Chapter Text
In Derry the dead don’t die, and no one ever really stays gone.
Silence is death and silence keeps Its children close.
Run fast lest they catch you, hide well lest they find you.
Tell your friends you love them, or forever hold your peace.
The pipes in most Derry houses are old, installed before 1957 with a shelf life of 40 years and a tendency to spring corrosion leaks. So when Derry experiences the coldest winter of almost three decades, it’s no wonder that one by one, as the frozen water expands they begin to crack and bust leaks harder than a diet coke bottle bloated and bubbling over with a roll of mentos. That’s how it all starts, that’s how the bad water gets into the drinking supply.
The Uris Household, Friday December 18, 8pm
Stan sits in the straight-backed dining chair and watches his mother handle the silver pitcher filled with unfiltered tap water. The sight of it pulls at his body with inexplicable dread. Like some I'll-fated premonition he has no hope of understanding until it is far too late.
She pours herself a glass then tops up Donnie’s empty cup. He has a fresh bourbon in hand that he’s been sipping neat. He rethinks it two mouthfuls in and gets up to retrieve an impressive ice ball from the freezer. He brings a new bottle of red wine in for Andrea and pours his wife a glass the same way she poured his water, kissing her on the cheek when he is done.
Stan is drinking milk. His water glass remains untouched. Nothing awful happens all evening, despite the nagging under his skin and Stan chalks it up to his broken brain. Back in his room, Stan answers a phone call from Richie, who chatters endlessly about his plans for winter vacation, all the time he’ll spend at the Aladdin arcade perfecting his game, as well as such and such comedian he's been obsessed with. Stan falls into a relaxed state, soothed by the comfort of Richie’s sonorous voice, and then fully drops off to sleep without even brushing his teeth.
He jolts upright to animal screams and runs downstairs to find his mother and father tearing each other apart in a frenzy of teeth and nails. Sludge drips from their snarling mouths in a pattern of black vomit. They freeze, then snap hollow faces up to fix on him as Stan’s frantic gasp draws their attention.
He has an instant where he sees sick black veins scaling through the milky whites of their eyes, and knows in his heart and brain that without a doubt what once made them his parents is no longer there.
Stan bolts up the stairs, heart hammering, mind reeling. His parents screech and give chase but Stan is slight and athletic, outpacing their necrotic flesh, and locking his bedroom door behind him.
He forces himself to slip on jeans and a polo shirt, socks and shoes without barely looking at what he's grabbing, without taking the pause he usually needs, and it makes his scalp prick with obsessive discomfort that he packs away to deal with at a later date. Next he dives for the landline on his bedside table.
He dials Richie, voice rising and rising in octave when it goes to voicemail. He tries Beverly and Bill too but gets no answer. Stan’s heart is beating like a sparrow’s in his chest. His parents-those things that are-that used to be his parents, are pounding at the door behind him and he can see cracks in the wood where the force of the impact has splintered it. Stan props the window and tumbles out onto the eaves of his house. He drops the distance to the ground in a graceful feline manner and makes a beeline for the temple.
In hindsight it could've been a disastrous decision. It could have been infested with worshippers turned monster, but for once Stan’s luck holds out. The temple is empty. Stan flies up the steps to his father’s office and bolts the door behind him. No sooner does he reach the safety of the second landing than the blood and adrenaline dissipates from his body, the reality of the situation sets in, and Stan promptly collapses on the floor in a dead faint.
The Tozier Household, Saturday December 19, 9:30am
Richie is shocked awake by neighborhood screams. He scrambles rapidly out of bed and immediately trips on the massive pile of strewn magazines, walkie-talkies, childish action figures and vinyls that litter his floor. He throws on whatever is nearest regardless of if it's clean or not. Socks, jeans, and a printed T-shirt with an obscene logo. Then he searches for his glasses.
“Remember son! They’re always in the last place you look!” Richie admonishes himself using Wentworth Tozier’s voice. He finds them tucked inside his shoes, because of course that makes sense. Richie puts his glasses on and laces up his kicks.
His parents are out of town, so Richie need not worry about attracting their ire this early on a weekend. He zips down the stairs and flings open the front door, skidding out onto the porch. Richie whips his head around from side to side looking for the source of the screaming.
What he sees and what makes him immediately dive down on his belly to hide behind his mother’s rose hedges and the balustrade of the porch alike, is the shiny blue body of a 1978 Pontiac Firebird Trans Am, belonging to one Belch Huggins.
The beautiful car rips past Richie’s house with timing that barely misses him. It races down the street with electrifying speed matched only by the jagging electric guitar blaring from the speakers, and from its open sunroof carries, like malignant tumors, some of Derry’s most rotten meat bags.
