Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

November 5 1984

The air’s thick—like even the house can feel how stressed we all are. Max keeps pacing, wearing a hole in the carpet at this point, still shaken from, y’know, knocking out her psycho brother for being a racist piece of shit to Lucas. Max drops onto the couch, but she looks like she’s about to fall apart. I start to stand up, maybe to say something—anything—but Lucas beats me to it. He slides in next to her without a word I sit back down.

I don’t know what to say. The silence is awful—loud in that way that makes your skin crawl. I glance at Steve. He’s still out cold on the floor, and he looks... bad. Cuts, bruises, a huge red gash across his lip from where Billy punched him. He looks like he lost a fight with a truck or even worse — a Demogorgon

I stand up, needing to get out of that room before Lucas and Max make me sick. I know he doesn’t mean it, but I really like her. And he just... takes her. This whole day has been so dumb. Everything’s falling apart, and somehow Steve Harington the high school bully And the nerd Jame who moved in a month ago.

Should understands me more than Lucas —even though I’ve only really known Steve for, like, five hours James barley a month. When I've known Lucas basically my whole life.

I walk past the kitchen and down the hall toward Will’s room. I need to check on Mike. He’s barely said a word since El left—to go save the world without him.

I knock on the door.

Knock knock.

“Hello? Mike? You in there?”

No answer. I push the door open anyway. He’s lying on Will’s bed, staring at the ceiling like he’s trying to burn a hole through it.

“Hey, Dustin,” he says, voice low and hollow.

“Mike, come on, don’t mope over this Shit”

“Dustin, you don’t get it,” he snaps. “El’s out there. I thought she was dead—for a whole year. And now it turns out some old man’s been hiding her in a cabin, and she just goes running off to do the same thing that almost got her killed last time.”

I sigh. “Mike, you’ve got to be kidding me. She’s the strongest one out of all of us. If anyone can close the gate, it’s her. Why are you so worried? She beat the Demogorgon last time—what’s the difference?”

“No, Dustin. I saw the Demodogs. I saw what they can do...” His voice cracks. “They killed Bob, Dustin. What’s stopping them from killing El too?”

He rolls over, burying his face in the pillow.

“Mike, El’s going to be fine—”

“Just go away, Dustin. You’re not helping.”

His words hit deeper than I expected. Way deeper.

I don’t say anything. I just listen to the silence as I walk out and quietly close the door behind me.

And then it creeps in again—that voice in my head trying to convince me this whole thing is my fault When i know its not.

It still feels like it is if Dart hadn’t gotten loose… if I hadn’t hidden him… maybe everyone would’ve known the Upside Down was back sooner. Maybe Bob would still be alive.

I didn’t even know him that well. But he was always nice, you know? Like, really nice. Bob just didn’t deserve to die like that.

I walk down the hallway, trying to think of something—anything—I can do to help someone. Maybe Steve. He definitely needs something. Ice. Yeah, ice will work.

I head for the kitchen, moving fast, trying not to look at Max and Lucas as I pass. I don’t want to see either of them right now.

I open the fridge. Coke. Old food. Beer. I grab two Cokes and move to the counter to find something—anything—I can wrap one in so I’m not putting ice-cold metal right on Steve’s face.

I grab a towel, wrap it around one of the Cokes, and head back to the living room, pretending like everything’s totally fine.

But Steve already has a bag of ice pressed to his head—Lucas must’ve gotten it for him. Of course he did. He just has to make me feel useless

I still kneel down beside Steve and offer him the Coke, trying not to let it bother me.

“Here,” I say. “It’s cold.”

“Thanks, Dustin,” Steve mumbles, trading the ice for the Coke and pressing it to his forehead. He slowly sits up against the wall. He looks like hell, but he’s alive. That’s something, I guess.

I back off, feeling like a background character in my own life. Like I’m always one step behind. Lucas got the ice. Max is sitting with him. Mike's a wreck over El. And me? I'm just... here.

I force myself over to Max and Lucas anyway. “You want one?” I ask Lucas, holding up the second Coke. “Found it in the fridge.”

“Sure,” he says, taking it from me. His hand brushes mine for a second, and I hate that I flinch. I shove it in his hands not looking at him to see a reaction.

I sit back down, disappointed that I can’t do anything to help. So I just sit there.

But then—it happens again.

Just blank.

It’s been like this for a while now. If I sit still too long, my brain just... shuts off. Everything goes black, and when I snap out of it, ten, fifteen minutes are gone. Like I was never even there. No thoughts, no memories—just a hole where time used to be.

My mom told my dad the doctor called it Temporal Lobe Epilepsy—TLE. That’s all I caught before my dad told me to leave the room flashing the same brown wood revolver. Then My mom screamed some shit about a lawsuit.

You’d think they’d give me meds for it? Something to stop the whatever the hell's Gowing on with me?

Nope. Too expensive, apparently. I still haven't even seen a doctor about it yet.

They still won’t even tell me how I got it. Just keep saying I fell. Over and over, like if they repeat it enough, I’ll believe it.

But I know that’s not the whole story.

Mom said she told the school I had “The condition,” but didn’t say much else. I haven't said a word either. I figured they'd pull me from tests or at least keep an eye on me. But most of the time, they act like nothing’s wrong. Like they don’t see me blink out right in front of them.

And sometimes, at night, I start wondering if she’s lying too. If she’s hiding something from me. About what really happened. About why Dad left the day after.

Ever since that so-called fall, something's been off. I feel... cracked. Like there’s a part of me that got scrambled and never quite clicked back into place.

I don’t remember hitting my head. I don’t remember anything.

And I’ve never dared to ask.
I just keep hoping it’s nothing.
But deep down, I know better.

I shake my head, trying to clear the thoughts. No point dwelling. I focus on the present—on Steve, on the others, on the chaos outside.

“I’m getting some fresh air,” Mike says suddenly, pulling me out of my train of thought. I barely noticed he came in the living room. Honestly, I can’t tell if I was just lost in my thoughts or if it was full blank again.

“Mike, come back!” I call out, practically groaning.

I push myself up and follow him toward the front door. He gets there first and slams it shut right in my face.

Of course.

I just stand there for a second, teeth clenched, already ticked off.

Behind me, I hear footsteps—Lucas, I guess he finally leaving Max alone.

“What happened?” he asks, like I’m the problem.

“What happened?” I snap, spinning around to face him. “Mike just ran off into the night, and you were too busy making googly eyes at Max to notice.”

Lucas frowns. “Are you serious right now? I wasn’t the one arguing with mike five minutes ago.”

“Oh, so this is my fault now?” I throw my arms up. “Sorry I’m not all sunshine and rainbows while the world’s ending!”

“You’re acting like a jerk, Dustin.”

“Yeah? Well at least I wasn’t sitting on my ass doing nothing!”

When I know Damm well I was doing the same thing.

“Guys, seriously?” Max cuts in sharply, voice rising over ours. “Have you thought that maybe, I don’t know, instead of arguing, you should go after him?”

That shuts us both up.

I glare at Lucas for one more second, then turn toward the door. “You know what? I will.”

I yank it open, ready to slam it behind me, but Lucas slides his foot in before it closes.

“I’m coming with,” he says. I roll my eyes but there's nothing I can do about it, so I open it more to let him through.

I step outside, and the cold night air hits me like a slap to the face. The sky’s cloudy, the kind of dark that swallows everything. The streetlights are flickering like they’re not sure if they want to stay on or give up completely—kind of like the rest of this town.

Lucas follows close behind, letting the screen door creak shut behind him. Neither of us says anything for a second. We just stand there, eyes darting around the front yard, the street, the trees.

Nothing.

“Where the hell could he have gone?” I mutter, stepping off the porch. The grass crunches under my sneakers—frosty, even though it’s not quite winter.

“He couldn’t have gotten far,” Lucas says, scanning the neighborhood. “He was right here.”

“Yeah, and then he disappeared into thin air.” I say, my voice sharp without meaning it to be.

We split up a little without saying anything, both drifting toward opposite ends of the yard. I look down the street, the shadows between houses feeling way too deep. The air is dead quiet, and it makes every little noise—like leaves rustling or a creaky tree branch—feel like a threat.

I cup my hands around my mouth. “Mike!”

Lucas calls out too, louder. “Mike! Come on, man!”

No answer. Just wind.

“Where would he even go?” Lucas asks, walking back toward me. “The woods? The school?”

I shake my head. “He’s not thinking straight. He’s pissed about El, about everything. If he thinks he can help her…”

“…he might try to find the lab,” Lucas finishes for me.

That makes my stomach drop.

The lab.

Where everything started—and where everything could be going to hell again.

I nod slowly. “We need Steve.”

I spin around and sprint back to the house, yanking the front door open with Lucas right behind me.

“Guys!” I shout, practically out of breath. “Mike ran off—he’s heading to the lab. He thinks he can help El!”

Max shoots up from the couch, eyes wide. “Shit.”

Steve groans, barely able to stand after the beating he took from Billy. “You’ve gotta be kidding me,” he mutters, dragging himself upright. His lip is still bleeding, and he looks like he should be in a hospital bed, not chasing after anyone.

He stumbles past us and yanks the door open, leaning out into the night. “Mike!” he yells, his voice raw. “Damn it—I had one job.”

He runs a hand through his hair, looking like he’s about to fall over. “I’m in no position to drive,” he mutters, more to himself than to us. “Screw it. Come on.”

We all rush to grab our bags without saying another word. I sling mine over my shoulder, my heart thudding against my ribs like it’s trying to escape.

Backpacks. Flashlights. Radios.

Whatever we can grab.

Then we bolt out the door.

I hear it slam shut behind us as we pile into Steve’s car. He throws himself behind the wheel with a wince, gripping the steering wheel like it might hold him up. Max dives into the front seat. Lucas and I take the back.

The engine roars to life, and the tires screech as we tear out of the driveway into the dark.

The road blurs past us in streaks of shadow and dim orange streetlights. Steve’s gripping the wheel like it’s the only thing keeping him awake, his eyes half-lidded, jaw clenched tight. He hasn’t said a word since we left the house—just focused, tense, and clearly running on fumes.

I glance at Lucas, then at Max, who’s chewing her nails and bouncing her leg like she’s trying to shake the nerves out of her body. No one’s saying anything, but we’re all thinking it.

