party leader, his friend who loved Mews and let them come play DnD in his basement whenever they wanted, who laughed with light on his face and always noticed when people were upset, his best friend who stayed out at night to look for Will, who found a girl in the woods and took her home, helped her. His best friend who cared so much, who cared too much. He cared too much and it killed him.
Dustin was crying so hard he couldn’t stand, forehead and knees pressed to the sharp gravel. His eyes were squeezed shut but he could still see it, mind oscillating between the everlong moment before and the after, he could taste blood as he gasped and screamed and—
Mike don’t, Mike don’t, Mike don’t!
But it was too late.
Mike Wheeler was dead.
____
Hopper let out a breath, long and drawn, tapping the tip of his pen against the slightly crumpled map of Hawkins laid over his desk. It left little blue smudges behind in its path. The cigarette between his lips was long burnt out, no more than ash in a roll, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.
There was something going on here, something bigger than just this small town. Something with government labs and fake bodies and missing kids and listening devices in his ceiling—fuck. This was so fucked.
The sound of the Wheeler girl’s voice threaded through his half-shut door from the main room—high and sharp, all ‘he was provoked!’ and ‘I want a lawyer’. Childish confidence, righteousness. Powell and Callahan could handle it, he decided. He sure couldn’t be bothered.
He had bigger things to deal with than the latest teenaged scuffle—things with government organisations and secrets and men in suits. God, he wasn’t cut out for this! He’d come back to Hawkins for the boredom of it all, the predictability. Small town policing, rowdy drunks and cats in trees or whatever. Not this.
The next thing to cut through his thoughts—the clip of Flo’s shoes against the tiles familiar as she hurried to his door. He debated throwing the stapler on his desk at it to push it closed, but it was already too late.
“Jim,” she said, the door squeaking as it opened fully.
“Not now.” He drew a blue pen line from where Will’s bike was found to the lab. “Busy.”
Then “ Jim,” she said, so sharp and urgent that it startled him into looking up and meeting her eyes. There was an expression in them so desperate and unreadable—an expression he’d never seen before the events of this week. (Expression of when she opened his door just like this, said ‘it’s Benny, chief.’) He tried to brush it off, push it away, but it dug its barbs into his skin and stuck there.
“...Fine.” His voice was gruff, but he knew that Flo heard the edge there. “What is it?”
She reached up a hand to dab at her eyes, makeup running slightly. “It’s the Wheeler boy,” she said softly. “He’s…”
“What?” Jim said, sharp now. He’d warned that kid to stay safe, stay home and out of the way, but it had been clear enough in his eyes that he wasn’t planning on it. If whatever was ogign on in this town got another kid…
“He’s gone, Jim. Over the quarry.”
And— his eyes went wide, he sucked in a breath through his mouth that sent the burnt-out cigarette ash over his tongue, down his throat. Hopper coughed into his hand, shocked. Fuck.
The kid was… what, twelve?
Another kid.
Hopper knew death, of course he did, he’d been a homicide detective for Christ’s sake. But that was New York, and this was Hawkins, and the two were never meant to cross. Things like this didn't happen here. But they did now.
That was—what, six gone now? Will, Barb Holland, Benny, Henry and Dale had gone missing hunting. What had happened to this town?
“Right,” he said finally, dropping the husk of his cigarette into his ashtray. His hands shook near-imperceptibly as he stood.
Flo tapped his elbow briefly, subtle comfort. “An ambulance picked up the kids already,” she said, then set her shoulders in that familiar way, the way she did when she finally put her foot down. “You should… stop by the Wheelers. Let them know in person before heading to the hospital.”
Jim wanted to do nothing less. But… he imagined learning about Sara over the phone, and his will only lasted a few seconds after that before he crumbled. Grabbed his hat off the hook as he passed by, shoved it down over his head.
“Apparently the Walsh boy made him jump,” Flo said lowly, voice cracking slightly as she fretted at the collar of her floral shirt.
What the hell was wrong with these kids? Like—the Walsh family had always been impressively annoying (Mrs Walsh had called the police on her neighbours no less than six separate occasions for ‘disturbing the peace.’) But—
“What, did he bait him?” Hopper fished around in his pocket for his keys, flipping them into his hand as they passed by Nancy Wheeler. She sat in a chair next to the older Byers boy (who was sullenly staring at his hands) with her arms crossed. She had no idea. As he passed, she looked up at him, eyes all blue ice-steel and determination. It made him feel sick.