Patrick’s black hair flies behind him in a curtain of dark grease and Victor Criss’ bleached fringe is blown up up off his forehead like the mohawk of a death punk bassist. Belch is driving the car, while Henry hangs out the passenger side with his long knife clutched at the pommel in a fighting grip, stabbing and slashing wildly at pedestrians, laughing like a madman.
Richie screams a muffled horrified thing into his palms as he sees Vic swing his steel baseball bat, skull-bludgeoning neighboring children and parents indiscriminately.
The horror mellows, albeit only a little, when some of the victims get up from mortally wounding blows and continue shambling after the carnage wake of the car. Richie realizes that they are already dead.
He watches, speechless for once, as the shambling bodies of his neighbors -some of them classmates he vaguely knew- are decapitated, lacerated, and obliterated; either by being clipped by the Firebird or sliced up with Henry's knife. Victor continues swinging his bat at skulls, happily aided by the momentum of their racing car, and Patrick's flamethrower is fully at play. Belch will slow the Firebird enough to get into range so that Patrick can trigger off a blast of inferno directly into a rotting face. For a pack of brutes, it’s a rather graceful and synchronized display.
Richie is so mesmerized by the violence that he doesn't hear the phone ring until it goes to voicemail, only the familiar sound of Stanley's voice draws him from his trance. Richie runs to pick up but it's too late. He hears Stan, tearful and nearly screaming through the machine.
“It's my parents, Richie! My mom and dad! They're dead or turned or I don't fucking know! Richie I swear on your fucking Christian Jesus I'm not joking--I'm-I'm going insane- I gotta-I-listen! Listen to me okay? If you get this meet me at Temple, I can't stay here. I hope you’re safe- Meet me-”
Richie shouts Stan’s name even as the line becomes a garbled incomprehensible mass of splintering wood and frantic screaming. He breaks out in a cold sweat, panicked at the thought that Stan is very much not OK. Without wasting another moment, Richie grabs his jacket off the rack and speeds away on his bike, racing to meet Stan at temple.
Luckily the Bowers gang are at the far end of his street by now, off to kill more of whatever the fuck is roaming the town and Richie is not spotted. He takes quiet wooded back streets in the hopes of avoiding the majority of the townsfolk. Once or twice he sees a few shambling figures in the distance but riding his bike, he outpaces the obstacles.
Derry Town Synagogue, 9:48am
Stan wakes up stiff on the floor of his father's office. The Temple is empty even though it is a Saturday, but that doesn’t surprise Stan in the slightest. A few tears escape his eyes as he recalls the events at dinner the night before.
Stan gulps air down and collects himself up off the floor. His parents are dead and gone now, he needs to face reality. Stan needs to keep moving and find his friends, to make sure that they're all okay. He looks around at the paintings and religious artifacts of his father's office. Sacred items that hold thousands of years of collective history and meaning. With what he knows of the things happening in Derry today, Stan can't help but laugh a little high-pitched derisive thing because none of it means shit anymore.
All the effort and the struggle of maintaining a daily routine, striving for an orderly and normal life, a good clean life. In one single night, to have it all ruined and tainted is such a sick joke. Stan has a sudden very strong urge to give up where he stands, to simply let whatever diseased creature that wanders into the Synagogue next have him.
Of course as soon as the dark thought crosses his mind, Stan is startled by a sound coming from the corner of the office. A wet sopping sound echoes out from behind the door of the private lavatory like a ripple on a dark pond. He scrambles to his feet, adrenaline buzzing behind his eyes, and heart slamming in every vein of his body. He squares up towards the door and sees something slither out with all-boned movement, animated necrotic tissue in the shape of a spindly thin woman.
He inhales through his teeth to scream at her post-mortem deformity but she is so quick, long and agile like a tree branch or spine pulled out of shape. She rushes Stan before he really has a chance to react. A woman he's never met before, whose mouth seems too big, whose teeth are too plentiful, who’s skull has been squashed and elongated by some kind of blunt trauma. As if shut between door and frame with a great and frantic force. Her greying skin is speckled with beads of sweat and blood spray, her eyes are beetle black and watering with sludge. When she tries to speak through the mangle that is her mouth Stan only hears a thin pinching flute-whistle, and when she reaches him, quick as a blink, and her desiccated flesh touches him, Stan very simply wishes he were dead.
He retreats with a thin terrified cry as she pushes in on him. His back collides with the surface of that awful ugly painting and the texture of the elevated brushstrokes prick into his bare arms. She closes the gap so fast, faster than Stan can shake the shock of seeing her fucked up face. As the picture comes loose from the wall, her mouth descends. At the last moment Stan jerks to the side, saving his neck. Instead, teeth breach the skin of his shoulder, puncturing his deltoid, at the same time as the painting clatters to the floor.