Mike’s out there alone. And we have no clue what we’re about to find.

“You good, Steve?” I finally ask, breaking the silence.

“I’m fine,” he says quickly. Too quickly.

“You don't look fine” Max says.

Steve tries to glare at her, but his eyes slip closed for half a second too long—and then the car swerves.

“STEVE!” we all yell as the car veers toward a tree on the right side of the road.

Steve jerks the wheel, but it’s slow—way too slow.

Max doesn’t wait. She lunges over from the passenger seat, grabbing the wheel with both hands and yanking it hard left. The tires squeal and the car skids, gravel spitting out from under us as we slam back into the right lane. My head hits the window. Lucas shouts something I can’t even process.

Steve lets go completely, slumping back in the seat with a groan. “Okay. Okay. That’s—yeah, that’s all I got…”

“Switch seats with me!” Max barks. “Now!”

Steve half-falls out of the driver’s seat, crawling into the back while Max slides over and grabs the wheel like she’s been doing this her whole life.

“You can drive?!” I blurt out, still catching my breath.

“Sort of,” she mutters. “Enough to not kill us like dipshit over here.”

She slams her foot on the gas, and we speed down the road again, now with Max behind the wheel and Steve groaning in the backseat like he might puke at any second still while managing to give directions.

That’s when I hear it—a scream. Not from outside, but from my backpack.

I yank it open and see the radio. My hands are shaking as I pull up the antenna. Static crackles, then a voice bursts through.

"The gate—it didn’t work! They’re coming through! Get as far away as possible!!"

It’s Hopper.....

“Hopper?! Are you okay?! What’s going on?!” I’m shouting into the radio now, panic punching through my voice.

“Get out of Hawkins with the rest of the kids Steve!! They’re ou—!”

A scream. Not just any scream—a guttural, soul-ripping one that cuts right through me. Then silence.

The walkie goes dead.

For a second, none of us say a word. Then Steve mutters, “No. No, no, no…”

“What was that?” Max whispers.

But we already know.

Lucas says it out loud. “A Demogorgon.”

“Shit—shit!” Steve snaps, banging his fist on the dashboard. “We need to get to Mike. NOW!” Steve now yelling

I don't think I ever seen him so panicked

Max slams her foot down, the tires screeching as we whip around a corner.

She’s dodging debris in the road, broken branches, and chunks of metal. Everything’s chaos.

I’m in the back, heart thudding so loud it hurts. The radio’s dead quiet now, like it never even worked in the first place. My fingers won’t stop twitching.

We don’t speak. Not really. Just the tires on asphalt and the wind rushing past.

We’re almost there.

Please, Mike—please be okay.

And then… I blank out.

My head’s leaning against the window, my thoughts spinning so fast they just shut off. I don't even realize it’s happening this time. It just… goes black.

When I come to, everything’s louder—Max yelling something, gravel rattling under the wheels, and Steve groaning in the passenger seat. I blink, confused, then see it through the cracked windshield:

Hawkins Lab. Right in front of us.

We’re pulling up the long drive, tires slipping slightly as Max floors it. Trees whip by on either side, just black shadows in the night. My heart jumps into my throat.

We're too late.

A low rumble shakes the air.

“What was that?” Lucas asks, tense.

Before anyone can answer—

BOOM.

The world lights up in orange and yellow as the top floor of the lab explodes. A fireball rips through the night sky, and burning debris showers down like meteors. A piece of metal the size of a hubcap slams into the hood of the car with a deafening clang.

CRACK.

The windshield fractures like a spiderweb.

Max instinctively hits the brakes, slowing for just a second.

Then—

Out of the smoke and fire, it walks.

The Demogorgon.

Its skin shines in the firelight, slick and armored. Its arms stretch unnaturally wide. The flower-like head opens in slow motion, revealing endless rows of teeth—and then it screams.

“GO! DRIVE!” I yell, nearly crawling into the front seat.

Max doesn't need telling twice. The tires screech as she whips the wheel and floors it down the hill. The Demogorgon lets out another roar and chases after us, its claws pounding against the pavement, getting faster—closer—

“It's GAINING!” Lucas shouts, turning to look behind us.

Steve groans and grips the door. “Go right! Go right!”

Max jerks the wheel, swerving around fallen trees and rubble. The Demogorgon hits the back of the car—metal shrieks. Sparks fly.

“Max, faster!” I scream.

But then… everything goes still.

Something moves ahead of us, just barely visible in the firelight.

Another one........

Another Demogorgon steps into the road—huge, even bigger than the last, blocking the path with its claws raised like spears.

“Shit—” Max slams the brakes too late. Steve lunges pulls max in the back seat and gets on top of us.

WHAM.

The Demogorgon swipes its massive arm into the hood of the car.

The whole vehicle lifts off the ground, flipping sideways through the air like a toy.

We crash hard. I hear screaming—maybe mine—as glass shatters and the world spins.

When we finally hit the ground the car is upside-down.

Everything is smoke, pain, and the sound of inhuman snarls drawing closer from both sides.

My arm dangles, lifeless, saved only by the seatbelt biting into my chest. The car’s upside down, glass everywhere, the air thick with smoke and dust.

Lucas groans beside me—blood streaking down his face from a gash near his eye. Max, somehow, looks barely scratched, just shaken. And Steve… Steve looks like death. His head is bleeding, his body slumped awkwardly against the roof of the car.

But he’s alive. Barely.

Everything is spinning when I spot it—my backpack. It’s hanging off the backseat, one strap still caught around the headrest. The walkie-talkie is wedged in the water bottle sleeve, flashing faintly. I stare at it, heart thudding.

Then I hear it.

Crunch.

Crunch.

Heavy steps. Multiple. Getting closer.

Steve’s eyes snap open. “Don’t move,” he whispers. “They hunt by sound, not sight.”

The Demogorgon's are here.

Through the jagged holes in the car’s frame, I see their shadows. One of them lumbers past the shattered windshield. Then another—bigger—circles around the side. The car creaks under their weight as they close in.

A smaller Demogorgon presses its flower-like head into the passenger side window, sniffing, twitching. Slime drips from its open mouth, landing with soft, wet splats on the glass. The larger one approaches from the rear and slams a clawed hand onto the broken door, peeling it open halfway with a screech.

I flinch. My breath freezes in my lungs.

The big one shoves its head inside.

Max is frozen, hand clenched in a fist. Lucas presses back into the seat, blood dripping off his chin. I can feel Steve’s pulse—fast and erratic—next to me. I don't even realize I’m crying until a tear rolls down my cheek and hits my chest.

And then—just barely—I notice it.

My backpack.

It’s slipping.

The last strap is loosening, bit by bit. One more inch and it’ll fall. I stare in horror as it teeters—until finally, it gives.

I inch toward it, panicked. One strap slides free. The whole thing teeters. I don’t think—I lunge and grab it just before it hits the ground, pulling it against my chest like a lifeline.

My breath is shaky.

We’re okay.

We’re still okay.

BZZZT.

The walkie.

“—Dustin? Anyone? Are you there? They’re breaking through!”

I freeze. Everyone does.

“This is Hopper! Steve, do you copy are the kids Ok—”

CRACKLE.

SCREECH.

The sound from the walkie is loud, distorted—and very alive.

Steve’s eyes go wide. “Shit.”

The Demogorgon's stop. All three of them. Turn.

And then—they charge the car.

Steve’s eyes go wide. "Shit. They heard it—" He fumbles with the handle, pain written all over his face.

“Wait!” I cry—but then—

“HEY! DIPS—SHITS! OVER HERE!”

A voice from the trees.

I crane my neck. Through the cracked windshield, I see him.

Mike. Standing at the top of the hill. Screaming. Waving.

“MIKE!” I scream, reaching for the window.

The Demogorgon stop, twitching, and turn toward the noise.

Mike doesn’t wait—he runs. Full sprint. Into the woods.

“Go after him!” Steve mutters. “Go—go, go, go!”

And then—he kicks the door clean open, taking advantage of Mike’s distraction. The rusted metal groans as it swings wide. Sunlight and forest pour in.

Max is first out. Then Lucas. I slam my buckle loose and fall hard to the roof—then scramble after them.

Steve lags behind, clutching his ribs, barely upright.

We bolt into the trees, dodging branches, roots, and shattered glass. I can still see Mike—he’s a blur now, halfway up the slope.

Mike turns and runs. But then Demodogs appears behind him— fast and unstoppable.

“No—!” I start to scream, but a hand clamps over my mouth. He doesn't see it!!

I thrash in panic, tears streaming as I watch the impossible. I thrash the hand bite scream sob as I watch The Demodogs lunge—and bites Mike in four Different directions .

His body crumples in pieces, the monsters roaring into the night as his blood sprays across the trees.

The Steves hand over my mouth trembles, trying to hold me back. But it’s too late.

Mikes dead....

Chapter Text

June 27th 1986

“Come on,” Steve whispers, voice low and tense as he pulls out a pair of gardening shears. “Move fast—don’t make noise.”

He glances up at the sky, eyes scanning for something to swoop down. Probably is with Demobats and Demodogs out there, none of us are taking chances.

“Gas masks on,” he adds softly. “Just in case there’s Mind Flayer particles.”

I open my backpack, pass masks to Lucas and Max, then pull mine on. I check the seal, inspect the front—no cracks. Good.

The lock on the door clanks as Steve pops it open. He winces at the sound and quickly scans the street, alert. Then: “Go!”

We rush inside, boots echoing on the tile. Steve slams the door shut behind us, flipping the deadbolt.

“We’re good,” he says, muffled through his mask. “Talk quiet.”

“I can’t believe this place wasn’t raided,” Max whispers. “Are people seriously that dumb?”

Lucas nods. “Guess they didn’t think a high school would be useful.”

“Alright, let’s split up,” Steve orders. “Lucas, check the Nurse Office—see if there’s anything sharp: knives, scissors, screwdrivers Meds. Max—find anything useful in the lockers With Dustin, check for supplies. I’ll hit the Front office for other stuff.”

We nod and scatter. No time to waste. We don’t know how long this quiet spell will last.

