Apocalypse, Steve Harrington

Chapter Forty-Two. Died in His Arms

FORTY-TWO
— died in his arms

SHE REMEMBERED THE feeling of wet turf beneath her sneakers. It had been pouring rain, and the field flooded. It was a god awful day— she forgot her cleats at home, and now, her Converse were pressed to the soggy turf. Water seeped through the thin material of her high-tops, dripped over her socks, and made the bottoms of her feet prune. The earth beneath her squelched with each step— her hair was dripping wet, she had slipped twice, and her knees ached. But all she heard was the squelching noise that gathered at the sole of her shoes. It was sickening.

Now, she heard it again, but differently. The same high-tops pressed to the foul ground of the Upside Down, her scuffed sneakers clanking against the tangled mass of vines. The stomach-churning squelching sounded from below— with every step, the wet, soggy floor consumed her ears. She tried to distract herself. Lucy looked up, and peered through the foggy red goggles; all that hung in her vision were particles. It was like dust, small pieces of the Upside Down clouding her vision, and threatening to push past the guard of the bandana wrapped around her face.

    It was all grey. The hollow hole that was the entrance to the Upside Down, beneath the rotted pumpkin patch, was disgustingly grey. The claustrophobia was almost overbearing— the sticky, slimy walls felt like they were going to close in. She swallowed thickly, glanced at the ground, and heard a quick crunch from beneath the tattered soles of her red sneakers; with a shutter, Lucy fluttered her eyes closed.

    "Ugh, gross," she over-pronounced each syllable.

    She could smell it. It was rotten, it was thick, and it was nauseating. The thin material from the worn-out bandana that had been pulled over her nose wasn't helping. The putrid sent of the tunnels creeped up her nostrils, down her throat, and straight into her empty stomach.

His voice split her thoughts. "Pick up the pace, would you? Any of you dipshits die down here, and I'm getting the blame." Promptly, Steve snatched the map from her hands, "You too, Hop. Put some speed on it, people!"

She scowled. Quick on her feet, Lucy pried the map from his gloved hands. "Yeah, I've already been down here, Stevie-boy." She widened her eyes, and he could see through the goggles, "Leave the map work up to me."

    He squinted. "I don't trust your sense of direction." With a swift movement, he plucked the map from between her fingers, and shifted his body forward.

    She rolled her eyes. Lucy adjusted the bandana, her pointer-finger and thumb pulling at the red fabric. Her chest expanded with a sigh, "Y'know, Harrington, if I would've known you'd be a prick down here," she started. "I would've left you at the Byers house."

    His eyes flickered to her. His lips tugged up into the smallest smile, and he was grateful the bandana covered his lower-face. "Yeah, well, even though Hargrove almost killed me, back there," he spoke. "I think we make a pretty good team, Hop."

She looked at him. Through a mess of frizzy brown hair, foggy goggles, and the illumination of Steve's flashlight, they locked eyes. A laugh untangled from her throat, and her lips grazed the bandana. "You're so corny, Steve."

Her shoulder brushed against his upper-arm. Steve let out a scoff-like laugh. "I know."

Dustin blinked. "Jesus, could you two confess love to each other at any other time?" he scoffed. "I mean, a year of back-and-forth, I can't take it anymore!"