The feeling is unreal, pressure and then puncture, followed by hot white agony. Stan screams in anguish born of pain, but even more so, with the hysterical knowing that she has dug inside of him and deposited a piece of her unclean self. He’s no idiot, Stan knows how this ghoulish narrative progresses. He’s seen Night of the Living Dead.
Stan breathes in high pitched sounds of hurt, and reaches his good arm out for something, anything to help him get away. His sweaty palm lands on a spare candle snuffer resting against the wall. It is silver, long and heavy with a fluted metal piece on the reverse of the bell for igniting flames. He grips it and positions his legs, leaning into the pain, feeling the uneven enamel of her jaws sink more deeply into his damaged skin. He uses the wall to kick off and give him momentum, running against the woman with the candle snuffer angled just right so that when she topples backwards over an innocuous low stepping stool, Stan goes over on top and impales her through the throat with the sharp bit. The act dislodges her open mouth from his shoulder in one painful wrenching motion, and pins her deformed twitching carcass to the floor.
He stands over her, panting and bleeding. Bitten. Infected. Fuck! He clenches his teeth and screams through them. All the rage and frustration and frantic racing ‘not fair not fair not fair!’ seeping through the sound. His knees start to buckle, the black closes in and cyclical thoughts of ‘ hopeless, done for, dirty,’ rise up like a drowning tide.
Before Stan can succumb, he hears a slamming noise downstairs that sounds like the Temple doors being thrown open on their hinges, and Richie’s loud frantic voice echoes in the empty space. It might be holy music for how grateful Stan is to hear it.
“STAN, BUDDY! ARE YOU THERE? TELL ME YOU’RE OKAY!”
Stan snaps back to reality. Recognizes he’s bleeding all over his shirt, and immediately shifts into gear looking for something to wear to cover the bite. His eyes are drawn to his father’s Tallit, hung with care on a standing coat rack and for a blasphemous second he considers it. He needs to stop the bleeding, it’s the logical thing to do. But Stan thinks of his father’s face, ashen and wild with his eyes rolled up into his head and the foam curling at the corner of his mouth. Of his mother coughing and snarling, choking up what seemed like lungfuls of greywater. As if she drowned in the barrens instead of from infection on dry land, and he doesn’t dare sully the last clean tie he has to them or to his god.
Instead, Stan rushes to his father’s closet and opens the door on several suits, which he rapidly flings to the side, sliding the hangers across one by one with the grating sound of metal on metal. Finally he finds some of his father’s casual clothes. He rips a thin tee shirt into a long strip and uses his armpit to hold the start of the wrappings in place while he winds the rest around the wound tightly to staunch the bleeding. He then snatches a dark grey varsity sweater from Don Uris’s baseball days and slips it over his head. Stan hisses at the wave of sharp agony the motion brings lancing from his shoulder all the way up into his face and behind his eyes, making him see three vivid dancing spots of white, almost orange light. The dark color is good, and the material is thick woven wool, adequate enough to soak up and hide any blood.
“Stan I swear to your Jewish God, if you’re dead! STAN, ANSWER ME!” Richie’s panicked voice persists, a few minutes later, closer this time.
“UPSTAIRS, RICH!” He bellows.
The thundering footsteps sound off already halfway up the landing and Richie comes barreling through the room with a pale stricken look. He is green around the gills, eyes magnified huge and afraid behind his thick glasses. He breaks out into a relieved, if a little over-wide grin when he sees Stan, alive and seemingly well.
“Thank Jehovah's Witness you’re okay! You scared the pants off me! We need to get to the clubhouse, I figure the the others will-agh!” Richie spots the woman, twitching and gurgling still impaled securely to the floor.
“What the fuck happened to her!” He gasps in a high pitched voice.
“Dead woman walking?” Stan shrugs, feeling pretty numb at this point. “Took care of it. Let’s go, we have to find the others right?” Stan projects calm and a matter-of-factness that he doesn’t feel. Richie seems on the edge of hysterics and while that’s not great, it’s plenty useful for centering Stan and pushing him into autopilot adult mode.
Richie looks at him owlishly like something in his brain can’t comprehend the situation. Stan doesn’t give him time to think, or time to notice the way he holds one shoulder a little tucked in from the pain. Stan stomps over to the woman and grips the handle of the candle extinguisher. He pulls it out of her throat in one swift motion that has Richie covering his mouth and retching. Richie gets the hint and he turns, holding his hand out for Stan to take as they descend the stairs of the Synagogue and exit out onto the street. Stan rides Richie double, clutching with his good arm and trailing the candle extinguisher in his right as they head on the path that will lead them to the clubhouse.