I dash down the hallway, not wasting a second. My boots echo as I swing my backpack around, yanking open a locker. I jam a screwdriver into the seam, prying it open with a groan of metal.

Moving quickly, I clear lockers one after another. The first has glitter stickers and Hawkins High colors—Chrissy Cunningham’s, probably a cheerleader. I find some old perfume, hairpins, and a can of pepper spray. Could be useful.

The next few are just noise: notebooks, moldy snacks, broken pens.

Then I open one and find something unexpected: a metal box tucked behind textbooks. I crack it open. Inside—pills, a bag of weed, a lighter, and a half-empty bottle of cough syrup.

I pause, stare at it a second. Kids really didn’t handle school well here, huh?

I toss them into my bag and shut the locker. Not my problem.

I keep moving. Time blurs—lockers, echoes, dust.

Then I reach the end of a row and open a locker.

A brown-handled revolver. Model 1984. Sitting in the corner like someone stashed it for later.

My stomach knots.

I slam the locker shut and back away, sliding down to the floor. Just sit there. Frozen.

And then—

“Dustin!”

Max crouches in front of me, her red hair messy under her gas mask. Her eyes are sharp, worried.

“Dustin?” she repeats, voice tight. “What the hell was that?”

I blink, still half in the fog. “What was what?”

“You were just—sitting there. Like totally out of it.” She glances around. “I’ve been calling for you. Thought maybe something grabbed you.”

I rub my forehead. “Sorry. Just... got distracted.”

“Distracted?” she pushes. “By what?”

I shrug, avoiding her gaze. “I dunno. Locker was kind of weird, that’s all.”

Max eyes the locker. “You find something?”

I nod. “Yeah. Pepper spray. Lighter. Some sketchy pills. Probably someone’s teenage apocalypse kit.”

She snorts, but it’s uneasy. “Seriously though, you scared me. You weren’t moving for minutes. I thought—” She stops herself.

“I’m fine,” I say quickly, too quickly.

She tilts her head. “You sure? You don’t look fine.”

I force a laugh. “Just needed a second. Long day. We’re all on edge.”

She studies me, like she’s trying to read something I’m not giving. Then, slowly, she nods. “Alright. But next time? Maybe don’t go full zombie-mode mid-run, yeah? This place gives me the creeps.”

“Noted,” I say, slinging my backpack back on and letting out a small chuckle.

She offers me a hand. I take it, legs still feeling like jelly.

As she dusts herself off, I glance down the hallway.

Max walks toward other rooms, then looks back. “Oh—Steve said to check the front office, see if there’s anything left in the cabinets.”

Max squints at me. “He did?”

“Yeah,” I lie, already turning so she won’t see my face. “Thought it’d be worth a shot.”

She pauses, eyes on me. I can feel her doubt, but she doesn’t say anything.

I nod and follow her, but as we walk, I glance back once at the locker. The gun is still there.

And I’m still not sure how long I was out.

We’re heading to the front office—this was the whole reason I said we should come here. They probably have files, medical records. My records.

I don’t have time to wait for anyone to help. This thing—it’s getting worse. Blackouts that used to last seconds now stretch into minutes, and I think I lost half an hour earlier. Just gone.

What if it keeps happening? What if one day I blank out and don’t come back? What if I lose a whole year?

I need a way to control it. To stop it.

Since I was supposed to transfer here next year, there has to be something in their system—notes, files, prescriptions—that can tell me what I should be taking.

We reach the front office. It’s dark, dusty, abandoned—like the rest of the school.

I pull out my knife—more like a multi-tool James gave me once. Last birthday present, before we split.

The blade clicks open as I kneel by the door. The lock looks old, barely holding. Should be easy.

A couple of twists, a bit of pressure—click.

The door creaks as it loosens.

Max whistles softly. “Okay, seriously—where’d you learn to pick locks like that?”

“To do what?” I ask, not looking up.

“Pick locks,” she repeats, impressed. “You’re a natural.”

My fingers pause. My words slip out before I can stop them.

“Oh, my dad—”

I clamp my mouth shut. The words hang heavy.

Maybe saying “my dad used to break into everything for fun” isn’t the best idea right now.

“Nvm,” I mutter, eyes down.

Max squints. “No, what were you going to say?”

“It’s not important,” I cut her off. “Just drop it.”

She frowns. “Okay, jeez. Didn’t realize I hit a nerve.”

“Fine, whatever,” I snap, sharper than I wanted. But it’s too late.

“Y’know, Dustin—if you miss your dad, that’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

I chuckle nervously. “He’s not the type to make me miss him.”

But I’d never say that out loud.

Instead, I mutter, “Whatever,” and head toward the front offices.

I need space. Time alone.

The hallway ahead is silent except for the echo of my boots. Dust kicks up with each step. The air’s thick—stale, moldy, heavy with old paper and decay. It clings to my mask.

I stop in front of the principal’s office. The door’s half off its hinges, like someone gave up trying to break in. I push it open slowly. Hinge groans loudly.

Inside, everything’s coated in dust. Papers scattered, desks overturned. But in the corner—still standing—is a tall gray filing cabinet.

It looks out of place. Untouched. Like it’s been waiting for me.

I cross carefully, mindful of creaky tiles. When I grab the handle, it’s cold. I give it a tug—stuck for a second—then it slides open with a screech.

Freshman Files, A to F.

Not me.

I try the drawer below. The label’s faded, but I can still read: Incoming 9th Grade. A–G.

My fingers twitch.

I pull out my flashlight, click it on. The beam cuts through the murk. Fog creeps across the lenses of my mask with each breath, but I don’t dare take it off.

Leaning closer, I flip through the folders.

A... B... C... D...

My fingertips brush over each tab—pausing, searching—until I see it.

Henderson, Dustin.

My heart stutters. I stare at it—real, tangible. My name. Sitting there, like it’s been waiting for me.

I reach out, pull the folder free. It’s heavier than I expected, thick, like it’s been waiting for someone to open it.

Just as I crack it open—

“Dustin!”

I jolt, spinning around.

Max stands in the doorway, breathless. “The cabinets are cleaned out. We’re not gonna find jack in there. What was Steve thinking?”

I freeze. The folder’s half-open in my hands.

My mind races—this can’t be happening. Not now, not with this.

In one quick motion, I shove the folder behind my back, heart pounding.

“Right,” I say too quickly. “Guess he was wrong.”

She narrows her eyes, suspicious. “Steve told you to come here, right?”

I nod, maybe a beat too late. “Yeah. Said there might still be records.”

Max studies me, doubt flickering in her eyes. She doesn’t say anything—just shrugs and walks out.

I finally breathe again, slipping the folder into my backpack, careful not to bend or tear it. Then I follow her.

She was right—the cabinets were empty. There was no reason to come here. But the lie… I couldn’t have come up with a better one if I tried. She probably knows.

I’m stepping out of the room when I see her down the hall.

Suddenly, she grabs my arm.

“What—?” I start, but she’s not looking at me.

Her eyes are fixed on something above us.

I follow her gaze—my stomach drops.

The ceiling vent.

Thin, black particles swirl out, twisting like smoke—but not—they move with a purpose.

And then—worse.

Viney, black tentacles begin to slither from the vent, creeping down the walls.

They know we’re here.

“Shit,” I whisper. “We need to get Steve.”

Max is already running. I follow, boots pounding.

No words needed—we both know the danger if the lights flicker. That’s the last thing we want right now.

Max yanks her walkie out of her bag, thumb on the button.

“Steve? Steve, do you copy? Lucas? Anyone? Come in!”

Static. No response.

She tries again, louder. “Steve, there’s Mind Flayer crap in the vents—we need to get out!”

My heart pounds as we turn the corner, desperately searching for anyone.

“Lucas!” I yell. “Lucas, where are you?!”

No answer—just the pounding of my boots and the distant hum of silence.

Max’s grip tightens on the walkie. “Lucas, answer! Please!”

Nothing but static.

We spot a door hanging half-open—inside, Lucas crouched near a metal cabinet, wide-eyed.

“What the hell?!” Max yells. “Why didn’t you answer?!”

“I—I dropped the walkie,” he stammers. “Didn’t hear it. What’s going on—?”

Then the lights flicker—first a soft buzz, then longer, more erratic.

My breath catches. “No. No, no, no—”

Behind us, the lights strobe faster—blinking like a dying heartbeat.

“Where is it?” Lucas asks, eyes darting.

I peek back—my stomach tightens.

“The meds—” I mumble, turning back. “Hold on.”

I dash inside, crouching to grab the supplies. That’s when I hear it—a wet tearing noise.

I look up.

The wall is splitting, cracks crawling across the paint. Then—burst.

The Demogorgon rips through, skin stretched tight and blending with the wall. Its screech is deafening, saliva whipping from its open mouth.

“Shit—HELP! HELP!” I scream, scrambling backward as it begins to drag itself into the room.

I trip—catch myself on the cabinet, the stench hitting me, heat radiating off the creature.

Spit lands on my cheek.

The door slams open behind me.

“Dustin!” Max’s voice cuts through the chaos.

She and Lucas freeze—just long enough.

The Demogorgon turns, distracted.

I don’t hesitate.

I grab James’s knife from my belt and lunge.

Slam it into its neck. It howls, black blood pouring out in thick streams.

I yank the blade free.

It thrashes.

I don’t wait to see what happens next.

I bolt—slam the door behind me.

Max yanks Lucas’s arm; he yells something, and the three of us run, hearts pounding, breaths ragged, the screaming creature behind us.

The hallway feels endless—too long, too dark, too loud.

BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.

It’s behind us—relentless.

The doors rattle, the walls shake.

And then—

CRASH.

The door we slammed hits another classroom, splinters flying.

I glance back—instinct warning me—only to regret it.

The Demogorgon charges full-speed, blood streaming from its neck, splashing across the walls. It knocks lockers over, screeching in rage.

“Shit!” Max yells, grabbing my arm.

We squeeze through another turn—claws tearing grooves in the linoleum—

I slam into a chest.

Steve’s in front of me.

“Dustin?!” he yells.

“Steve! We gotta go! That thing is—”

“I know!” he interrupts. “Where is it?!”

“Back there—close!” Lucas yells.

We run again.

“Follow me—now!” Steve commands.

“Why—”

“Shut the hell up, Dustin! Just listen!”

