— CHAPTER 20 —
THE SIEGE

( trigger warning: graphic gore/injury detail, violence... and sadness )

SUNDAY 4th NOVEMBER,
1984

"WE'RE TOO LATE! WE'RE TOO LATE!" Mike's screams are bouncing off the walls just as he does, completely charged up by the blaring alarms and lights. Cath watches the boy sprint back into the room, dishevelled and breathless with wild eyes. Her father and the other adults stand around shell-shocked — she can already feel Thomas edging protectively closer to her, his hand on her shoulder.

     "What's going on?" asks a flustered Joyce.

     "We're under attack," Mike gulps and gasps through heavy breaths.

     "What about Jim, and– and that doctor?" Thomas stammers, completely flabbergasted by the whole situation.

     Cath shares the same worry too; but with a maturity too far beyond her years, having seen so much already, she simply replies, "We can only hope they're okay."

     Still, it doesn't stop her eyes from popping wide open when Mike grabs a syringe from the table. "We need to make Will sleep," he declares decisively, shaking it about like it's a wand.

     "What?!" Joyce exclaims.

     "Mike, just think for a second—" Cath begins saying, but is cut off.

     "There's no time to think!" he fires back at her in frustration. "He's a spy. If he knows where we are, so does the Shadow Monster."

     "He's lying!" Will suddenly snaps. It makes Cath jump — his voice more gnarled and sharp around the edges than usual. The stark reminder that it is not him, not at all.

     "He killed those soldiers, and he'll kill us too!"

     "HE'S LYING! HE'S LYING!"

He is possessed by some unexplainable fury, eyes wild with darkness as he writhes and shakes in his squeaking bed. Bob and Thomas have to hold him by his shoulders to stop him practically catapulting out. Frozen at his bedside, Cath only finds herself watching in horror; a sudden peppering of loud cracks from the hallway splits the air and startles them all. Thomas, eyes wide, looks up and says shakily, "What the hell was that?"

"Those... those were gunshots!" Bob exclaims, terrified.

A guttural scream echoes down the hallway. Cath knows that sound. Suddenly she is back in the empty school hallways, being hunted down by the Bad Men and the demogorgon — whichever got them first.

Will still shrieking like a banshee, Joyce turns back to her son and desperately hollers, "Will, Will! Listen, listen... do you know who I am?"

A beat passes. His brows knit together. The mother shakes his shoulders furiously.

"Do you know who I am?" Joyce asks again, frantically searching for

He swallows thickly, a heavy breath escaping afterwards.

"You're... you're Mom."

Joyce's face hardens, a flicker of pain flashing across her features for a moment before it numbs. He had to think about it. Cath almost knows what is coming next, but it still twists her gut sickeningly. "Hold him down," Joyce tells the other two adults. Bob and Thomas sadly restrain the boy, the latter murmuring an apology before the screaming starts like never before. It sounds like torture — like an animal being put down. Her head spinning in a panic, she turns away and grips the shoulder of Mike, whose hands are clamped over his ears. She doesn't blame him. Anything to have one image less haunting her.

When the air goes cold with one less blaring noise, Cath finally opens her eyes and turns around again. Will is completely unconscious in the bed, the three adults standing gravely around him. "You okay?" Thomas asks the two kids, but particularly his daughter. They nod, but aren't so convinced of the answer themselves.

The door bursts open, Hopper and Dr. Owens exploding into the room. They take one look at Will, at the syringe in Joyce's hand, and quickly connect the dots. But suddenly behind them, the double doors splinter and peel beneath the weight of demodogs dashing against them, trying to break in. No time for questions. "We gotta go, we gotta go!" shouts Hopper. Making it look effortless, he lugs the boy's limp body over his shoulder like a rag doll, and the group start following him down the corridor.

The alarms are even louder there, splitting Cath's eardrums. Everywhere is swarming with armed security guards and white lab coats taking flight back and forth. Every time it's the same — a flashing explosion of gunfire, the shriek of a creature, and the abrupt attack. At the beginning, her father holds her hand so tight she thinks it might break. Is it for her, or for him? But when the hallways get too crammed he lets her go, insisting he'll be behind her the whole time.