Beverly Marsh’s Bedroom, 9:15am
Beverly lays awake in her bed, dreading the coming Saturday. Her father has been in a foul mood since Monday, which is really no shocking revelation but you would think, with the upcoming two whole weeks of vacation, he’d soften his grip a bit. She rubs her wrist tenderly under the warm comforter, hissing as the compound bruises make themselves known. Their house is small enough as it is, but with the weather so grim and it being the both of them trapped inside there have been more incidents than usual.
Beverly tries to be out of the house on the days she can, but Main Street is the only one reliably plowed, a lot of side roads are snowed in and the clubhouse is a torturous ice box. Her dad knows she doesn’t have money and there’s not much in the way of free entertainment that won’t get her frostbitten half to death, so if she’s leaving the house he is even more interested these days as to where, when, and with whom. Having six boys in her entourage is not a fact Beverly can safely divulge. With the exception of some favors she can call in to girls in her class to cover for special occasions like dinner at Stan’s and Bill’s seventeenth birthday on the 4th of January, she grimly resigns herself to confinement in her room until well past Christmas. At least she has a phone in her room, she won’t be totally cut off.
She wrinkles her nose and sniffs the air. Today there is a smell about the place that sets her on edge. More on edge than usual that is.
It is a sweet, warm, smell that could almost be fruity if it weren’t immediately so heavy and unpleasant. It could be beer, vomit, or food left out the night before...Her father came home with two sixers and Beverly knows he toasted himself in ‘celebration’ of not having to clean the elementary school for two whole weeks. Beverly locked herself in her room after feeling the prickle of his eyes start to watch her move about the apartment after dinner.
She did hear something of a commotion in the bathroom around one in the morning but hadn’t dared to check. Now, as sunlight peeks through the curtains and across her face, and warmth permeates the apartment, the smell that builds and seeps under her bedroom door is making it difficult for Beverly to ignore.
She gets dressed. Leggings, and sweatpants over those, thick socks and her boots which she always keeps prepared next to her bed. Same goes for her overnight bag, equipped with a change of clothes and essentials like tampons, soap and shampoo. She tucks the uncut key and chain into her tee-shirt and pulls a baggy sweater over her head of short curly hair. For some reason she can’t explain, she also has the urge to fit her Walkman and headphones, a pocket knife, a lighter and a pack of marlboros into the away bag before slinging it around her shoulders. Then she pokes her head out into the hall, scouting for danger. There is nothing, and no one. The house is dark, which is unusual for the time of the day. A sliver of light reaches her from under the bathroom door and Beverly feels a foreboding in the pit of her stomach.
It only takes a few tentative steps towards the bathroom to conclude that the smell is indeed emanating from there. The hall seems to extend like a funhouse tunnel, and Beverly knows she ought to simply turn around and walk out the door without checking, but the house is so quiet and her father is nowhere to be found, and she has such a bad feeling.
Beverly approaches, and clutches the old glass knob. The smell is strongest here, a yellow smell that has Beverly plugging her nose before she opens the off-green door. As it swings inward Beverly muses darkly that everything in their apartment feels off-green, including the thing which has taken up unspoken space between her and her father. Water suddenly spills out over her boots, shocking her, and she jumps back with a little gasp of surprise.
Her father is in the bathtub.
Her father is not in the bathtub. Because the bloated, groaning, waterlogged thing that rests there is not at all her father. In fact, even before the fall, he probably hasn’t been her father for a very long time. She takes it all in. Water, blood, a shattered forehead. Torn shower curtain from a fall that happened sometime between one and two am. Dead eyes floating in a sunken skull draped with pruning skin.
Dead father. Dead father still moving.
Beverly turns and runs out of the apartment. She will never come back. She runs towards her friends.
The Kaspbrak Residence, 9:28am
There's a man standing in Eddie's back yard. He isn't wearing shoes and the dawn-time dew soaks through the hem of his ragged pants.
Eddie observes him with a growing sense of nervousness. The man isn’t doing anything ominous per se, but the screen door that separates them is too flimsy for comfort, and Eddie’s body is inexplicably paralyzed. He doesn’t dare make the move to close the glass and latch it. Maybe if he keeps perfectly still the man will go away.
That fantasy is entirely dashed when his mother comes trudging out of her main floor bedroom and spots Eddie. She loudly exclaims good morning and approaches him for her usual suffocating hug and kiss. The motion and noise draw the man’s attention. He makes a low gurgling growl that causes Eddie to flinch. Sonia flicks her massive head in the intruder's direction.
Just close the door and call the police, Eddie pleads silently.