No more questions. We follow him into a classroom.

“Backpack—give me the gas, the Molotov, and my gun. Now!”

I’m already grabbing supplies, tossing them to him. Max sprints to the window.

“Max, open it!” Steve shouts.

She forces it up. Cold air rushes in.

Steve douses the floor with gasoline. The smell sharp and bitter.

From down the hall, we hear it—the Demogorgon.

It’s not running; it’s tearing through classrooms—closer with each second.

It knows.

“Okay, kids—out. Now!” Steve orders.

We hesitate—then I ask, “What about you?”

“I’ll be fine,” he says, already moving. “Just listen to me!”

Max and I drop outside, Steve already in the shadows.

My hand’s on the lighter I found earlier.

“Okay, Dustin,” Steve whispers from inside, voice focused. “When I come out that window, you light the Molotov and throw it. Max—give me my—”

CRASH.

The door explodes open—The Demogorgon barrels in, claws and teeth flashing.

“SHIT!” Steve dives through the window.

I light the Molotov.

The flame flickers at the rag’s tip.

“NOW, DUSTIN!”

I throw.

The bottle spins—shatters on the creature’s face.

WHOOM.

Fire erupts, melting desks and everything in sight—including the Demogorgon.

It shrieks, thrashing, skin peeling in blackened strips as flames consume it.

It tries to flee—heading for the window—

But Steve’s already waiting.

He cocks his shotgun, aiming at its head as the creature’s trying to squeeze through the flames and broken glass.

Without hesitation, he pulls the trigger.

BOOM.

The shot hits the Demogorgon’s head.

Black blood explodes across the room.

The creature slams into the wall, collapsing—dead.

Burning, screeching.

Steve lowers the gun, breathing hard.

“Next time,” he mutters, “you get to be the distraction.”

He lowers the shotgun, sighs in relief.

“Everyone okay?” he asks, pulling off his gas mask.

One by one, we follow suit. The air outside is foul—like rotting flesh soaked in mildew. Disgusting, but familiar. Our gas masks, found in an old fallout bunker, are probably our best find yet.

“What the hell happened?” Steve asks, clearly annoyed. His scruffy mustache makes him look older than he is.

“Uh, we were just looking around,” Max says quickly. “We saw particles in the vents, tried to find you and Lucas. Then... a Demogorgon came out of the wall.”

Steve curses quietly. “Glad everyone’s still breathing. We should get back to camp before nightfall.”

He looks up, scanning the sky for demo-bats. Nothing yet, but that means nothing.

“Let’s move. To the car.”

The vehicle’s a wreck, but it’s ours. Headlights taped up, spray-painted in a gradient to blend with the ruins, reinforced with scrap metal. License plates are long gone—can’t risk survivors or worse tracking us.

I hop into the back seat as Steve orders Lucas, “Keep an eye on the windows. No Demodogs or people following.”

I sit, trying to clear my mind. I can’t stop thinking about that gun, the file—why would the school have my dad’s exact same gun? It’s like the world wanted me to find it, like it was waiting.

I glance at my watch. 6:30.

Leaning against the window, I watch the woods fly past.

—

What the hell—

I trip hard, slamming into a rock and splashing into cold mud. Hands fly to my chest as I gasp.

“Dustin?” Max’s voice snaps through the noise.
“Steve! Come here, something’s wrong with Dustin!”

“I’m fine!” I call, brushing mud off. Trying to sound normal—calm. Not totally freaked. “Just tripped.”

But I look at my watch again.

It’s been an hour.

Fuck.

That blackout earlier—longer than before. That’s the worst yet.

I scan the surroundings—where am I?—until I see it.

The base.

Shit.

How did I walk all the way here without realizing?

I stand there, lost in thoughts, until Lucas taps my shoulder.

“Earth to Dustin,” he says, waving a hand.

“Oh—yeah. Sorry.”

I step up to the house and punch in the code: 11683.

A soft click. The lock opens.

We had to get rid of the doorbell—couldn’t risk a Demogorgon hearing it.

Inside, it’s quiet—still.

We’re lucky. The Demogorgon already wiped out the old man who lived here. Why would they come back?

They remember. They know they killed the only person here. Unless they followed us—then we’re probably in the safest place in Hawkins.

Whoever built this place had a serious security obsession: reinforced doors, hidden locks, shuttered windows—like they were prepping for the end of the world before it even started.

Now, it’s ours.

We drop our bags in the main room. Our haul from the school isn’t huge, but still worth it.

A crate of flashlights, medical supplies, radios, some half-melted protein bars, emergency water bottles, a stash of pills, a six-pack of warm beer, an old magazine Steve pretended not to care about, and canned food Lucas found stashed in the nurse’s closet. Jackpot.

“Alright,” Steve says, wiping sweat. “Let’s sort it quickly. We don’t want stuff sitting out in case we have to bolt.”

Max dives into the bags, separating meds from junk. I help Lucas stack the flashlights near backup batteries—my mind still foggy from the blackout.

“Dude, you good? You took a pretty bad fall,” Lucas asks quietly.

“Yeah, just tired.”

“Oh, Steve,” Max says suddenly.

My heart sinks.

“The cabinets in the front office were empty.”

Steve frowns. “Yeah, that’s what I said. Why’d you go back? Waste of time.”

Max glances at me—just for a second. I brace for her to call me out.

But she doesn’t.

She shrugs. “Guess I didn’t hear you say that. Figured it was worth a look anyway.”

Steve raises an eyebrow. He’s suspicious but lets it go. “Next time, stick to the plan, alright?”

“Yeah,” Max mutters, brushing past. “Next time.”

She doesn’t look at me as she walks away.

And I hold my breath until she’s gone.

Steve heads off in another direction, mumbling about wasted time.

I stand frozen.

She covered for me.

But that look in her eyes—she knows.

She’s not saying anything.

I grab the walkies Steve found. Turn them on, start testing. One beeps—then another.

Then—

Beep, beep, beep.

It’s loud, obnoxious. I almost drop it.

“Lucas, this one’s broken,” I say, tossing it to him.

But then—the beeping doesn’t stop. It gets louder, more insistent.

“Okay, Lucas, get that walkie to shut up,” I snap.

“Language, Henderson,” Steve calls from the kitchen.

“Save it, Steve,” I mutter, but the noise persists.

It’s a rhythmic pattern—beep-beep-beep.

I play the rhythm in my head.

Then it clicks.

“Shit—Steve, come here!”

“What?” he calls.

“Lucas—the walkie’s saying SOS in Morse code!”

I crank the volume. Lucas spins around. Steve rushes in.

“Dustin, are you sure it’s SOS?” Steve says

“I’m sure. I’m positive.”

Lucas leans in, eyes wide. “Who are you?”

The walkie crackles again, clearer this time.

And then—a voice—clear as day, I haven’t heard it in forever:

“It’s El.”

Chapter Text

“Okay, Henderson, this better not be one of your shitty pranks.”

I stare at Steve, completely floored. “You think I did that? You seriously think I know how to fake a walkie like that?”

He doesn’t answer.

“What, you think I somehow made the walkie talk?” I snap.

“I don’t know, Henderson!” he shouts. “All I do know is that El is dead. She died at the lab—with Hopper and everyone else!”

“See, Dustin? Even Lucas gets it,” Steve says, jaw tight.

Lucas stays quiet, his eyes flicking between us

“Steve, you're acting like we didn’t just hear a walkie-talkie—with El’s voice coming out of it!” I snap. “Are you seriously that dumb?” I'm flabbergasted that he's making this an argument .

“We heard something weird. That doesn’t mean it was real.”

“She’s gone,” Steve says through gritted teeth.

“And if she’s not?” I step toward him. “What if El really is alive? What if she’s trying to reach us?”

“Dustin, El is dead,” he says flatly. Steve lets out a small sigh “We all saw the explosion. No one survives that. Stop chasing a dream. We need to focus—On surviving right now not chase ghosts.”

“But what about the Morse code?” I ask, refusing to drop it.

Steve lets out a sharp breath, clearly trying not to lose it again.

Lucas finally speaks up, hesitant. “It could’ve been static. Or... I don’t know. A glitch. Some weird frequency.”

I turn to him, frustrated. “Seriously? Did you even hear it?”

Lucas shrugs. “It sounded like her, yeah—but it doesn’t make sense.”

Steve nods like that settles it. “Exactly. It doesn’t make sense, because it wasn’t real.”

“You can’t just ignore it!” I shout, louder than I mean to.

“No. You know what?” Steve throws his hands up. “I’m not arguing with a couple of kids about some walkie-talkie ghost voice. We’re done. We’ll talk about this El crap later.”

He storms out of the room.

On his way out, Steve grabs the beer he found earlier and pops it open without saying another word.

As he storms off, I sink into the nearest chair, trying to process everything that just happened. My mind’s spinning. That was El’s voice—we all heard it. Why won’t he even consider the possibility?

A few moments later, Max comes down the stairs. “Why were you guys screaming? I heard it through my Walkman.”

I stand up quickly. I don’t feel like explaining how Steve was being selfish—how he’s just brushing it all off like it’s nothing. Like it couldn’t be El. Like she doesn’t need us.

Without answering, I walk out of the room, leaving Lucas to deal with the awkward conversation on his own.

I head for the basement—the only place in this crap-hole that has even a little peace and quiet. The stairs creak under my feet as I make my way down, old and rickety, like everything else in this house.

I move to the far corner, where the closet door hangs slightly crooked on its hinges. It’s average-sized—could almost be a small room if it weren’t for the coat hangers crowding the walls. But right now, it’s the only place that feels remotely safe.

I step inside and pull the door shut behind me. The generator’s been dead for a month, so I flick on the old battery-powered lamp I stashed in here weeks ago. The dim orange glow flickers to life, casting soft shadows across the cramped space.

I lay down on my backpack, trying to get comfortable. It’s not exactly cozy, but at least it’s quiet.

Then it hits me.

“Oh my gosh,” I whisper, barely realizing I said it out loud.

I sit up quickly, unzipping my bag and pulling out the school folder I stuffed in there before everything went to hell. It’s thinner than I remember.

I pick up the folder —and my chest tightens.

I blink, confused. I could’ve sworn it was thicker—way thicker.

