Apocalypse, Steve Harrington

Chapter Thirty-Four. Bob Newby, Superhero

THIRTY-FOUR
— bob newby, superhero

FACT: ADRENALINE RUSHES are real, and Lucy was living proof. The last time it happened, not to this extreme, she was a freshmen. The only freshmen on the Lady Tigers soccer team, and apparently, the only one with her heart in the game. Her hair was tied up in a braid, and she had the most painful shin splints. She had cleat marks on her calf, curtesy to Gabby Woodrow. They were a goal away from winning, and she didn't want to loose. Lucy mustered up all her strength, and adrenaline. Point is, she used that to score a nasty goal on the St. Mary's goalkeeper, and to knock Gabby Woodrow to the turf. Adrenaline did a lot for her. She relied on it often— this was one of those time.

If it weren't for an adrenaline rush, Lucy wouldn't have marched into Hawkins Lab. She would've let her shoulders fall, crossed her arms over her chest, and resumed to being an anxious mess. She would've paced around, murmuring small worries for her father, and Mike, and Will, and Joyce. She would've been safe. There was no turning back. Lucy was halfway up the staircase. If she turned around, she'd be pathetic in the eyes of her peers (her peers being a group of middle schoolers, her twin brother, and Steve). She was stuck.

The most uncomfortable part, though, was the emptiness. The lab was like a void. Dark, eerily silent, and never ending. Glass crunched beneath her high tops as she turned the corner, a shaky breath pushing past her lips. She'd be lying if she said she wasn't anxious. Lucy wanted to melt into the floor, and cease to exist. She wanted this problem to disappear. But, that wasn't possible. So, instead, she balled her hand into a fist and knocked on the wooden door ahead of her.

An ear-splitting alarm sounded, and she tensed. "It's Lucy!" she pounded on the. "Let me in, it's creepy as shit out here!"

The heavy door flung open. Mike's brow twitched, and his chest fell. "You're back," he whispered. "You came back."

Her gaze softened. "Of course," Lucy muttered. She stepped into the room, the door shutting behind her. When her eyes fell on the commotion ahead, Lucy's face dropped. "Mike, what's happening?"

    "He's lying! He's lying!" Will screamed. He thrashed violently, whipping his body around.

    Joyce shook her head. "Will, Will, listen," she asked, pinning him to the bed. "Do you know who I am?"

A gut-wrenching silence hung in the air. Will's eyes darted around, and his mouth hung open. After a moment, he spoke, "You're— you're mom!" he hesitated.

Joyce knitted her brows together. She looked away— it was enough for her to know her son was gone. "Hold him down," she spoke.

    It was horrible. Will continued to thrash, his voice was raw from screaming. Joyce injected her son, a pained look drawn over her exhausted features when he cried out in pain. Mike began to panic— he screwed his eyes shut. Lucy rested a hand on his shoulder, and the other on the back of his head. She pulled him into her embrace. "Don't look, Mike," her voice quivered. "Don't look."

    The door flung open. Hopper and Doctor Owens entered, each a mess. A shrieking noise sounded behind them, and it was followed by gunshots. Acting fast, they rounded the group, exited the room, and went somewhere safer— slightly. They had entered a video room.

Lucy's face fell. The air was pushed from her lungs, "Holy shit," she muttered, eyes glued to the TV's. The Demodogs lunged at soldiers. They bared their blood covered teeth at them, snarling and clawing at the innocents. She was compelled, filled with horror. Then, nothing. They heard the power go off, slowly— then, total darkness.