Eddie's ma’s reaction couldn’t be worse. Instead of reacting out of fear and shutting the secure glass door between them, her shock and appall take the form of aggression. Like a mama bear protecting her cub. She steps in front of Eddie, pushing him to the side and behind her and shouts through the screen door at the man. In that moment, Eddie both loves and hates her. More than anything he despairs, because somewhere in his heart he knows what is coming next.
“Just what the hell do you think you're doing on our property? Are you out of your mind, I'm going to call the police!”
Eddie watches in abject horror as the man stares blankly, then convulses, and vomits a copious river of black viscous fluid. Mrs. Kaspbrak exclaims outrage at the top of her lungs.
“Ma, please, shut the door,” Eddie’s voice rises two octaves. Sonia ignores him and steps even closer, gesturing wildly with a meaty fist.
“Oh that’s vile! Are you drunk! On drugs? I’m calling the police, don’t you get any closer I’m calling the-”
The man charges them then. Sonia grabs the handle of the screen door with intent to keep it closed and lets out another full-bodied scream about seeking the police. Of course the flimsy mesh does nothing to stop the full momentum of the diseased man. He breaks through the screen and takes a hold of Eddie's ma, biting her promptly on her meaty neck. Up close he is a figure cobbled together by sores and wounded flesh, dirty bandages and leaking pustules.
Eddie screams so high it scratches his throat and he drops the bowl of sugary cereal he was holding. His Ma turns wide terrified eyes to him and lets out a weak little cry of ‘Eddie?’
He bawls then retches as a spurt of blood jettisons from her carotid artery and sprays the ceiling. In a second Eddie’s body makes a choice, and that choice is to run. He snatches his fanny pack from the breakfast table which contains; bandages, scissors, disinfectant, aspirin and his trusty aspirator. Eddie steps into his keds without even tying them. He runs out the front door into the cold without a jacket and hops on his bike to the sound of his Ma screaming her death behind him at the top of her lungs.
Eddie pedals furiously, not breathing, tears blind him and his untied shoelaces flap in the wind. The only place to go is the barrens. His panicked mind does not think it rationally but his body takes him in the direction regardless. It's almost as if a string pulls at Eddie, guiding him on a concise, safe path through town. They’ll all meet at the clubhouse, he knows it.
Mike, Caddie Corner to the Aladdin Theater, 9:56am
Mike is on a delivery when the outbreak hits.
He is taking a rest, wrapped in his thick parka with wool long johns underneath to keep him warm, currently drinking chicken soup from a thermos his mother packed him. Between sips Mike surveys the winter chains on his bike tires to make certain the ride over hasn’t caused them to come out of alignment. A commotion from across the street at the Aladdin, which advertises for the premiere of The Muppet Christmas Carol, makes him look up and pay attention. Mike is attune to any unusual noises, especially anything that sounds like a crowd of young men, or the revving of a very particular car engine.
He sees people pouring out of the theater in droves, screaming and weaving erratically in the streets. More than half of them are covered in blood, and seem to be attacking the half that are as of yet unsullied. Mike watches a teenage girl eat her father’s face clean off the bone. Mesmerized by the gory vignette occurring before him, Mike’s brain begins to process what he sees in a dreamlike state.
Slaughter takes physical form, the wolf awakens and rises up from within the bowls of all Derry’s moon pale townspeople. Not for the first time Mike thinks that perhaps he and his family have been dead a long time, and that this is just another part of hell they call their home. A glass shattering scream nearby shocks him, and Mike shakes the dream film from his brain quickly. He can’t afford to lose focus now, the runners are making their way towards him and he needs to take action. The monstrosity of the event somehow does not quite phase him, it is as if he always knew it would come to this. After all, Mike knows first hand the kind of violence Derry natives are capable of doing while in their apparent ‘right mind’.
He weighs his options. He could turn back towards the farm, the downtown center square is before him, and he knows shortcuts to take him to his parent’s house. It would be the quickest and safest, staying mobile while also out-of sight, hiding out at the farm with his mom and dad is his best chance.
Something pulls at him though, something that has nothing to do with rational decision making, or following the safest path. His parents he knows will be fine. Outbreak of undead or not, they’ve survived as the only black family in this town for this long already.
The losers, however, need Mike. He can’t explain it but something calls him to them and Mike doesn’t want to resist. He decides the meat in his basket can serve as a distraction to any creatures he encounters. He has the bolt gun, a precaution he's taken to displaying across his chest now that he's a bit older, and the adults no longer shy away from bashing him the same as their kids learned to do. He’ll go to the clubhouse and lay low, somehow Mike has a very good feeling that his friends will all be there.