As I unfold the folder, a single sheet slips out and flutters to the floor.

“Shit.” I mutter, picking it up. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

The pages must’ve fallen out when I was running from the Demogorgon. Just my luck.

I lean back and hit my head lightly against the wall in frustration. “Great,” I hiss under my breath. “Just great. Now there’s probably no way of getting those freaking pages back.”

My hands ball into face. I’m so angry I almost crumple the one page I do have.

But then I glance at it—and my heart skips a beat.

Student File – Confidential
Hawkins Middle School
Student: Dustin Henderson
Grade: 8
DOB: May 29, 1972

Counselor Access:

Student has an open pass to visit the school counselor at any time during school hours.

No hall pass required.

Teachers are advised not to question or prevent access.

Primary Counselor:
Ms. L. Grant
Extension: 114
Direct Line (confidential): [Redacted]

Medical Information:

Condition: Temporal Lobe Epilepsy (TLE)

Diagnosed: June 1984

Symptoms Observed: Short blackouts, memory gaps, emotional dysregulation, dissociation, confusion following episodes

Cause: Undetermined — possibly trauma-related

Medication: Carbamazepine 200mg, twice daily

Emergency PRN: Available through nurse's office

Child Protective Services (CPS):

Investigation opened: November 3, 1984

Mental Health Notes (Restricted Access):

Student exhibits high resilience but is considered at-risk due to documented trauma history.

Currently residing in foster care (details withheld for privacy).

Recommend regular monitoring for signs of depression or suicidal ideation.

If student expresses suicidal thoughts, contact school therapist immediately. Do not leave student unattended.

Most recent entry – Nov. 4, 1984:

"Student’s home has been raided by CPS. Parents taken into custody. Student remains unaware of the situation at this time."
— Ms. L. Grant

What the hell.

What the hell.

I drop the paper because I feel sick. My stomach twists. The fact that this is only one page somehow makes it worse. I would’ve known if CPS had investigated my home... right?
And custody? Have my parents been arrested?

What the hell did my parents do to me?

I stare at the paper again, hoping if I just look at it differently, the words might change.
But they don’t.

And what the hell is this about suicidal thoughts?
Like I’m gonna suddenly lose it or something?

The worst part?

They raided my home on Day Zero.
The same day I was at the Byers’ place.
Before everything went to shit.

I look back at the medication section again.

Medical Information:
Condition: Temporal Lobe Epilepsy (TLE)
Diagnosed: June 1982
Symptoms Observed: Short blackouts, memory gaps, emotional dysregulation, dissociation, confusion following episodes
Cause: Undetermined — possibly trauma-related
Medication: Carbamazepine 200mg, twice daily
Emergency PRN: Available through nurse's office

Carbamazepine.

Probably the only good thing I’ve read on this shitty piece of paper.
I finally have a real way to treat this. Something that might actually help.

I’ll just take it from the cabnit at night. Quiet. Careful.

No one can know about this.

They already think I’m weak. A liability.
The second They find out about this they’ll ditch me.
Just like James did.

I can’t risk that.

I glance down at my watch—cracked screen, still working.
8:47.

Then—
A knock at the door.

Shit.

I roll up the paper fast, shove it in my bag, and slide the folder out of sight.

“Who is it?” I call out, trying to keep my voice steady. Calm.

Like I haven’t just had my entire world torn open.

“Steve made dinner, Dustin. It’s soup,” Lucas says from the other side of the door.

I roll my eyes.
Of all people, Lucas is the last one I want to talk to right now.

He threw me under the bus. Didn’t even try to back me up.
He let me take the blame because he was too afraid to stand up to Steve.

Coward.

“I’ll be there in a minute,” I say, forcing my voice to stay calm.
Trying to hide the anger boiling in my chest.

I shove the folder back into my bag and head out of the room. I hear Lucas already climbing the stairs, and I follow, dragging my feet a little. Every step feels like it weighs a hundred pounds.

At the basement door, I pause. Take a breath. Get it together.

I push it open and walk into the house.

In the kitchen, Steve is crouched near the stove, blowing out the match he used to heat the soup. The flame dies with a soft hiss. The pot rattles slightly on the metal grate, steam curling from the rim.

I glance at the can he used—cheap tomato soup. Figures.

I let out a dry, quiet laugh. “Soup night, huh?”

Lucas is already setting plastic bowls on the table, not saying a word. I walk over and sit next to Max, my eyes fixed on the steam.

“Soup’s done,” Steve mutters, giving it one last stir with the spoon.

The soup smells like metal and salt. No one says anything as Steve starts pouring it into the plastic bowls, handing them out one by one. The only sounds are the clinks of the spoon against the pot and the scrape of chairs on the floor.

Lucas hands me a bowl without looking at me. I take it, even though I’m not hungry.

We all sit around the table, hunched, exhausted. Max pokes at hers with her spoon. Steve eats like he’s trying to prove something, each bite fast and loud. Lucas eats slow, careful, like he’s waiting for someone else to speak first.

But no one does.

I force myself to take a few sips. It’s bland, watered down. I don’t care. I just want something warm in my stomach.

I stare at my soup and stir it with my spoon. Not because I’m hungry—just because it’s something to do. Something quiet. Something that fills the silence.

Steve’s the one who breaks it.

“I thought about it,” he says suddenly, voice low but clear. “Been thinking it over this whole time.”

He pauses, staring down at his bowl like it personally offended him. Then he lets out a sigh and adds, “We’ll go after El.”

I jerk my head up so fast I almost choke on the soup. I cough once, hard, wiping my mouth with my sleeve.

“You’re serious?” I manage to say, my voice cracking halfway through the sentence.

Lucas looks just as surprised. “Wait, for real?”

Steve nods, but he doesn’t look excited. If anything, he looks… older. Tired in a way I hadn’t noticed until now.

“I still think it might be a long shot,” he admits. “But if there's even a chance she’s out there... I can’t ignore that. Its what mike would have wanted.”

That’s what makes me stop questioning Steve.

He rarely brings up Mike. None of us do—not really. It hurts too much. But Steve? I think it wrecked him the most. He just doesn’t show it the way we do. So when he actually says Mike’s name... you know it’s serious. You know it’s deep.

The room goes quiet after that. Not just quiet—heavy. No one wants to be the first to speak after bringing up our best friend who’s gone.

Lucas finally breaks the silence. “Thanks, Steve. That means a lot.”

Steve nods but doesn’t let it end there. “I only have one condition.”

We both look at him.

“Before we go looking for her—before we do anything—we need a real plan. Not just ‘she said hi’ and suddenly we’re all running into danger again.”

I nod slowly, even though I can barely hear him over the noise in my own head. I’ve been trying not to think about Mike. Been doing pretty good, too. But now his name’s in the air, and with it comes everything I’ve tried to shove down—the memories, the last fight, the guilt.

It all comes rushing back like a flood.

I stare at my soup, pretending to be focused, pretending I’m fine. But all I want is to shut it off. To rewind to the moment before Steve said his name.

Before I had to remember how much of this is my fault.

Boom.

I fall straight off the toilet, smacking the floor hard on my ass. My elbow hits tile. My head clips the wall.

“What the—”

Panic rises fast. “No. No, no, no. This can’t keep happening.”

I sit there on the bathroom floor, fists clenched, breath shaky. My heart’s racing. I know what this is. Another blackout. Another goddamn gap. I slam the back of my head against the wall—not hard enough to do damage, but enough to feel something.

I blink a few times and glance down at my watch.

10:14 PM.

Two hours.

Two. Whole. Hours.

I was just with them—at the table. Then the bathroom. Then… nothing.

"Shit. SHIT."

I scramble to my feet, hands shaking as I grip the edge of the sink. My face looks pale in the mirror. There’s a small scrape on my forehead I don’t even remember getting. I turn on the faucet and splash cold water over my face, trying to pull myself together.

I need that medication. I need it tonight. I don’t care how—I’ll steal it if I have to. No one can know. Not Lucas, not Max, not Steve. Especially not Steve.

Knock knock.

I freeze.

Steve’s voice filters through the door. “Everything good in there, Henderson?”

My voice cracks a little. “Yeah—yeah, just dropped something.” I clear my throat. “All good.”

There’s a pause. Then: “Okay. Meet us back at the table. Think Lucas found the frequency—where she talked to us before.”

My stomach flips.

“El…”

“I’m coming!” I yell back at Steve, splashing one last handful of water on my face. It does almost nothing. My skin’s still clammy. My heartbeat still loud in my ears. But I don’t have time to fall apart again.

I grab my bag, shove it over my shoulder, and head up the basement stairs. Every step creaks like it’s screaming at me to stop, but I push through, teeth clenched.

The living room's darker now—only a few dim flashlights left on, their beams stretching long shadows across the walls. The red LED on the walkie blinks steady in the middle of the coffee table, like it knows something we don’t.

Outside, the storm’s still going. Thunder rumbles low, distant but constant—like the world’s got a pulse, and it’s dying slow.

Everyone’s already there, sitting in a circle like they’ve been waiting on me for hours instead of minutes. Lucas is hunched over the walkie, carefully twisting the dials like he's defusing a bomb.

“Any luck?” I ask, sliding into the empty spot on the carpet beside Max.

He shakes his head. “Some static, a few weird bursts, but nothing clear. Not like before.”

“She talked once,” Steve mutters, arms crossed, pacing behind the couch. “She can do it again.”

I nod, but it’s mostly to myself. I don't trust my voice right now. Still not sure I’m fully here. Still feel the ghost of that blackout clinging to me like wet clothes.

“What if it was a fluke?” Max says, voice low. “What if it was just some interference?”

Lucas shakes his head. “It wasn’t. I know her voice. We all do.”

Silence thickens.

I swallow hard, eyes on the walkie.

Lucas clears his throat. “We just need her to say something. Anything. Then we can trace it—try to figure out where she is.”

“Right,” Steve says. “But first, we need to keep her talking. If she says something again… we need a plan.”

He looks to me. “And I need you sharp, Dustin. No zoning out on me.”

That hits too close. Too hard. I nod once and pretend it didn’t.

“Let’s give it five more minutes,” Lucas says, adjusting the dial one more time.

We all lean in closer. The red LED keeps blinking. Waiting.

