bury me anywhere (but hawkins, indiana) | harringrove

chapter six: hot tub nightmare machine

JUNE 30TH, 1985

STEVE | NOW

As the minutes slide by without anything bursting out of the treeline to ambush them, Steve's finding it harder and harder to keep running. The adrenaline's fading, pointing out every ache and pain; he hadn't even realized that his head was killing him, but now that he has, it's almost blinding. Not that he has time for that- not that they're anywhere near stopping.

He glances back at Billy, still standing at the edge of the light, his back to Steve. He can see the tension vibrating off him from here- but sometimes a guy just needs a second, horror show or not. Hopefully a really, really fast second. But, there's a point when pushing Billy just makes everything twice as slow, and Steve's pretty sure they're right at the tipping point on that one.

With one last look, Steve slumps into the driver's seat to wait for him, and takes a second just to breathe. Scrubbing his hands hard over his face, he runs over a few spots that make him wince. Flipping down the visor to take a look, he probes at the most tender spots, hissing softly through his teeth as he finds a decent one, just behind his hairline. His fingers come away a watery red; he wipes it off on his damp shirt with a grimace. It wasn't his face, so that's nice for once, right?

Motion in the mirror behind him catches Steve's eye, making him jump- but it's just Billy (god he hopes just Billy), closing the still unlatched trunk with a firm snap. Good - it's been bouncing up with every pothole, blocking the rearview. The minor renewed rush of adrenaline is good, too, even if Steve isn't sure his heart can take any more surprises this evening.

He sucks in a breath and slaps the visor shut. He's not going to pretend he knows how this all works, or that he has a plan so far past get it out, but.

The car shifts under Billy's weight as he finally gets in. Steve adjusts his grip on the wheel, fully expecting a battery of questions he isn't sure how to answer without sounding nuts.

But instead, Billy just sits, the car door still hanging open and the warm rain billowing in in patches. And when he does open his mouth, it's not even about whatever magical string Steve's going to pull to fix this nightmare.

"You're limping," Billy says. There's no rise in tone but it's kind of a question, anyway.

"What?" Steve blinks at him for a second.

"I... yeah," Steve agrees, with half a stuttered laugh.

"And you're missing a shoe."

Steve glances down at his feet, almost forgotten in the rush. His left crew sock is soaked, squishing in a particularly muddy, gross way against the floor mat. Steve surreptitiously tries to scrape some of it off with the side of his right shoe. The left, of course, is still somewhere in the basement of an abandoned warehouse, the very last left shoe in that style in his size in all of Hawkins, which Steve knew because he had looked for that stupid primary blue because it was cool and also, yeah, maybe it matched the work getup, but also they were cool, okay? And only three weeks old, tops.

And now, some outside-in nightmare glop is probably sitting on it. Did those spidery things even count as legs? Did it have feet? No. Steve has feet, and one of them is fucking frozen, thanks-

"...Yep," he says instead of any of that, knocking the steering wheel to get his brain back on track. It's a little hard to focus, which probably isn't a great sign, but who the hell had time for that? Not him. He exhales once, a hard little huff of air, and looks sidelong at Billy.