Ben, Near The Kissing Bridge, 10:08am
Ben has just come from the library, he is walking his bike along the part of the canal past Bassey park but just before the kissing bridge, directing it with one steady hand while reading with the other. He has a pair of fingerless gloves on that serve the purpose well. A part of his brain chides him, because Eddie is bound to get annoyed that Ben is running late for their date. They're supposed to tinker around with the soapbox car Eddie's almost finished building. Ben can’t help it, even with he and his friends closer than ever, old habits die hard and Ben can’t resist the urge to grab a stack of reading material to kick off the winter vacation, mostly architecture, some science fiction. He found some good books on practical mechanics he thinks Eddie will like too.
As he passes the bridge over the canal, a fluttering motion catches his eye. It looks like a pile of fabric on the surface, rustling in the wind. Ben walks up to the edge of the bank and squints his eyes to get a better look. He nearly drops the book he’s holding when he registers what looks to be a drowning man caught in the ice!
The guy is moving incredibly slow, obviously fatigued by his struggle, clawing at the glittering snow dusted bank with pale, rag-wound clothing. Ben drops his bike and immediately begins descending the snowy bank to the water’s frozen edge. All the way down he scans the shore for a broken branch or a long piece of driftwood he might use to pull the person from the water. Heart pumping frantically, Ben finally gets close enough to make out the details on the body, at which point he stops abruptly.
Because that is exactly what has gotten stuck in the ice of the canal. A body. But a body that, rotting and ice-crusted as it is, is still moving.
Frostbite peels at the skin, and the nose is a worn-away stump of purple and crystalized blood. Its lips are torn and flapping in the wind with swollen bleeding gums and a jag of teeth that have bitten through the flesh of its own tongue. It opens and closes its mouth on the image of gore, and claws at the bank, seeking prey. Seeking Ben.
Luckily the current in the canal is strong and the dark water is winning its battle with the corpse. Ben watches, cold and transfixed as blackened chipped fingertips slip and scratch and scrabble along the uneven glassy edges of the frozen hole, and the ice mummy is pulled under into the black rapids.
The shell-shocked journey up the bank is far more difficult than the rushed slide down. For some reason Ben does not even think to go home. His mother is working at the factory, but Ben does not rush to seek her out either. Instead he hops back on his bike and heads directly for the clubhouse.
The Barrens, 10:19am
Yellowed bamboo peels upwards from snowy white ground and the Barrens are still. Pipes gape emptily while black streams lie still and freeze the pattern of veins among dark stone and solid mud. Something in the air makes a clear high vibration, like a ping of crystal radiating out from a central point as the Seven ride over the hill, approaching from different parts of town. The moment they all catch sight of each other a collective sigh of relief releases puffs of exhalation into the frigid air. Richie swears and whoops and Eddie’s repetitive “Oh god, oh jeez, oh fuck,” tapers off to a laugh that sounds out of place given the circumstances. The rest of the six can’t help laughing too, echoing how happy they are to see the others.
Bill is first of course with Silver being fastest. He pulls up, followed by Beverly who exclaims at the blood on his clothes.
“Are you okay? Did you get bit?” Bill shakes his head mutely, auburn fringe flying back and forth with the jerky motion. Beverly wants to reach out and touch his cheek where rivulets of water have frozen in two solid tracks, but the others are coming into range, all speaking at the same time, trying to tell their stories.
“Dead body, in the canal, it was still moving!” Ben pants. His clothes are bulky and overly large for his slimming frame. They ripple in the freezing wind and the tattered back of his old jeans flirts with catching on the gears of his bicycle.
“Another beautiful day in Derry,” Mike says darkly as he pulls up on Bill’s other side.
“We’re all gonna fucking die!” Eddie bemoans, skidding to a stop.
“Tie your laces, Eddie or you might be first,” Ben points out.
“Boy! You guys all look like shit!” Richie honks out.
“Beep Beep, Richie,” Stan muffles out against his back. The ride has been exhausting. Having to help Richie shift weight on the bike, and the constant radiating pain of his bitten shoulder has Stan on edge.
They all pull up their bikes in a circle facing inwards. Silence reigns for a short moment where they all breathe heavy and get their wind back. Then the first of many meaningful looks are exchanged.
“So, is this really happening?” Ben ventures first.
“Zombies,” Beverly says, deadpan.
“Jesus Christ,” Eddie moans.
“Yup, Zombies,” Mike agrees.
“What timing am I right? Winter goddamn break! Merry fucking Christmas to each and every one! Oops sorry Stan, I guess that means you’ll be getting another seven additional surprises!” That gets a chuckle from the group and Richie grins.
“What now?” Eddie asks. They all look around, eyes coming back to Bill who remains silent, staring at the center of the circle. Their tire tracks have disturbed the snow, revealing glassy strips of frozen black Barrens mud in the shape of a messy spiral.