Like El’s out there, listening.

I move to the case of water on the floor, grab a bottle, and twist it open. I’m about to sit back down when—

Beep.

The walkie cracks to life.

“Shut up,” Steve says sharply, throwing a hand in front of Lucas like he’s swatting at a fly.

He snatches the walkie off the table and holds it close. “This is Steve Harrington. Is anyone there?”

Dead silence.

I can already hear the disappointment in his voice when he mutters, “Guess it was a waste of—”

Crackle.

Lucas jumps and grabs the walkie from Steve’s hand. “El? Is that you?”

There’s static for a beat—then:

“Lucas? Oh my god, I’m so happy right now—”

My heart stumbles in my chest.

We were right.

Steve yanks the walkie back, all business now. “El, listen. I need you to be really clear, okay? Where are you?”

The static thickens—then a response:

“…base. Outside of Hawkins.”

Steve swears under his breath. “Fuck.”

He tries to steady his voice. “El, are you safe?”

“No.”

That comes back almost immediately, and it hits like a gut punch.

“Can you help me?”

We all lean in, like we can will the signal to stay. But before anyone else can respond—

The walkie cuts out.

Just like that, it’s gone.

Steve lowers it slowly, like he's holding a bomb that just failed to go off.

He turns to me, expression tight. “There’s only one person who’d know how to get out of Hawkins.”

No. No way.

I already know who he’s going to say.

James

James Covington the only person who's knows how to escape Hawkins

Chapter Text

June 28th, 1986

I crawl out of bed and strap on my watch.
10:30 a.m.

Shit. I slept in.

I glance at the mirror and catch a glimpse of myself my—jet black hair sticking out in every direction, that smooth tan skin I know too well, the wide frame, and that damn little mustache I keep forgetting to shave. I’ve been meaning to get rid of it for a while now.

But Dustin said he liked it.. the dudes practically my best friend.

And I guess... I never really took it off after that.

I don't know Just thinking about him makes me feel sick. Angry. At him. At myself. How could I be so dumb? I screwed it all up. I made him leave me.

He probably never wants to see me again.

I’m not ready to go through this again.
Not yet.

I grab my towel and head for the front door, passing the soundproof panels I stole from that old radio station. I’ve only got three left to put up before I can even think about using power in the house. The second anyone knows I’ve got electricity, it’s over. Survivors will come crawling, and I’ll get raided. I can’t risk that.

I pick up my dad’s silenced handgun on the way out, stepping through the back door. I scan both directions—gun raised—then make my way to the shed.

It’s routine now. Paranoia’s routine.

I open the shed, eyes darting again, and pull out the bucket of rainwater I’ve been collecting. Every time it rains, I add to the system—makeshift gutters, filters, everything. It’s the only way I stay clean, stay alive.

I grip the bucket, turn to leave—
And freeze.

A Demobat circles above, low in the sky.

Shit.

I rush back inside before it can spot me. I’ve got a wire fence for the Demodogs and Gorgas, but those things? Those things don’t care.

I still haven’t figured out how to take one down. If anything, that’s probably how I’ll get caught—because killing them head-on? Yeah, no shot. Hive mind and all… at least, that’s the crap Dustin kept saying.

I pick up the bucket again and crack open the shed door, hoping the thing’s flown off by now. I step out, gun in one hand, heavy bucket of water in the other. Just in case, I glance both ways—twice.

Back inside, I lock the door behind me. Deadbolt everything. Can’t risk it. I carry the bucket through the house, water sloshing as I go. I set the gun down and finally use both hands.

I make it to the bathroom, grabbing the towel I set down earlier. Stripping off my clothes, I pick up the water bottle from my dresser and dump it into the bucket. When it’s full, I lift the bucket and pour it over myself.

My hair gets soaked almost instantly as the Watter drips down to the rest of my body

You’d think, since it’s summer, the water would be warm—but no. It’s ice cold. The whole house has been ice cold ever since my da left to go help people… or whatever the hell happened. I limit myself to two water bottles a day for showers. I grab the soap bar of the shelve

As I start washing my arms when—

Ding.

A bell. Ringing.

Shit. Shit.

Something just tripped the fence.

My heart plummets. Only two things it could be: a Demogorgon… or raiders.

I yank the towel around me and run—barefoot, dripping, heart pounding—straight for my dad’s gun. I grab it tight, cock it, and sprint to the front door.

I press my back against the wall next to the door, gun cocked and ready, heart pounding against my ribs.

Knock

Soft at first.

Then louder.

Then silence.

I don’t move.

Could be raiders. Could be a scout. Could be something worse.

Then—a soft click at the door.

My blood turns to ice.

They’re picking the lock. Shit

I raise the gun. Aim it dead center at the door, finger on the trigger. My breath is shallow, my arms tense. No one's ever made it past the gate before. If they get through this door—

The knob turns.

Slow.

Controlled.

The door creaks open an inch. Then two.

A figure steps into the doorway—tall, holding a spiked bat.

I don’t hesitate. I line up the shot.

Right between the eyes.

“One more step and I blow your goddamn head off!” I shout.

The figure freezes, both hands up. “Whoa, whoa!”

A second person rushes in behind him, curls bouncing, wide eyes locking with mine.

“Wait! Don’t shoot! It’s me—Dustin!”

Everything stops.

My vision narrows. My gun wavers.

No—No way.

That voice. That face.

“Dustin?” I choke out.

He steps into the light. His face is thinner, older—but it’s him. Really him. And Steve, standing just behind him, eyebrows raised, hands still in the air.

“I told you picking the lock was a bad idea,” Steve mutters.

“I thought you were dead.” Dustin says his voice is either angry or sad.

Can't tell which one.

I lower the gun slowly, like my limbs don’t know what to do.

I blink at them. Towel still wrapped tight, water dripping off me, my whole body frozen.

I can’t even find the words. I just… stare.

They’re real. They’re here.

And suddenly, I’m not alone anymore for the fist time in over a year

“Come in,” I mutter, not looking at Dustin’s face.

“That’s all you’re goanna say?” he blurts, voice sharp. Angry. “You try to shoot us, then just invite us into your house like nothing happened? What the hell, James?”

He steps inside and slams the door behind him.

I finally look up. And yeah—he’s different. Older.

His curls are more wild than ever, scars and scratches marking up his arms and face like a map of everything he’s survived. His voice is deeper now, too. The last time I saw him was almost a year ago, and since then, he’s shot up a few inches.

He’s wearing a brown leather coat over a plain white T-shirt, bookbag slung tight to his shoulder. With the scowl on his face and the way he stands in the doorway like he owns the air, he almost looks like a detective from one of those crime movies my dad used to watch.

Except this isn’t a movie.

And I have no idea what I’m supposed to say to him.

“Come in,” I mutter, avoiding Dustin’s eyes.

“That’s it?” he snaps. “You almost shot us and now you’re just—what—playing host?”

I clench my jaw. “You picked my damn lock. What was I supposed to think?”

“We thought you were dead, James.” His voice cracks slightly. “You disappeared for a year. No word. Nothing.”

I stare at him. “And now you show up yelling at me like it’s my fault?”

“It is your fault!” Dustin explodes. “You left! You ditched us like we didn’t matter!”

My hands ball into fists. “You think it was easy? You think I wanted to leave?”

The room goes still.

Steve shifts awkwardly behind him, silent but tense.

I shake my head, voice lower now. “You think you know what I’ve been through? What I’ve had to do just to stay alive?”

“Yeah?” Dustin huffs. “You think you’re the only one who’s lost people? You think you’re the only one who’s had it rough?”

I don’t answer.

He scoffs. “Whatever. This was a mistake.”

“Then go,” I snap. “Door’s still open.”

Then a tall dude with the crazy brown hair finally steps in who's I'm guessing is.

Steve talks “Okay. That’s enough! Both of you. Maybe try not screaming in a house with Barely any insulation with murder-bats flying around!?”

Neither of us says anything.

Steve I swea he’s the only person Dustin ever talked about

I rub my face, exhausted. “Couch is over there you know were to find it!”

I storm off to my bedroom, I dig through the drawer and pull out a faded gray T-shirt—black-and-white wave photo on the front—and toss it on. Jeans. Jacket. Deep breath.

I stand there, hands on my dresser, trying to wrap my head around it.

Dustin Henderson is in my living room. Right now.

I run a hand through my damp hair, still dripping from the half-assed shower. My heartbeat hasn’t slowed.

He’s really here. After all this time. After everything.

Part of me wants to go back out there and yell at him again—ask why now, why today, why he thinks he gets to just walk back in.
But the other part?
It just wants to sit down and listen to him talk like he used to. Like none of this ever happened.

I exhale, slow. Then head down the hall.

I stop just before the living room, lean against the wall, and listen.

“I shouldn’t have come,” Dustin mutters. “This was stupid. We should just go, Steve we should be with max and Lucas at base.”

Steve doesn’t answer right away. I can hear the way he exhales—tired, like he’s holding the whole world on his shoulders.

Then he says, “You both messed up, Dustin. You know that.”

There’s a beat of silence. Dustin doesn’t argue, which is rare.

“But we’re not here to unpack the past,” Steve continues. “We need help. Real help. And whether you want to admit it or not… we came here because we need James.”

Another pause.

“So, yeah—he was a jackass for doing shit. And you were a jackass for what you said . But right now?” His voice hardens. “We don’t have the luxury of pride. Not if we want to help her.”

That’s when I step into the room acting like I didn't t just hear there conversation

Dustin looks at me, jaw tight, but he doesn’t say anything. He just slumps down on the couch, staring at the floor like it’s the last safe place to look.

Steve gives me a small nod. No smile. Just a look that says we’re all tired, but we’re still here.

I sit down as I ask the only question that’s been in my mind since I saw Dustin and almost shot him.

“Why are you here? Why now? Out of all times to come?” I look at him. “I’m assuming it’s not just to pay a visit.”

Dustin can’t make eye contact. I catch him staring at the floor again, jaw clenched.

“You’re right, James,” Steve says. “We’re not here to pay a visit. As much as I wish we were… we came to ask for help.”

“That’s rich,” I say, sitting back in my chair.

Steve bites his lip, like he’s trying really hard not to say something back.