You'd better be, Cath thinks, whirling around to check on her father every other second.

Ahead of them a scientist is suddenly pounced on by a demodog, pinned down as its claws dig into her flesh. All of them skid to a halt, the 'EXIT' sign glowing in scarlet above them proving to be false. There is no exit. Not now. Owens ushers them through another route, weaving through the labyrinth in a frenzied manner. The lights blink furiously, giving Cath flashes of the floors more and more streaked with blood.

     Finally they flood into a surveillance room and lock themselves in. Catching his breath, Mike reaches out and touches Cath's arm. "You okay?" he asks.

     "Yeah," she pants, "are you?"

     "Think so..."

     Fitted with wall-to-wall computers, the carnage plays out from multiple different floors on the bloated screens. Every single image shows a demodog prowling the lab; often among the bodies of scientists and guards now lying still. It's impossible to ignore. The ceiling lights flicker and then suddenly, with a hiss of static, the images black out and the room plummets into darkness.

"Power's out," Owens says quietly.

Oh, perfect, Cath thinks, her head falling into her hands. She is quick enough to do the math:

No power, no escape.

Will is carefully laid down on one of the tables, Joyce perched by him. Cath sits at his side too and holds his hand — only hoping that somehow he can feel her. Recognise her. In the darkness, Dr. Owens rummages around and finds a map of the lab, drawing on it with a pencil from his coat pocket while guided by Hopper's flashlight above. The pencil haphazardly searches for any way out of this hell that has been created for them.

"Look, this is us, and this is the nearest exit," Owens points with his pencil, while Cath peers from a distance dutifully. She is thankful for any way out at this point. "But even if we somehow make it there, there's no way out."

Spoke too soon, she thinks in despair.

"Please tell me you're kidding..." Thomas says slowly.

"The locks are fail secure."

A million questions start hitting the scientist from all directions then.

"Fail secure?"

"If there's a power outage, the building goes on lockdown."

"Can it be unlocked remotely?"

"With a computer, sure, but somebody's gotta reset the breakers."

"Where are the breakers?" The question comes from Hopper.

Dr. Owens nods sporadically. "Breakers are in the basement, three floors down."

Without another word, Hopper starts heading for the door, his face hardened like iron. Everyone's eyes follow him in bewilderment. "Hey, where are you going?" Bob asks.

"To reset the breakers," replies Hopper gravely, as though he has already accepted his sacrifice.

"Okay, then what?"

"Then we get out of here."

"It's not that easy, Jim," Thomas chimes in, looking forlorn.

Bob shakes his head, agreeing with his point while blocking the Chief of Police's way. "No, then the power comes back on. If you wanna unlock the doors, you have to reboot the computer system, and then override the security codes with a manual input."

Cath blinks, slightly perplexed by what she doesn't understand, but relieved that it seems like someone knows what they are doing.

     "Fine, how do I do that?" Hopper sighs.

     "You can't," says Bob. "Not unless you know BASIC."

     The Chief blinks at him. "I don't know what that means."

     "It's a computer programming language," Mike clarifies from the back of the group, hands tucked firmly into his hoodie pockets. Of course he would know that, Cath thinks gratefully.

     "Teach it to me."

     Bob scoffs incredulously, glancing to Thomas for a moment as if to say, Can you believe this guy? "Shall I teach you French while I'm at it, Jim? How about a little German? How about you, Doc? You speak BASIC?"

     "No," Dr. Owens sighs in admission.

     In the contemplative silence that follows, it becomes clear who the hero of the day is going to be — Bob Newby. The only one with the brains for getting them out, he could be their only hope. Cath notices that it seems to strike two people the most. First, Joyce, who reaches out for his hand and murmurs her worries to him... and then there is her own father. Thomas stands there suddenly pale, his eyes following his friend cautiously, like he might be endangered at any moment.

     "It's gonna be okay," Bob is saying to Joyce, feigning bravery... although he truly is courageous. "Remember: Bob Newby, superhero."