“First thing I want to know is where are the police? Fire Department? Paramedics?” Stan asks, he looks around from behind Richie. His voice sounds wan and his skin is about as white as the snow below them, but his mind is still keenly filtering the important questions.
“I don’t know,” Mike says, thoughtful. “In a normal disaster they’d be rushing all over town, but it’s entirely too quiet. Almost like…”
“They’ve all turned,” Richie says it because of course he does. The rest are all thinking it, feeling the thought from one another’s minds in some strange interconnected way, but they remain reluctant to voice it and face the implications.
“That can’t be, it’s barely been two hours. Diseases don’t move that fast,” Eddie says, face pinched and dark eyebrows upturned.
“Not if the contagion has a common point of origin. It happened last night, it’s in the water,” Stan speaks up.
From the corner of her eye, Beverly watches Bill’s complexion go from grey, to white, to almost green. He sways, nearly imperceptibly, on his bike.
The Denbrough Household, Friday December 18 7:12pm
“Don’t try and play the selfless child now that he’s bedridden. A responsible brother never would have let a nine year old play in the rain by himself in the first place. It’s December for God’s sake!” Zack snaps in response to Bill asking if he should bring up dinner for Georgie.
Bill’s posture droops over his plate, he stares at the contents to avoid seeing the angry expression on his father’s face. He imagines, for surely it could not really be the case, that his mother has served him smaller portions than usual. A good thing in the end, since Bill has no appetite to speak of. The tension in the kitchen is like a ball of wire bundled up in Bill’s stomach.
“S-s-sorry,” He says without argument. They’re right after all. He sent Georgie out to play and now he’s sick, it's Bill’s fault.
He can still feel the feverish peck to his cheek Georgie gave him right after Bill cleaned and dressed the scratches and scrapes from his fall. He’d been sniffling at the time, but was feeling well enough to joke about how he’d almost drifted right down into the drain and been swept away by the storm. Rain in December in Maine is unheard of, and yet a freakish week of warmth was all it took to set up minor flood conditions. Now, overnight the cold snap is back, and everything is a slick icy deathtrap, covered by a thin deadly camouflage of snow.
His mother clears the table. Bill lets her take his plate prematurely, and watches her back as she washes dishes. He doesn’t like to draw attention to himself in situations like these where he can feel the quiet irritation radiated from her. His father is now skimming the paper and certainly wouldn’t like to be disturbed while he reads. Bill stays still and quiet at the table until Sharon finishes washing up, then both she and Bill’s father retire upstairs and move about for a time before retiring to bed. The house is utterly silent save the faint sound of coughing coming from Georgie’s bedroom.
A half hour of staring at the table grain later, when he’s pretty certain his parents have completed their evening routine, and when Bill can’t stand the silence for a moment longer, he too goes upstairs. A soft orange glow drifts out into the hall from the carousel night light on Georgie’s bedside table.
Bill has a comforting thought, if he’s quiet he can probably tiptoe into Georgie’s room and spend the night. He doesn’t care if he catches sick too, he just wants to be near his little brother. But when he pokes his head around the doorframe Bill confronts a sight that sends a chill down his spine. His mother is already in Georgie’s bed, facing the door with an arm draped protectively over her youngest son. Her eyes are very blue, wide open and staring through the entrance as if daring Bill to cross the threshold and interrupt their picturesque moment. There is something almost animal to the way she stares at him, as if he is Other, a danger to her and her young. Bill waves a timid goodnight to his mother which she does not return, and takes one last look at Georgie’s small sweat dampened face. He tries to project wishes for good dreams and health into his little brother’s head.
Bill turns the corner and retires to his room. He stares out the window into the dark for a while, feeling disjointed and disconnected from the world. It takes him a long time to fall asleep.
When he wakes he isn’t sure that he actually has, because he seems to be experiencing a nightmare.
The morning light is tinted red, there’s arterial spray across his face that is not his. He doesn’t know which of his parents grabbed his face and slammed his head into the wall before he kicked them down the stairs. When he tried to look down after them, Bill could only see three swirling blots of light, like those cartoon stars, but scarier. A small grey windpipe and gnashing ghoulish teeth close for the last time under his palms as Bill sobs “I’m s-sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,”
After that the world flits in and out of broken focus, grey to black, to the crisp blue winter sky and the wind in his hair. Suddenly he is riding on Silver, Beverly is speaking to him. His friends are around him in a perfect circle, bickering about their plan of action, and Bill has no idea how he got here.
“I’m fine,” Bill says automatically, not really hearing her question. Beverly gives him a sidelong look before fishing a cigarette out of her bag and lighting up. Her brows furrow but she turns back to engage with the others nonetheless.