“You want my help?” I scoff. “After not talking to me for a year? After breaking into my home? After everything?”

“Okay, James, listen—” Steve cuts in, his voice sharper now. “This isn’t about you. This isn’t about your little feud with Dustin. This is bigger than that.”

His voice echoes through the room, loud and firm. Dustin shoots him a side-eye at the “little feud” comment but doesn’t argue.

I cross my arms. “Fine. Then what do you need my help with?”

Steve doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he glances at Dustin—long and hard—clearly expecting him to speak. Dustin shifts, uncomfortable. Still hasn’t said much since walking in.

“Dustin,” Steve says, voice lower now. “Tell him.”

Dustin finally looks at me. His voice is quiet, almost hesitant.

“You remember those stories I used to tell you? About the girl with superpowers—could move things with her mind?”

I snort. “Yeah. The ones you always made up.”

“They weren’t made up,” Dustin says. “She’s real.” He looks me dead in the eye now. “Her name is El. And she’s in trouble.”

I blink, thrown off for a second.

“Okay… but what does that have to do with me?” I ask.

“She’s trapped outside of Hawkins, James.” Dustin says it like it should mean something.

I let out a cold laugh, shaking my head. “This is ridiculous. You want me to help you escape Hawkins to go find your imaginary friend?”

“You vanish for a year, break into my house, nearly get yourselves shot, and now you’re standing in my living room, telling me there’s some “EL” out there who can magically fix the end of the world?”

Neither of them answers. Dustin’s still staring at the floor.

I laugh once—cold and sharp. “You sound insane.”

Steve doesn’t flinch. Just stares back at me with that tired look like he’s been through hell and doesn’t care what I think anymore.

“You really believe this girl is alive?” I ask.

“Yeah.” Steve doesn’t even hesitate.

What makes it worse is… I don’t even argue.

Because honestly?
I’ve got nothing better to do than sit here and wait for the government to nuke us.

I let out a sharp breath, then slump back in the chair.

I rub my jaw, heart pounding against everything I’m trying not to feel.

“You know how crazy this is, right? Like, actually insane.”

“We’re way past crazy, man,” Steve says. “It’s the end of the world.”

I pause. Everything’s too quiet. Too heavy.

I don’t want to say yes. I shouldn’t say yes.

But deep down? I know he’s right.

I push up from the couch and mutter,
“Goddammit.”

Steve blinks. “That a yes?”

“No,” I snap. “That’s a ‘you owe me for the rest of your fucking life.’”
I pause. Let out a long breath, heavy and tired.
“But yeah. I’m in.”

Dustin’s face lights up. I glance away, feeling my face flush—great.

“So… how many people are coming with us?” I ask, clearing my throat. “Or is it just you two?”

“Lucas and Max,” Dustin says quickly. “We’re not leaving them.”

“Yeah,” Steve adds. “They stay with us. No matter what.”

I smirk. “What, are they your kids or something?”

“Something like that,” Steve says with a shrug, ruffling Dustin’s hair.

I can’t help but notice how close the two of them are. It stings a little—but not in a bad way. More like… it reminds me of the good old days.

“We’re leaving tomorrow morning,” Steve says, getting serious again. “You should bring anything useful. Weapons, gear, food—whatever you’ve got. We’ll take you to our place first, get you inventoried before we move.”

“Right,” I nod.

Steve chuckles a little, then glances around. “Mind if I get Watter?”

“Yeah, sure,” I say, gesturing down the hall. “ Kitchen There should be a pack.”

The second Steve disappears down the hall, Dustin speaks—quiet but sharp, like a blade sliding between ribs.

“Just because you’re coming with us doesn’t mean what you did is okay.”

I freeze.

“You left them to die, James.”
His voice shakes—anger, hurt, something deeper.
“You didn’t help. And now they’re dead because of you.”

He looks me dead in the eyes. No fear. No hesitation.

“I’m never going to forgive you for that. Don’t think just because we need your help, everything’s fine. It’s not It never will”

Steve walks back in, drying his hands on his jeans. He glances between us, immediately sensing the tension.

“Everything good?”

Dustin doesn’t even look up. Just stares at the floor, jaw clenched, dead silent.

I don’t say a word either.

Steve sighs, clearly picking up on what just went down. But he doesn’t push it.

“Okay…” He pauses, then straightens. “Let’s go, guys.”

Chapter Text

June 29th 1986

"James, get down!" Steve hisses.

We're halfway up the hill toward our base when we see it.

A Demo-dog.

God, I hate those things. They remind me too much of Dart—and how that whole nightmare ended. This one’s alone, digging through a tipped-over trash bin near the edge of the woods. But it’s way too close to the safehouse.

"Dustin," Steve whispers, crouching lower, "we need to get its attention. It can’t know there are people in that house. We’ll lure it away before—"

Crunch.

The Demo-dog freezes, its head jerking up. It sniffs the air once, twice—and bolts.

"Shit—RUN!" Steve yells.

We sprint through the trees, my heartbeat pounding as if trying to escape my chest. The thing is fast—too fast. I hear it crashing through the underbrush behind us, gaining ground.

I barely have time to shout before my foot catches on a thick tree root.

Wham.

I go down hard, face-first into the wet mud. Rain from last night makes it thick and cold—it fills my mouth and nose. I cough, gasping, and push myself up just in time to see the Demo-dog lunging straight at me.

Claws out. Jaws wide. Inches from my face.

Then—

Out of nowhere, Steve tackles it.

He slams into the Demo-dog with everything he has, knocking it sideways into the dirt. Before it can recover, he drives my knife straight into its head—once, twice, three times. Black blood sprays across his arms and face, splattering the leaves around them.

The thing lets out one last choking growl before collapsing with a sickening thud.

I sit up, chest heaving, still trembling from how close I came to being dog food.

"Holy shit," I breathe.

Steve stumbles back, clutching his arm. That’s when I see it.

A bite. A bad one.

Not torn open—but deep. Red blood is already soaking through his sleeve, mixing with black Demogorgon gunk.

"You okay?" I ask, heart still racing.

Steve doesn’t respond right away. He’s breathing hard, eyes locked on the monster’s corpse.

Then Steve finally says, shaky, "Shit, Dustin... we don’t have time for this. The Mind Flayer knows where we are now!"

He buries his face in his hand for a second, breathing hard as he winces from the pain.

"Shit," James mutters under his breath, pale as a ghost.

Steve takes a deep breath and stands up, completely ignoring the blood soaking through his ripped shirt.

"We need to warn the others. We could have Demogorgons here in ten minutes. Bats in five!"

James grabs his two heavy backpacks, eyes wide. He looks like he’s going to puke but says nothing—just follows.

We run uphill toward the house, feet slamming the wet ground. About halfway there, I notice Steve start to slow. The adrenaline’s wearing off—fast. He stumbles, gripping his arm, breathing in short, ragged bursts.

"Come on, man. Just hold it together a little longer," I say.

I slam my hand into the keypad and punch in the code.

1-1-6-8-3.

The door clicks open.

"Lucas! Max! Grab everything we need!" I yell, bursting into the base.

"Dustin?! What the hell happened—we thought you were dead!" Max shouts, eyes wide.

"No time. I’ll explain later. We’ve got five minutes before demo-bats rip us to shreds."

I turn to Lucas.

"Tents, food, flashlights—anything we can carry. Steve’s hurt bad."

Lucas nods, already moving. Max runs to the shelves, tossing supplies into her duffel. James jogs past me without a word, heading for the food cabinets.

"James, you’re with me," I say firmly, giving him a quick side-eye. He doesn’t argue—just nods and starts loading a bag with canned goods.

The house erupts into motion. Everyone’s running, grabbing what they can. Boots thud against the floor. Zippers zip. Flashlights flicker. The storm outside rattles the windows.

This isn’t a drill.

We’re running for our lives.

Steve finally gets inside the house, still clutching his arm as he begins grabbing supplies. I toss him the car keys.

“Get the car. Pull it around back—we need to load fast.”

Max drops a duffel bag labeled FOOD + WATER on the back porch without a word. She’s moving quick, too. Steve disappears out the back door to uncover the car from camo.

“James! Help Steve load!” I yell. He’s already halfway out the door, arms full.

I rush to the kitchen and yank open the medicine cabinet. Bottles scatter. My eyes land on one—Carbamazepine. Fresh from the nurse’s office.

I glance over my shoulder—no one’s looking. I pocket it.

I clear the rest of the cabinet and load it into a bag.

“Shit,” I mutter, sprinting to the basement.

I nearly slam into Lucas at the bottom of the stairs. “Grabbed your bag, Dustin!” I yank it from Lucas without wasting time. I sprint back up, dragging the first-aid kit and all the medicine to the back door, tossing it onto the growing pile.

Then I bolt upstairs. Steve kept all our weapons in his room. I dump out his knife drawer into a duffel, throw in the guns, then open a cabinet—

A Playboy magazine stares back at me.

“Jesus Christ,” I mutter. “Not the time.”

I slam it shut.

Footsteps pound up the stairs—Max.

“You got the weapons?”

“Yeah,” I say, stuffing more ammo in.

She dives into Steve’s closet and yanks out his shotgun.

“I’ll load it.”

Then she’s gone.

We’re almost out.

I throw the last of the knives into the bag, zip it up, and sling it over my shoulder. My chest pounds, adrenaline flooding my system. No time to think—just move.

I thunder down the stairs, boots slamming each step like war drums. I sprint toward the back door with the weapons bag swinging against my side.

At first, I think we’ve made it. Nothing’s there.

Then—

Clang. Clang. Clang.

The bell.

The tripwire alarm we rigged with old bike chains and cans. It’s going off.

“Fuck,” I mutter.

Max bursts from the kitchen behind me, shotgun still in hand. She gasps.

We both sprint for the door. No second thoughts.

I shove it open just as the sound intensifies.

Then we hear the roar. Not one. Multiple.

We dive into the car. Max yanks the camo tarp off the roof and slides in through the window like she’s done this a hundred times. I slam the door shut and throw myself into the back seat, the weapons bag hitting the floor with a heavy thud.

Steve’s already behind the wheel. He doesn’t hesitate.

He peels out, mud and gravel spraying behind us.

I look back.