     Thomas stares at the ground, then at Cath. There is something strange in the look he gives her — she wonders if he is weighing something up in his mind. Either way, it's starting to scare her. But it's nothing like the shock she gets at the next words that come out of his mouth:

     "Hold on, Bob. I'm coming with you."

     It's like someone gives her an electric shock.

     "Wh– are you sure?" Joyce asks, startled at another volunteer going forward.

     Stepping up to the responsibility, Thomas straightens out his back and exhales slightly shakily. "Back in school, Bob dragged me into his computing interests all the time. Now, I can't say I know BASIC or anything, but I do know a thing or two about fixing power outages. Comes up a lot in my line of work. An extra pair of hands on deck couldn't do much harm, right?"

     "Dad, wait—" Cath blurts out. She thinks she might be sick. It's all happening so fast.

     Thomas whirls around to look at her, seeming like he's trying to keep it together. She is already on her feet rushing towards him, grabbing his sleeves as his hands grip her by the shoulders.

     "You can't go," she chokes out. "Have you seen it out there? It's– it's dangerous, you're not gonna—"

     "Cath, look at me," he says hastily. "Just stay here with the others. Joyce will look after you. I'll be back soon, okay?"

     "But—"

     "We have to do this. It's the only way out."

     But I can't lose you.

     The words die on her lips, but she wants to scream them at the top of her lungs. In one split second of a moment, however scattered her thoughts might be, Cath suddenly finds herself tossing aside all her recent worries about her mother — because she might now lose the father who is still here. The one who helps her make breakfast every day; the one jwho let her sleep in his room when she was little; the one who drove around town all night just to find her.

     She has seen enough to know how this goes. It's a battlefield out there, and Cath is almost convinced he won't be coming back.

     "I'll see you on the other side," Thomas says in a rush, since Hopper and Bob are heading out. "I love you."

     And just like that, he sweeps away and out of the door. Cath leaps up and runs after him, even though it feels like her knees might buckle in. "NO DAD, PLEASE, IT'S NOT SAFE! DAD—"

     She sucks in a sharp, panicked breath that strangles her throat. A pair of gentle arms wrap themselves around her; Joyce is holding her, cradling her, shushing her gently. "I'm sorry, sweetie, I'm sorry..." she hums, sounding just as terrified. Cath's knuckles whiten around the woman's arms and she lets herself be nestled into the motherly embrace. All she can do for now is swallow her fear and repeat the same prayer over and over:

Please come back. Please come back. Please come back.

━━━━━━

     THOMAS can't believe he is doing this.

     More importantly, he can't believe he is here at all, when only twenty four hours ago he was leaving work. Now, he feels his life has been irreversibly flipped, and there is no turning back. When Bob stepped forward to get the power back on, Thomas had felt the pit of his stomach turn into a black hole. There was dread, of letting his best friend go down unsupervised while those... things were loose. And perhaps there was a little guilt, too — for having only just discovered all his two daughters.

     Whether it was for Bob, or for Cath and Daphne, was soon irrelevant. Thomas knew he had to step forward as an extra pair of hands. Perhaps it had even been for himself.

Even as he heard Cath screaming after him — each one like bullets to his heart — he wanted to do it for her. He will just have to come back. And... if he doesn't?

He hasn't thought about that yet.

     ... Still, as he crouches in the dark stairwell with Bob and Hopper, sweating through his collared shirt and jumper (he removed the coat long ago), Thomas has to wonder whether he made the right choice. His eyes uncomfortably watch the handgun that the gruff policeman unpacks and puts together.

"Alright, you know how to use one of these?" Hopper asks them.

     "No— Christ, Jim, don't wave that thing around," Thomas guards himself anxiously. He's never liked guns. He knows many people tend to keep ones of their own, in their garages or even drawers, but he couldn't think of anything more unnerving. For his father, they had been reminders of the war, so Thomas grew up in a house knowing of their potential as dangerous, explosive things.

     But that was in a war within humanity. This is a war against creatures unbeknownst to man.

     "Safety on. Safety off. Point. Squeeze."

     "Point and squeeze. Okay," Bob wipes some sweat from his brow. "Easy-peasy. Right, Thomas?"

