Apocalypse, Steve Harrington

Chapter Fourty-One. Keep Us Safe

FORTY-ONE
— keep us safe

         ORIGINALLY, SHE THOUGHT herself to be a decently responsible person— she had been a babysitter for years. Clean the boo-boos, make the kid a PB&J, walk the dog, sweep the floors, entertain the middle schoolers. She knew what to do under pressure. She always had a solution. That persona Lucy held up— the problem-solving, some-what responsible persona— had diminished. She was panicked. Her hands were shaking, her vision was clouded with tears, and she had a knot in her stomach the size of Canada. If she thought for two long, there was a chance she'd puke. The last forty-eight hours, she thought, had permanently changed the chemistry of her brain. She was frazzled.

    "Would you hurry up!"

She had raided the drawers for medical supplies. Lucy ran around the house like a mad-man, her hands pulling open any closet or container in sight. She peeled through first-aid kits, removed gauze, found a box of Hello-Kitty bandaids, and stashed medical tape in her pockets. Now, she sat on the floor, besides Steve. Her knees were pressed to the wood, legs folded beneath her body. The paper-towel in her right hand was drenched with crimson blood. Her fingers smelled like metal. And, with all of that, Steve's face was still a bloodied mess.

It seemed as if she had a non-stop worry. Her stomach ached. Her chest was tight. She stared down at Steve, and her eyes burned with tears. She could hear the kids bustling outside— she worried for them, too.

He shouted again. "Lucy, please," Dustin called. "We need to go!"

    "Piss off, Henderson!" she shouted. Lucy chucked the medical supplies in the car— she paused, and purposefully aimed for his head. With a heaving chest, Lucy turned to the house. She pushed wisps of hair from her eyes, and exhaled, "How the fuck are we gonna get him into the car?"

    Mike's eyes widened. "Get him in the car?" he spat. "We can't take him!"

    Lucy blinked. "How 'bout I leave you there, Michael?" she raised a brow. "Lock you in the house, so Billy can wake up and say, 'hey, I'll fight the Wheeler kid!' My money is on him."

    He stayed silent.

    She re-entered the home, grumbling amongst Max's urgent shouts. Lucy moved to her knees, hands on his face— she shook him. "Come on, wake up." Silence. She could've cried, right there, sitting on the floor of the Byers house.

She lifted herself up. Lucy moved to the doorway, where Mike and Dustin started bickering from the car. Their shouting ignited the pounding in Lucy's head— she inhaled, and pressed a firm hand to her eyes. "Shut the fuck up!" she yelled. "Listen, as much as you shits are getting on my nerves, I'm the one who's gonna keep you safe!" she gestured to herself, a hand on her chest.

    The crickets, the wind-chimes, and the car engine was all they heard.

She marched back in the house, took Steve by the legs, and began dragging him towards the porch.

Mike blinked. "I don't think—"

"So help me god— you are testing me, Wheeler!" she silenced him. "Uh, uh, sh! I'm in charge, and I am this close," she held her pointer-finger and thumb together. "...to loosing my patience."