Time After Time (a Stranger Things fanfiction)

In the Air Tonight

"In the Air Tonight"

Well, I was there and I saw what you did

I saw it with my own two eyes

So you can wipe off that grin, I know where you've been

It's all been a pack of lies.

- Phil Collins

When Hopper tossed her the car keys and ran off, Joyce hurried off into the crowd, searching for Murray. He ought to stick out like a sore thumb in the midst of all these colorfully dressed fairgoers. She worried a little bit about what Hopper was going to do, but he had gotten them this far—she would trust that he could come out on top of whoever was after them now. Never mind that the Russian guy had kicked his ass in the lab. Then Hopper hadn't been prepared; now he was. Or so Joyce told herself.

She ran through the maze of games and food and rides, frantically hunting for the wild unkempt black hair and the ratty white undershirt—and was startled into a muffled shriek when hands reached out from behind her and grabbed her shoulders. Turning, she saw it was Murray. He held her by the shoulders, looking into her eyes, until she was able to get her breathing back under control.

"Alexi?" Joyce asked.

"This way." There was a deep sadness in Murray's face, the most genuine emotion she had seen in him yet, that told her what she would find, but she didn't believe it. She didn't want to believe it.

In a quiet out-of-the-way space between two wagons, Alexi was sitting, propped up against the side of one, slumped over. Not moving.

Joyce leaned over him anyway, taking him by the shoulders, calling his name. But there was no response. Her eyes were drawn to the stain of blood on the front of his shirt. Too much blood. No one could have survived that, not without immediate medical attention. "Oh, my God," she whispered. This strange Russian man with whom she had not even been able to speak had become dear to her in the short amount of time they'd known each other. She had felt protective of him, as though he was one of her sons. As though she stood in for the mother he must have, somewhere in Russia, who didn't know, might never know, what had happened to her son in an unimportant little dot on the map in the middle of Indiana.

Behind her, Murray said slowly, painfully, "I ... I just left for a minute. For a corn dog. A stupid corn dog!"

She couldn't think. She could only stare at the wound, at the horribly still body in front of her that was a person an hour ago, and hold her hand over her mouth hoping she wouldn't do him the final indignity of throwing up on him. "God," she said again, because there was nothing else to say.

They crouched there over the body of their dead friend, grieving, until someone striking a gong nearby reminded Joyce that Hopper was out there fighting for them, and they had to get to the car and be ready to get away quickly.

Gently she reached out and touched Alexi's curly hair for a good-bye, then she got to her feet. "Come on," she said to Murray. "Let's get out of here and get these guys, once and for all."

With a long look at Alexi's bowed head, Murray followed her.

It was a relief to leave the carnival, with its bright lights and garish noises, behind and get into the relative darkness and quiet of the parking lot. They didn't want to attract attention to themselves by running, or even walking too fast—who knew how many Russians were out there, hunting them—but they hurried as best they could anyway.

So Joyce almost didn't notice the man standing beside the fancy white convertible parked just outside the gates. She had passed him before it struck her—it was Larry Kline, the mayor. What was he doing alone out here? She would have expected him to be basking in the glory of his precious fair.

And then she knew—it flashed across her mind like fireworks. The Russians were here because of him. He must have seen her and Hopper and called his Russian friends. Alexi was dead because of that smarmy little small-town politician.

Rage filled her, and before she could stop and think about what she was doing she wheeled around, ignoring Murray as he stopped and asked her what she was doing.

"Hey! Larry," she called.

He turned, faking a smile. "Joyce."

And she punched him. Straight in the nose that Hopper had already hit, pleased to see him double over with pain. She hauled him back up by the shoulders and added a knee straight to the groin. Larry squeaked in surprise and pain, unable to form words. Good. Maybe he would never talk again, Joyce thought, turning away from him and marching grimly toward the car. He had already said far too much.

Murray followed her without asking any unnecessary questions, and they got into the car, driving around the back, arriving just in time to pick up Hopper. He climbed into the back seat even as Joyce screeched to a halt.

"Hit it. Hit it, go! Go!" he screamed, and Joyce slammed her foot on the gas pedal. When Hopper had his breath back, he asked, "Alexi?"

Joyce shook her head, and Murray turned to look at him, his face saying everything for him.

Hopper closed his eyes, ducking his head for a moment. "Damn," he whispered. Clearly 'Smirnoff' had gotten to him, too. A red Slurpee was never going to be the same to Joyce again.

In the back seat, a voice started speaking in Russian. Hopper picked up a walkie-talkie he had gotten from somewhere, holding it in front of Murray. "Hey. Translate."

Murray listened for a moment, then spoke words that put a chill in Joyce's heart: "The kids are in the mall. The Russians are after them."

Joyce didn't need Hopper's repeated "Hit it" to put the pedal to the metal. These Russians had taken enough from them today. They were not going to touch those kids.