     "Easy for you to say, you're not the one holding it..." Thomas mumbles.

     "Are you sure you're okay with it?" Hopper doesn't stray from the point.

     Swallowing thickly, he gives a curt nod and extends his hand out. "Yeah, yeah, I'm fine," he says. "Just give it." Thomas receives the gun from Hopper, already feeling goosebumps burst on his skin as he feels the cool metal. For his own sanity, he puts the safety setting on until they get going.

     "Hey, if anything happens down there, I want you to come right back up," Hopper instructs them grimly.

     Looking between each other for a moment, Thomas and Bob nod in agreement. Jim Hopper has never been one to express the most profound of emotions — not just as another product of their generation, but Thomas is faintly aware of the gritty past that he's never quite known how to discuss with him. From getting drafted in Vietnam to losing a young daughter, the man should certainly know a thing or two about loss. So the quiet warning he gives them is restrained, and yet holds the weight of everything with the look in his eyes; alert, like a hunter.

     "Listen," Bob says modestly, "don't wait for us. As soon as we get those doors open..."

     "I'm gonna get them out," Hopper cuts him off simply.

     "Yeah?"

     "I promise."

     Bob nods slowly, as if this is enough confirmation for him. But Thomas just needs to say one more thing — he leans forwards to Hopper a little and says, "Jim... make sure Cath's okay? And– and if you see Daphne after this, and for some reason I haven't—"

     "You tell her yourself," Hopper interjects with the fiercest of looks; fierce with grief.

     Thomas sighs. "Thank you."

     "Good luck down there."

     "Yeah..." Bob trails off, shifting into focus as he grabs his walkie. "I guess we'll be in touch."

     Hopper nods. And with that, he leaves. Thomas looks to his friend for consolation, Bob getting to his feet with a little bit of strained effort. The emergency lights swarm above them. "Oh boy," he scoffs. "When I said we should get together more often, I didn't mean like this."

The remark is so unexpected that Thomas nearly laughs — although tainted by anxiety over what lies ahead. "Better late than never, right?"

"Right."

"... Alright, let's get moving."

"Me first, or you?"

"You go first. I've got you covered."

"Thanks."

Bob starts to carefully ascend the stairwell, Thomas following closely behind him with the loaded gun. He has now turned the safety off — anticipating a demodog at any minute, he keeps looking around and listening for any potential attackers. Meanwhile the stairwell seems so infinite and winding that it sends his mind spinning, having to grip onto the rail for balance. Finally they reach the bottom floor, standing for a few moments in front of the heavy door. A beat passes. The two look at each other, then nod. Thomas slowly pushes open the door, gun held out first in case of demodogs prowling. He finds none immediately, but instead is met with leftover carnage in the dark — bodies strewn, smears of blood on the linoleum tiles, shards of glass littered everywhere. It's the same story on every floor of the lab.

"Holy shit," he whispers, the metallic smell of blood catching at the back of his throat.

"Let's get to the basement as soon as possible," Bob says uneasily. "This place is giving me the heebie jeebies."

"Roger that," Thomas gulps.

The pair slowly creep past what feels like a crime scene, dreading that another creature might pounce on them from any dark corner. Thomas is pretty sure he holds his breath until they finally lock themselves in with the breakers and the computer — their faint outlines can be seen through the dark. While Bob sits down next to the computer, Thomas goes to the breakers and shines his flashlight on the system. With a few levers pulled and buttons riddled with, the power hums in functionality, overhead fluorescent lights turning on one by one.

"Good job," Bob smiles nervously.

"Thanks..." Finding his walkie, Thomas sends the message back upstairs: "Power's back on. Can you hear me, Doc?"

"Loud and clear," Dr. Owens replies in a crackle. "Can you hear me back?"

"I sure can."

From the other end, there is a crackle as sighs of relief ripple through the surveillance room. "Is everyone okay up there?"

"We're fine. Your daughter is fine. How's it down there?"

"Bob's just getting to work," Thomas says, glancing over as the computer comes alive with endless streams of code in emerald green against the black screen. Still, his friend hesitates for a moment, wiping his sweaty hands on his scrubs. "Everything okay?"

