Apocalypse, Steve Harrington

Chapter Fifty-Five. Patrick Swayze and First Time Wins

FIFTY-FIVE
— patrick swayze and first time wins

THEY'VE BEEN WALKING FOR an hour. The bottoms of her feet hurt.

The repetitive, blank pattern of the grey, tunnel-like walls gave her a headache. She was anxious, and, though she wouldn't admit it, slightly bored— the ache in her chest was a mixture of both. It was a familiar feeling, one she would get when she was younger. . . in the children's hospital waiting room, sat in the backseat of her grandparents beat-up Volvo, at a nonsense school assembly. It was fiddling with her fingers, chewing at her bottom lip, and staring blankly at the nearest surface. That, or playing I-Spy with her brother— I-Spy something green, I-Spy a cow, whatever it was. Now, there was nothing to spy, but the blinding, blue fluorescent-lights rimming the walls.

"I mean, you have to admit, with the feat of engineering alone. . . this is impressive."

Dustin's voice brings her to life. She's sandwiched between Steve and Erica, her elbow accidentally brushing against the younger-girls shoulder every few seconds. The laces of her sneakers click, obnoxiously, and she can suddenly feel her hair brush against the back of her neck. Her chest puffs with a sigh, and she moves to wrap her arms around herself— it's annoyingly cold, underground.

      She can feel Steve's shoulder bounce with scoff, "What are you talking about? It's a total fire hazard," his brow narrows, "there's no stairs, no exists. . . just an elevator that drops you halfway to hell."

      "They're Commies," Erica speaks up, "you don't pay people, they cut corners."

      Robin hums, "to be fair to our Russian comrades, I don't think this tunnel is designed for walking," she says, "I mean, think about it, it's the perfect system for transporting cargo."

      Less anxious, now, more bored. Her thumb-nail moves to pick at her cuticle, and she feels like she's in a fishbowl, for a few seconds. Dustin and Robin's voices blur, and she's looking ahead, and she's fighting the yawn that tempts her dry-lips. She wishes, suddenly, she was curled in bed. The duvet-cover pulled up to her chin, her knees pressed to her chest, the soothing whir of a mechanical-fan lulling her into a deep, comfortable sleep. . . Steve would probably be there, too. But, instead, she's there. She's there, and she's walking shoulder-to-shoulder with, possibly, the most unlikely lump of people.

      Steve comments, "you think they built this whole mall, just so they could transport that green poison?"

The curly-haired boy scoffs, "I very seriously doubt it's something as boring as poison,"— at this, she almost laughs— he continues, "it's gotta be something more valuable. . . like promethium, or something."

Steve is quick with his words, "what the hell is promethium?"

"It's what Victor Stones dad used to make the Cyborgs bionic and cybernetic components," Robin cuts in. Lucy's nose crinkles, in thought, and she tries to remember if her brother ever had those comics around— probably not.

Her voice is raspy, "you're all so nerdy, it makes me physically ill," Erica shudders.

"No, no, no. No, don't lump me in with them. I'm not a nerd, alright?" Steve's defensive, his brown-eyes wide. He pauses, just for a beat, before continuing, "and, neither is Lucy."

      Dustin lets out a laugh, and it'a almost shockingly loud, "You know her a lot less than you think, Steve," he says, "she used to play D&D with us for hours on end, you know that?"