And my heart nearly stops.

The monsters are everywhere.

Demo-bats—dozens of them—circling above like vultures. Wings slicing through the air with shrieks so horrible they make your ears ring.

Two dozen Demo-dogs—massive, fast, ripping through the walls of our safehouse.

Wood splinters. A window explodes outward. One of them dives inside headfirst.

“Jesus Christ…” Max breathes.

I can’t stop watching. That was our base. Our food. Our maps. Everything.

Now?

Just a chew toy for monsters.

I see demo bats breaking the glass.

Steve grips the steering wheel tighter, jaw clenched so hard I can hear his teeth grind.

“Hey Max,” Steve says, his voice low but urgent, “I need you to put pressure on my arm. Now.”

Steve grips the wheel tighter with one hand, stretching the other across the center console. His shirt’s soaked with blood—deep, dark red, nearly black in places. The smell hits hard. Metallic. Raw.

Max doesn’t hesitate. She rolls up his sleeve, eyes wide but steady.

“What the hell happened?”

“Got in a fight with a Demo-dog,” Steve mutters, teeth gritted. “Killed it. But not before it got a bite in.”

“You sure you can drive like that?” Lucas asks from the back, concern sharp in his voice.

“Shut up, Lucas, you’re not helping,” Max snaps, already grabbing the first-aid kit, wrapping bandages around Steve’s arm.

Steve winces as the bandage tightens over the puncture.

“We should be good,” he says through clenched teeth. “Took the back roads. No way they can track us this far out.”

I glance behind us. Trees blur past, but I can still see our base in the distance—what’s left of it. Black shapes swirl through the air—demo bats. And the guttural screeches echoing through the forest? That’s a Demogorgon.

No saving that place.

“Did we grab everything?” Max asks, voice tense.

“Yeah,” Steve mutters. “I hope so. There’s nothing left to go back for anyway.”

The car dips as we hit a bump, and I feel my stomach turn. It’s not just the rough road. It’s the weight of everything.

Then James finally speaks, quiet but sharp.

“Hope you guys are right. About that girl. El. If she’s actually alive…”

He trails off, then shakes his head.

“Because if not—y’all just gave up our only shelter for nothing. I’d say we’ve got maybe a month of supplies, tops.”

The car falls silent. Even the engine seems to hum louder in the quiet.

“Way to relieve the stress,” Steve says dryly.

I let out a small, humorless laugh. I’m still pissed James is even with us, but it’s too late to argue now. We’re all in this mess together, whether we like it or not.

Max finishes wrapping Steve’s arm and ties it off with a quick knot.

“That should hold for now,” she says softly. “But if it gets infected...” Max sighs.

Steve nods. “Noted.”

The car rattles through the woods, the sky outside pitch black, like it’s closing in on us.

And all I can think about is that walkie. El’s voice. Real or not—we’re betting everything on it. If it’s a lie, like Steve initially thought, then we wasted everything for nothing.

And there’s no going back now.

I lean my head against the window, letting the cold glass ground me. But it doesn’t help. Because the second I shift, I feel it in my jacket pocket—the pill bottle.

Shit.

I mutter it under my breath.

It’s still there. Still a secret. Still a reminder that I’m barely holding it together while everyone else tries to survive.

“Where to first?” Steve asks suddenly, trying to sound normal.

James looks like I just pulled him out of his thoughts.

“What?”

Max glances over, keeping one hand steady on the wheel.

“He said, where to first.”

James hesitates, then sighs, pulling a folded map from his bag. It’s old, creased, marked with red circles and scribbles.

Lucas leans in beside him, curious.

“From here,” James says, pointing, “we need to go north. Eventually to the old power station road—its least guarded section compared to the rest of the place.”

I squint and spot it, but what really catches my eye is the giant red circle around Hawkins Lab.

Big letters scrawled across it:
DON’T GO. HELL ZONE.

My stomach tightens.

“And these spots,” Max asks, pointing to a few other labeled areas, “what are those? Flayed?”

“Yeah,” James grimly replies. “Too many of them in those zones. Either Flayed, or worse. We avoid them.”

“We’ll have to move at night, then,” Steve mutters. “Less risk of being spotted.”

James shakes his head immediately.

“No. That’s worse.”

We all look at him.

“That’s when they hunt,” James says. “The Demodogs. The Demogorgons. The bats. All of them. They’re more active at night. It’s when they feed.”

“Seriously?” Max says, her voice lower now.

“They don’t like daylight,” James explains. “But that doesn’t mean it’s safe during the day either. If we drive too much, we’ll attract attention—scouts, patrols, maybe even the government. Especially near Hawkins.”

“So we’re screwed either way,” I say.

James shrugs.

“Pretty much. We move short distances at dawn and dusk. Hide during the day. Stay quiet at night. That’s the only way anyone’s made it out of Hawkins since the collapse.”

Steve exhales, leaning his head back.

“Great. A month-long walk through hell.”

Lucas lets out a dry laugh.

“Well, at least we’re not bored.”

I shift again, my hand brushing the bottle in my pocket.

We’re not just walking through hell.

We’re walking straight into it.

BAM.

Everything’s black. Pitch black.

The only reason I can see anything is the fire—the one blazing in the center of our camp. Flames crackle, casting warped shadows over everyone’s faces. I stumble and fall off the log I was sitting on, hitting the dirt hard.

“Fuck. No, no, no—”

I clutch my chest, breathing heavy. My heart’s pounding a million miles an hour, hands shaking like I’m freezing—but I’m not. I know exactly what just happened.

Another blackout.

Not long, I don’t think. Just a minute, maybe two. But I blanked. Again. In front of everyone.

Last thing I remember, I was in the car and they were looking at the map.

“Dustin, you good?” Steve’s voice cuts through the noise in my head. I blink up and realize I’m the center of attention. Of course I am. We’re all sitting in a circle. Steve’s already up, rushing over, concern written all over his face. Max leans forward. James and Lucas are watching too.

Steve offers me a hand. “Henderson, are you okay?”

I swallow hard and nod, grabbing his hand and letting him pull me up. “Y-Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine,” I lie. “Just lost my balance.”

I glance back at the log. Like that’s going to convince anyone.

They don’t say anything, but they don’t need to.

I can feel it—they know that was bullshit.

Or at least, Steve and Max are suspicious. Lucas looks uncertain, like he wants to believe me but isn’t sure anymore.

James?

James doesn’t look away. Not once.

He just stares at me. Quiet. Focused. Like he’s reading a book he’s read before and already knows how it ends.

And I can’t meet his eyes.

Because he knows.

He knows what this is. Why it’s happening. Hell, he probably knew it was getting worse before I even admitted it to myself.

I lived with him for nearly a year after Mike died. When I was at my lowest. When I ran away from Steve, Max, and Lucas. When I needed someone and didn’t have the guts to face the people I left behind.

He was there when I had my first real blackout.

And now? Now he’s watching me fall apart again.

I shift uncomfortably, brushing dirt off my pants and sitting back down slowly. No one speaks. The fire crackles louder than ever.

James doesn’t break the silence.

He just keeps looking at me, like he’s waiting for me to say what he already knows.

Like he’s wondering how long I can keep lying to the people who still care.

“I’m going to go,” I say, trying to break the silence.

No one says anything.

I grab my water bottle, standing a little too fast, trying to look like I have a reason—like I’m just going for a walk or something. Anything to get away from the fire. From the stares.

Steve’s voice follows behind me.

“Dustin, you know—”

He stops.

Lets out a tired sigh.

“Never mind.”

That one sigh says more than a lecture ever could. I nod, but I don’t look back. I just keep walking, down the slope of the hill, until the firelight fades behind me and I’m swallowed by the dark.

I don’t even know where we are. Some open field, probably. Just more dead grass, wind, and stars that don’t shine as bright anymore.

Once I’m sure I’m out of sight, I drop into a crouch behind a bush and sit down.

I unzip my pocket slowly. My hands are shaking.

The pill bottle’s still there.

I pull it out and stare at the label like it’s going to give me answers. Carbamazepine. 200mg. Twice a day.

The white plastic reflects the moonlight. It feels heavier than it should.

My thumb hovers over the cap.

The label crinkles a little in my grip. My name’s on it. My diagnosis. Like this bottle is the only thing in the world that understands what’s going on in my brain.

Like it’s my last shot at not falling apart in front of them again.

I unscrew the lid and shake one into my palm. It sits there—like a secret I can’t afford for anyone to know.

And I hate that I need it.

I squint at the fine print on the label, reading it under the shaky beam of my flashlight.

“Initial therapeutic effects may take up to 7–10 days.”

A week?

I don’t have that kind of time.

I can’t afford another blackout. Another slip. Another moment where I wake up somewhere else with no memory of how I got there. Not when monsters are hunting us. Not when people are counting on me.

Two a day, the bottle says.

I stare at it.

Screw that.

I pour out three more pills into my hand. Four total. My fingers twitch as I stare down at them, daring me to go through with it.

Maybe it’ll work faster this way. Maybe I’ll finally feel okay again.

I pop all four into my mouth and take a sip of water, swallowing hard. The taste is bitter. It sticks to the back of my throat.

I tilt my head back, letting the last drop of water slide down.

The bottle feels lighter in my hand now.

I tuck it back in my pocket, zip it closed, and wipe my mouth with the back of my sleeve.

The wind feels colder than before. Or maybe that’s just me.

No going back now.

I walk back up the hill. No one says a word. They all stare at me like they’re walking on eggshells—one wrong move, and everything might blow up. I sit down on the log. The only sound is the fire crackling quietly.

After a long silence, James finally breaks it.

“How are we supposed to move all our stuff? We can’t just drive everywhere.”

“I didn’t even think about that,” Lucas says before I can speak.

Then suddenly, a blood-curdling scream echoes from the woods, followed by rapid gunshots.

“Shit!” Steve snaps, quickly putting out the fire.

We all freeze as something comes running toward us.

Steve immediately places a hand on Max’s shoulder, steadying her, while James pulls out his gun, aiming toward the dark opening of the trees.

Then, a figure bursts through the underbrush—an older teen carrying a body, both drenched in blood. You can’t even tell the color of his face under the grime and gore.

“Help us! Please, help us!” he screams, collapsing to the ground