"Yeah, yeah, I– I just... really hope I can do this."

"Of course you can," he encourages him. "You're Bob the Brain for a reason. And remember, extra pair of hands on deck if you need 'em."

"Thanks, Thomas," Bob sighs. Swivelling around in the chair, the man flexes his fingers to psych himself up before getting to work. He works at the computer with laser-focused precision, the clatter of keyboards like a cacophony in the room. When he finally cracks the code, he whispers a hopeful: "Open Sesame..."

     With the click of a button, Bob perks up at the results on-screen and declares, "It's open!"

     "He did it, it's open..." Thomas smiles into the walkie, flooded with relief as he hears celebration on the other end of the line. He even puts down the device for a moment and goes to hug Bob — the two friends squeeze each other tightly, happy to still be alive. There is light at the end of the tunnel. "Told you," Thomas reminds him as they break away, "Bob the Brain."

     "Yeah, I know," Bob chuckles, still buzzing with adrenaline. "Hey, I should probably turn my walkie on, too. I forgot before... Doc, can you hear me?"

     "Sure can. It's good to hear you, Bob. Well done."

     "Thanks... phew!"

     Thomas squeezes his shoulder, his hands trembling slightly. The walkie talkie goes quiet for a minute. Suddenly fearing something happening to them, he speaks into it again: "Doc, are you still there?"

     "Yes. We've got some company."

     "... Company?" Thomas stares at Bob, both their eyes wide.

     "The west stairwell's not clear anymore."

A pregnant silence bloats between the three of them on the line.

"Thomas, how confident you feeling with that gun? And be honest."

"Uh..." he runs a hand over his face. "You know, I was semi-decent at those shooting carnival games, but... I don't know..."

"Alright, both of you just stay where you are, okay? Just let me figure this out..."

"I have an idea..." Bob says, perking up suddenly. The man bounds back to the computer with a heroic excitement. Thomas, who is pretty sure if his blood gets any hotter it will be molten, joins him and hovers in confusion over his shoulder. Bob is clicking through options on the computer, accessing the fire alarm system, then the sprinkler, then the east corridor. "Okay... splash," he says, and switches on the sprinklers.

The two of them wait. A beat passes, and they listen.

"Do you think that did anything?" Thomas asks sheepishly.

"Okay. Okay, that worked. Now get out of there."

Pumping with adrenaline and pride, Bob heads for the door, only halted by his friend. "Hold on," says Thomas quietly. "I'll go first..." The contour of the gun in his hand feels more clear-cut than ever, his finger hovering by the trigger as they move out into the corridor. He has no idea if he is ready to fight, or whether there is any fight in him. He hopes he doesn't have to find out.

After a few moments, their walkie crackles again: "Hey, guys?" Dr. Owens says.

"Yeah?" Bob says into his walkie, Thomas eavesdropping and hovering by the speaker.

"I'm gonna guide you, okay?"

"Is there a problem?" Thomas asks with concern. "Is... is everyone okay?"

"Yeah, they'll be fine, it's just... uh, it's getting a little crowded up here, so we're gonna have to take this slow."

"O-okay," Bob stammers, swallowing thickly. The closing feeling of dread envelops them.

"Alright, just start walking."

The pair obey him, Thomas taking the lead along the dimly lit corridor, Bob trailing right behind him. His heart hammers furiously against his ribcage while his blood roars in his ears. His palms are slick with sweat, so he grips the gun even tighter out of fear it'll slip.

"Okay, good," Owens says calmly, "Okay, now your next right."

They swivel right, relying solely on his directions. Bob's breaths turn shallow and fearful.

"Now, keep going, keep going, keep going, keep going– stop!"

Thomas halts suddenly, his friend nearly bumping into him. His heartbeat is lodged in his throat as he waits for an answer from the walkie. "What? What's going on?" Bob asks the doctor in a hushed, frantic whisper.

     A pause.

     Then, a carefully calculated response.

     "Guys, there's a door on your left, do you see it?"

     Their heads pivot slowly, all the way to a grey door set against the blank wall, the body of a scientist slumped nearby.