Flo shrugged helplessly in response to his words. “The Henderson boy wasn’t exactly… coherent as he explained.”
Fuck, the kid had been there to watch?
Jim shook his head slightly. He didn’t have time to worry, to get caught up in it all. He shut his eyes for a moment, pushed himself back into the headspace he’d occupied for his time in New York. Another death, another day. It wasn’t his job to cry about it. It was his job to find who was to blame.
With that, he got into the front seat of his truck, started it with a twist of the key. The cool metal left lines in his fingers from the grip.
A sixth gone. It hadn’t even been a week.
____
Karen rinsed the plastic container of blueberries under the tap, listening to Holly kick her little feet back and forth in the high chair. She was such a quiet angel, nothing like Mike or Nancy had been at her age.
The doorbell rang. “Ted, would you get that?” Karen called out, already placing down the blueberries on the counter. She knew he wouldn’t get out of his chair.
“Right back, honey,” she said to Holly, smoothing her daughter’s hair as she passed on her way to the front door. Ran a hand through her hair, opened the door.
“Oh, Chief Hopper! Hello.” Her brows furrowed in confusion as she looked at the man on her doorstep, his hat in one hand, an unreadable expression on his face. “What can I do for you?”
He looked her in the eyes, face drawn. And something about his expression made her stomach twist, something inside her whispering ‘this isn’t right,’ but she pushed it away (as she always did). It was fine, surely.
“Mrs Wheeler,” he greeted, “there’s been…” He trailed off, as if unsure of how to continue. “Can I come in?”
Her blood ran cold in her veins. “Oh—of course,” she barely breathed, letting him through the front door and shutting it with shaky hands. For a second she just stood there, staring at him, hands twisted together. “One second,” she said quickly, nervously, before hurrying over to the living room.
Every step she took was heavy with dread, tight with nerves. Her husband was asleep on his chair, television broadcasting noise to nobody—the voices and static were suddenly so overwhelming that she grabbed the remote from where it lay, jammed the power button furiously with her thumb. The action gave her no catharsis. “Ted,” she said, hands on his wide shoulders, shaking him awake.
With a slight groan, he blinked blearily, adjusting his glasses with a clumsy hand. his eyes were just as blank as always, irritation creeping in on the tight edges of his mouth. any other time, she would shift her expression, smile pleasantly, speak quietly. Now, though, the nervousness was chewing her inside out. “The police chief is here to speak to us,” Karen rushed out before he could say anything.
Just from looking at him, it was clear that he didn’t know what she felt. (Privately she wondered, sometimes, wondered if he even had that feeling of the kids, the kids that worried at her edges every day.) “Why? We’ve already said all we can about their little friends,” he muttered, low and annoyed. Regardless, he pushed out of his recliner with a grunt, followed her steps back to the door.
Hopper was leaned against the door, fingers pressed to the bridge of his nose, but he straightened up quickly when they arrived, standing side by side. He let out a slow breath.
Karen, nerves building, sidled subtly sideways until Ted placed his hand on her shoulder. The small bit of comfort felt hollow.
It felt like everything in this last week had been building and building upon itself. Barbara, and Will (the poor boy, and heavens knows Joyce wasn’t taking it well), and now… now the police chief was on their doorstep.
“It’s your son.”
And something inside of her shattered. Karen hardly heard as he, with stilted words (he’d lost a daughter, hadn’t he?) said that there had been an incident at Sattler’s Quarry. No, no no. That—that some horrible boys had—
Her son—
“Is he–” asked Ted, low and horrified, as if he didn’t already know, if it wasn’t clear enough by now.
Hopper looked at them. “I’m sorry,” he said gruffly.
And Karen screamed.
She was sobbing, sobbing—doubling over, and Ted caught her before she could hit the ground, tucked her into his chest with arms that were cold and trembling. He was crying too, for the first time she could remember something had broken through the apathy he wielded like a shield. Finally showing emotion towards his son, showing it too late.
Karen cried and cried—her baby, her baby, her baby was gone! She’d known Will’s death would hit him hard, known how important that boy was
to her son (how wouldn’t she?) but she hadn’t seen it in time. She should have kept him in her arms, checked in on him every hour, but she was too preoccupied with Nancy and—now he was gone.
It was grief like a hole through her chest, her son’s milk-pale hands reaching into her ribs and tearing out a bloody chunk that could never return. Her son, gone, her son, dead, and here she was choking on the blood of it.
Arms tight around her for the first time in years, it didn’t feel nearly as good as she’d imagined it. It was all shaking and misery and tears. His tears soaking through her hair, why all of that care now? When he never spared him a second look? Where was this when Mike was four and following his father around, sitting at the base of his armchair, desperate, wanting.
Where was—where was—where was her son?
___
Nancy pursed her lips, slumping back in her chair, arms crossed. This was just—all of this was so stupid. The police were so focused on what—getting Jonathan in trouble? Like they didn’t have better things to do? Well, newsflash, they had better things to do. Like finding Barb, for example?
She’d tried saying that to Powell, but he’d just looked at her with an exhausted look in his eyes, said that they were working on it. They couldn’t be workin that hard, though, not if they hadn’t found anything yet. They were too focused on stupid stuff like a fight between two teenage boys.
Again, she glanced over at Jonathan. He’d fallen silent, all fight draining out of him and just leaving a sort of hollow sadness behind. His hand was limp where it was handcuffed to the table—why had they done that, too? It was such bullshit. Jonathan wasn’t a danger to anybody, and besides, Steve had deserved it.
At the sound of raised voices, Nancy perked up a bit, losing the slump to her back. The secretary had pulled both Powell and the other one (she couldn’t remember his name, only knew Powell’s because his daughter was in her grade) to her desk.
“—tell her?” And at that, all three pairs of eyes darted to her, for just a second, but still. It was undeniable.
They were talking about her? Anger sparked in her stomach, righteous and upset. She sent them a steely glare, hard and icy. Screw them, screw everybody in this stupid town.
She stared at the ground, carefully turned every bit of hurt and sadness and shoved it away. She didn’t have time to feel bad about herself, not when Barb was missing. (And it was her fault—)
“Nancy Wheeler?” Both her and Jonathan snapped their heads up at that, him with whatever constituted an emotionless surprise, herself with defensiveness.
“What?” She said, narrowing her eyes at the woman. She was short, and her curls seemed a little rumpled, makeup somewhat smudged. Why was she the one talking to her, instead of, say, either of the two actual policemen? Why did she look like she’d been crying?
Something dark attempted to take root in her stomach. She didn’t let it, instead scrunched it up and tossed it to the back of her mind.
The woman sighed, a slightly shaky thing. “Nancy, let’s go talk, okay?” Her voice was soft and patronising, something about it made her bristle.
“Why?” She could feel her voice pitching high, too high. “You can’t say whatever it is in front of Jonathan?” And both her hands were fisted in the fabric of her pants, she was leaned forwards slightly, defensive.
The woman didn’t seem to know how to react. She blinked her red-rimmed eyes a few times, before sighing. “Alright. Nancy… it’s your brother.” The first thing Nancy thought was I wish she’d stop saying my name like she knew me. The second thought was wait, Mike?
“What? What happened?” After a second, her voice snapped louder, “Tell me!”
“Nancy,” said Jonathan, the first thing he’d said in a while. She glanced over—and his eyes were horrified yet apologetic. Accepting. Accepting of what? Nancy screamed inwardly, crushing down everything that said anything.
“I’m so sorry, honey,” said the woman. “He’s gone.”
For a second—five, ten—she just sat there. Then she scowled. “Bullshit.” She declared, because—it was, of course it was! What could’ve happened to Mike? He was fine, just sad about Will and whatever. He was fine.
“You’re wrong,” she said again before anybody had a chance to disagree. Her voice shook slightly, and she forcibly steadied it. “You’re lying.”
Jonathan let out a breath. “Nance,” he said (since when did he call her that?) and he sounded like he’d been punched in the stomach.
“Shut up!” She said, felt only the smallest tinge of guilt. This was stupid, this was all so stupid.