     "Yeah?" says Bob, into the walkie.

     "Yeah, I need you to get in it."

     "Roger that," Thomas says hastily, keen not to waste a single second.

     Bob, however, is a little more hesitant as he stumbles over his words. "What? Like, now?"

     "Now! Right now, get in the closet!"

     "Bob, come on," his friend encourages him.

     Huffing uneasily, Bob squeezes into the closet with him, their breaths ragged with anxiety as they shut the door behind them. The small room envelops them in darkness — the tight space vexes Bob in particular, who Thomas remembers having a decent dose of claustrophobia since childhood. That, and clowns. He hated clowns.

     "You alright?" he whispers.

     "Yeah... I'm good..."

     Thomas inhales a deep breath, putting a reassuring hand on Bob's back. It stays there when a shadow creeps to the door, complete with a gnarling, low growl. It's right outside. Can it get through? The pair hold their breaths as the demodog lingers, claws visible just underneath the door. They wait, and wait, and wait... until finally it disappears. But neither of them are eager to be the first one out. Not until Dr. Owens gives the word.

     "Okay... how you two holding up there, you alright?" Owens finally asks in the walkie, excruciatingly loud after the tense silence.

     "We're good, Doc, we're good," Thomas sighs, looking to Bob as he nods nervously.

     "You got a pretty clear shot to the front door."

     "Okay..." whispers Bob, paralysed for a moment.

     "You can do this, okay? You're almost home free, alright, Bob?"

     Swallowing thickly, Thomas looks at the glistening sheen of sweat outlining his friend's face. "Bob look at me... look at me," he whispers. "We're almost there. Okay? The others will be there, Joyce and Will, and we can all get out of here. Okay? Just stay focused. I'll be right there... I'll go first. You know, to check."

     Slowly the door squeaks open, making him wince at the sound. Thomas puts one foot out, then the other, followed by the gun in his hand. He peers around the side of the door — right at the other end of the corridor, far from their reach, is a demodog prowling with its back to them. After the brief way his heart palpitates at the sight, Thomas breathes deeply. You're almost there. You can make it. Nodding to Bob that it's clear, he walks out a few steps forward and waits for his friend to follow. Another few steps forward, so far so good...

     Then comes the noise.

     The tiniest of noises, really, but earth-shattering to them — the mop that Bob knocks on his way out. Time seems to stretch out and slow down as the handle hits the floor. Ahead of them, the demodog freezes... turns slowly, assesses its prey standing right there, like deer in headlights.

     There is only one thing left to do.

     "RUN!" Dr. Owens hollers from the walkie.

     And they waste no time in doing so. Thomas runs like he is sure he's never run in his life, although he knows his years catch up to his speed. Lactic acidosis burns his insides but are overwhelmed by the soaring adrenaline through him. Bob on his tail, too closely followed by the demodog, they bounce off the walls of corridors desperately. Double doors swing open with haste as the demodog gains on them. Finally at another set of doors, Thomas fiddles with the handle and flings it open, revealing the welcome space of the abandoned lobby. He and Bob scrambles to barricade them afterwards, and the demodog is sealed behind the doors from them.

     "Bob..." Joyce in her scrubs scurries into the lobby, features flooding with relief at the sight of him.

     Thomas rushes past her, jogging to the glass windows and doors to get a glimpse of the rest of the group. Outside are Mike and Cath, while Hopper holds a limp Will over his shoulder still. And — yes, she's seen him. The familiar blue eyes burst in rejoice at the sight of her father, her lips forming the words "Dad!" through a misty-eyed smile. He nods back, still unable to land back down from the adrenaline high, but comforted by the sight of his daughter, safe and sound.

     He turns back to Bob, ready to go.

     Then it happens so fast.

     The doors burst like a dam breaking free. A demodog shoots out like a river and pounces on Bob, pinning him to the ground. Thomas swears he got stabbed in the gut. He can't do anything. He's frozen. The ghost of a scream, forming his friend's name, dies on his lips. Suddenly he is eight years old again — collecting sticks in the woods, the sun glistening in dappled spots on the ground. Ahead of him, a young Bob Newby bounds with lively joy in his wellington boots and assembles the sticks into a den.