“It’s true,” piped up the glasses policeman in his stupid nasal voice, and she glared at him as poisonously as she could. He turned away, visibly. Good. Everyone here was an idiot.
“He’s gone, the Henderson boy called it in.” Jonathan sucked in a horrible gasp at that, and she ignored it. Why was—why was he just believing this shit? Yeah, sure, they knew Dustin’s name, but it had to be a mistake. Mike couldn’t be gone, that was just stupid.
“There’s no way.” Nancy wasn't sure when she’d stood up. “No. Way,” she repeated, stronger, and when the woman opened her mouth to say something, Nancy ploughed on. “I don’t believe you, I don’t!”
(Why were her eyes so wet?)
Jonathan took a breath, clearly steeling for something, preparing to say something. “And you—shut up!” Nancy spun towards him before he could speak, pointing a shaking finger, bitten down nails. “You don’t get it!” Because Will was dead, and Mike wasn’t. Couldn’t be.
With a shaky breath, she turned back to the adults. “I don’t believe you,” she said, small and weak. “I don’t.”
____
There was a police truck parked in the Wheelers’ driveway. Lucas saw it, turned away from his bedroom window where he could just barely catch a glimpse of it. He didn’t care, he didn’t care—he sighed. He did.
His steps sounded too loud as he went down the stairs, sock feet against the floor as he joined his mother where she stood at the window. Her hand was pressed to her mouth.
“What’s going on?” Lucas said, voice sounding fragile in a way that made his face twist.
His mom sighed, brows creased as she stared out through the glass. “I’m not sure,” she muttered, but her voice was grim.
“They pulled in all whoosh and screech!” Said Erica excitedly as she tried to lean around mom to look at him, hair bobbles bouncing colourfully as she hopped from foot to foot. “Maybe someone died!”
Lucas tensed up, clenched his teeth. He’d had a bit too much death in the last few days (remembered Will’s body, cold and waterlogged and grey from the lake).
“Erica!” Hissed his mom sharply, so sharply that it made a cold panic take root in his chest.
There was something wrong. Something very wrong, he could tell.
The police wouldn’t be at the Wheelers’ if nothing had happened. And it couldn’t be about Will. Because Will was—just thinking of it made tears threaten to well up, tears that were only encouraged by his anxiety at whatever was going on. (They wouldn’t go to the Wheelers’ if it was Will, anyways. But the alternatives—more loss—) He leaned into his mom’s side like a little kid, let her tuck an arm around his shoulders and press a kiss to his hair.
None of them moved. Even Erica was still, her little hands pressed against the window, breath forming puffs of steam on the glass. He watched as the clouded surface grew and shrunk with each of her inhales and exhales.
Then a scream split the air, horrible and wailing and piercing right through the walls of the Wheelers’ house and into their own. Lucas jerked back instinctually— no no no what the hell?— turned to look up at his mother with wide scared eyes.
Erica sucked in a quick breath, hands no longer against the glass but instead clutched at the front of her shirt. “Mom,” she said quietly.
Then Mom pulled Erica in too, against her other side, bundled them together in her arms. He turned away from the window, shut his eyes tight and buried his face into her side as Mrs Wheeler’s sobs continued to echo loud and desperate. Mike or Nancy? He thought, and hated, hated that his first little instinct was Nancy, please. Hated that he was so sure of what was going on—he didn’t know, it might not be that bad!
“Mom,” said Erica again, sounding afraid, voice high and young.
“I know,” is all his mom replied, squeezing them both tighter with a shaky breath. “I know,” she repeated in a whisper that sounded like she was crying.
Lucas felt very, very sick and very, very afraid. It spread through his body, cold with the slow creep of apprehension. The tears slipped past the tight squeeze of his eyelids, soaked up just as soon by the familiar fabric of his mom’s dress.
He could feel it inside that something was wrong, that something had changed. (He wished he hadn’t yelled at Mike.)
____
Eleven was cold as she walked. It was a different cold from how it had been in the Bad Place, which she liked. Most things were very different from the Bad Place. There were schools and movies and pretty things and friends, and she loved them all. She wanted to see everything there was out here.
The wind blew her skirt, rustling it around her legs, and leaves danced along the ground. They were yellow and bright against the grey dirt. She picked one up as it passed, turning it over in her fingers. It had brown edges, crunchier than the rest of the leaf, and she lifted it to her nose. something she’d learned was that there were so many smells than she’d ever heard of before.
Like the smell of Eggos, and the smell of the clothes Mike had given her to wear, and the smell of this leaf. It smelled like dirt if dirt was sharper and brighter, and Eleven decided that she liked it quite a lot.
Crouching down on the path, she tossed the yellow leaf gently forwards, and watched as it blew away.
Once it disappeared from her view, she continued on her walk again. Mike’s house. She had to find Mike’s house. (Even though he had been angry?) It was cold outside, and… she wanted to help them find Will. She wanted to say sorry to Lucas. Maybe then they would be her friends anyways, even if she was Bad.
El followed the trail for some time, feeling the rocks under her shoes with each step. She liked shoes, and especially socks. Before, her feet had always been cold.
The trail stopped, then, and she was on a road. It was dark and smooth, like what they had biked on. That probably meant she was getting closer to Mike again.
All around her were buildings, that one was where she got the Eggos. Quickly, she sped up as she passed by. The man at the store had been angry, after all, and she did not like it very much when people were angry.
Where was the right way? She forgot. She wanted to find Mike, and Dustin, and say to Lucas ‘sorry I was Bad, sorry that I hurt you.’ And—and Will, too. He was in the place, and it was her fault because she opened it . Eleven didn’t want her friends to get hurt, didn’t want her friends to go to the Bad Place.
But she wanted to help Will.
El let out a little ‘oof’ when she bumped into a person, stumbled back almost falling to the ground as she stared at him.
His face was red and bruised with hurts. Maybe a mouth breather did it to him? He had hair that stood up from his head a lot and she liked it. She wished she still had the hair that Mike had given her, the hair that made her pretty. Slowly, she reached forwards, not quite touching the boy’s hair.
He gave her a strange look, squinting. Well, he squinted one eye, the other eye was already squinted because of the bruise. “…you good?”
He had a cloth in one of his hands. It was stained red.
It did not really look like blood—-Eleven stepped back anyways, a little bit nervous. Talking to people without her friends here was hard and strange.
“Hey—“ the teen started, stepping forwards, face twisting in a way she couldn’t even begin to understand, and El ran.
Ran and ran, as far as she wanted, feet pounding against the ground and every step lending further to her little gasping breaths of exhaustion. She liked it a lot, and a smile pulled across her face even as her legs strained and ached.
She ran and ran—and there was the road where she’d flipped the van! And there was the park they’d gone through, kids playing, colourful plastics. El was so close.
Mike’s house, Mike’s house, end of this road. She would go and she would say ‘sorry’ and maybe they could be friends again.
Eleven walked up the steps, slow, careful, passing by the van in the driveway. She raised her hand to ring the doorbell—tried to remember all of the things about ‘tell my mom that you’re lost, or whatever.’ Was that what she was still supposed to do? She wasn’t really sure.
Then there was the sudden creak of the step behind her, wood slowly shifting, and she tried to whirl, to run, to—
Large hands gripped her shoulders harshly, fingers digging into her skin in a way that would definitely leave bruises. El cried out, twisted and writhed, reached with her thin and fragile arms to pry at the merciless hold. Sucked in a breath before starting to shriek again, high, desperate.
A cloth over her face, sweet, keeping her from moving. She couldn’t see to use her powers, couldn’t do anything but kick desperately as tears sprang to her eyes.
“Mike!” She cried, muffled, but there was no response. Mike wasn’t there to help, Mike wasn’t there.
The next time she opened her eyes, it was in a far-too familiar room.
___
There was a silicone corpse, in a coffin in the ground, slashed open across the stomach and never resewn. It was cold, damp earth pressing in on every direction.
There was a boy, held tight against a wall, vine down his throat, sapping out all of everything. He was cold, too, damp and grimy and thin.
His head tilted back, damp and stringy bangs falling over his forehead. Slightly, his eyes twitched beneath his eyelids, back and forth, the only outward sign of life. Not that there was anybody around to see it.
“Hello, William.”
And his family didn’t find him in the end.
____
Nobody went by Sattler’s Quarry much, anymore.