     It flashes by as quickly as it came.

     And then, all too soon, he is forty — and the creature is plunging its claw into his friend. Bob cries out, in chorus with the devastated scream that rips through Joyce's throat.

     Thomas snaps out of his paralysis. He burns through fear, anger, grief all at once and aims his gun at the attacker. Aim. Point. Squeeze. A flash of a flying bullet shoots its force through his arms, making a hole in the wall next to Bob. Immediately he tries again, and again, and again. Bullet after bullet after bullet. Anything to get that thing off him. The demodog recoils under a few hits, but is barely fazed by the small bullets from the handgun. It still digs its claws mercilessly into Bob's sides. The trigger now clicks emptily, having been emptied of rounds.

     "HOPPER!" Thomas cries out.

     But he's already on his way. Hopper skids in with a much larger gun, pelting stronger gunfire at the demodog with laser-focused precision. The demodog buckles underneath it this time, falling away from Bob's body. Then a swarm of other demodogs burst through instantaneously, outnumbering them. Hopper tries taking them on, shoulders shaking from the gunshots, before he realises it is futile.

     "We gotta go, we gotta go!" Hopper barks.

      Joyce reaches out for Bob, now covered in demodogs attacking him one by one, but Hopper wraps his arms tightly around her as she screams and struggles. With a free hand, the Chief of Police grabs Thomas and drags him out of the lab too — a man who crumbles, having nothing left to give to the fight. "He's gone, he's gone..." Hopper is trying to emphasise to an inconsolable Joyce. The words hit Thomas like concrete:

     He's gone.

     But there is no time to think, feel, grieve.

     "What happened?!" Mike calls out in a strangled cry, he and Cath sharing the weight of Will's body.

     "Where's Bob?" Cath cries.

     The sharp blare of a car horn startles Thomas. Whirling around, he sees two cars skid to a halt by the driveway, Jonathan Byers in the passenger seat of the first. "GET IN!" he shouts. A pack of demodogs now thump themselves against the glass doors and windows, doing everything they can to escape. Hopper, Joyce and Will flood into the first car — packed with a bunch of other familiar faces — while Thomas, Cath and Mike pile into the second, smaller car. He pays little attention to whoever is in the seat as they slam down on the ignition and speed off after the car in front.

     "Dad?" says the girl in the passenger seat, who finally turns around after they are on the main road.

     In the aftermath, Thomas realises Daphne is sitting in the passenger seat, while Steve Harrington shoots a look behind at the wheel. He doesn't even care to ask now.

     "What happened? How did you– wait, why are you—?" Daphne's face asks a million questions.

     Cath seems to shake her head to her sister in his periphery, while Mike bows his head sadly. Sick with sadness, all Thomas can do is remember that boy again. The one who tied dishcloths around his shoulders and pretended he was Superman. The one who helped him when he lost Martha, his other best friend. The one who made the ultimate sacrifice in the end — Bob Newby, Superhero.

     "He's gone..." is all Thomas can get out.

━━━━━━

A/N;

well... that was awful to write 😭 bob's death remains one of (if not THE) saddest death on the show to me. even after season 4, which is saying something. i was dreading this chapter for that very reason, especially because of thomas having to watch it as well. this moment is probably going to be a character-defining one for him, which you'll see in the aftermath in the next chapter.

but some funky news is that the group are all together now! it was a rushed reunion, of course, but i'll try and fill in the gaps best as i can next chapter (which reminds me, that one will probably hit you in the feels too). and actually now i'm looking at my plans... we only have 8 chapters left?? HUH?? no idea how we got there that fast, but i'm excited/emotional over it. there might be a little pause in updates for a while (or maybe not hehe - haven't decided) because i really want to finish one of my other fics, which only has 5 chapters left and has been ongoing for 2 or 3 years now. so you can imagine my eagerness to finish that! but afterwards, this is my next priority, so just sit tight for the time being.

thank you for reading as always... hope you aren't too heartbroken after that?? r.i.p bob newby 😔

— Imogen

[ Published: November 14th, 2022 ]