“The clubhouse is the best place! It’s close and no one will find us there,” Richie argues.
“It’s like, negative five degrees outside asshole! Negative five!” Eddie says, rolling his eyes. His teeth chatter and he rubs at his bare arms.
“You’re basically naked so your opinion doesn’t count,” Richie retorts.
“Oh I’m sorry I didn’t have time to bundle up, I was too busy dealing with the fact that IT’S THE END OF THE FUCKING WORLD!” Eddie shouts back, voice rising in volume.
“It’s the dead of winter, there’s no insulation in the clubhouse yet, we’d likely freeze,” Ben states diplomatically.
“Well, we can build a fire and smoke hatch!”
“Rich, the two of us almost died trying that gag the first time,” Mike admonishes.
“Not to mention it kind of gives our position away dude,” Beverly says, taking another drag of the cigarette.
“Yeah are you stupid? Also, we don’t have a way to store or preserve food, or to fortify against attack, no bathroom facilities or access to first aid supplies either,” Eddie chatters, his voice is high-pitched, and his movements are the peak of anxiety. He triggers off a blast of his aspirator and breathes out ice vapor.
“God I’m f-fucking freezing!”
“Ok Eds we get it! The clubhouse sucks! I suck! Where do you suggest we go then!” Richie exclaims. Eddie glares daggers at him, teeth chattering violently.
Ben wheels over to Eddie’s side, wordlessly takes off his first sweater, and hands it over.
“Oh look, a man with manners and functioning observation skills,” Eddie says sweetly, pointedly ignoring Richie's question.
“Oh for the love of-”
“Beep, beep,” Stan says, tapping on Richie’s chest.
Eddie has to roll up the sleeves several times and tuck the hem into the front of his sleeping joggers so it doesn’t pool hopelessly around him. “Thanks Ben, I really was cold,” Eddie says. He buries his face in the collar of the sweater and exhales several times to try and create a pocket of warmth. “Smells good,” Eddie mumbles, more to himself than to the group, but they all hear it. Ben blushes red to the tips of his ears and murmurs a small “You can keep it,”
“Eddie beams at him, anger dispelled in an instant by the tender gesture. The rest of the group sighs in exasperation. Richie grumbles something under his breath and Stan shushes him again.
“Oh shit, the high school!” Bev yells.
Mike raises a considering eyebrow. “That’s actually a good idea. The school would have the facilities we need to stay long term, medical supplies, and canned food left over in the cafeteria tp last us weeks if not months,”
“Great! I’m cold as shit, all in favor, shut up and follow me!”
Beverly throws down her spent cigarette and begins pedaling furiously to get up the icy hill that leads from the Barrens. Sweat collects at her brow and freezes down her face like iridescent pearls in the cold December air. She calls out more details to them. “It’s been totally vacated and shut down for the holidays. No risk of running into anyone inside. The teaching and janitorial staff are gone, My dad said so,”
The rest start to mobilize in Beverly’s wake.
“How are we gonna get into the school if it’s locked?”
“You disappoint me, Tozier. You think I’m the kind of woman who doesn’t know how to break into a state facility?”
“But, but- the clubhouse!” Richie whines.
“Oh my god, you lost! Let’s go already!” Stan barks irritably out from behind Richie. He is clinging to the other boy quite hard, knuckles white with the force of it, and he seems to wince with every shift of the bike.
They mobilize rapidly after that and make it across town with only a few minor encounters with the undead, making sure to keep to the least trodden routes, taking advantage of the silence of the bicycles. Once arrived they make to drop their rides on the lawn at the front entrance of Derry High. Mike, who pulls up the rear of the party sees their mistake immediately and calls it out.
“No! Bring the bikes in with us. We might need them to escape later if things go sideways. We can use them for parts in a pinch, and the bike chains as weapons,”
“Smart man,” Beverly nods, righting her's in one graceful fluid motion and continuing to glide towards the entrance.
“Besides, we don’t want people knowing we’re here,” Mike says, looking around.
Richie gulps, thinking of the Bowers gang tearing up and down town with their makeshift flails and spears, obliterating undead skulls. In a place where the law structure has clearly broken down, they’d have zero compunction crushing loser skulls just as flat.
Beverly does marvelously quick work picking the complex lock on the double doors while the boys act as lookouts. As the seven ride silent single file into Derry High, snow begins to fall. A boon from the sky that will cover their tracks. Once inside and with the doors secured behind them, they all turn their attention to Bill.
He has been oddly quiet the entire morning, deferring authority to Mike and Beverly in turn. Even Ben, quiet but reliable, has been volunteering more ideas. Stan has finally separated himself from Richie, and lingers next to Bill like a livelier shadow, looking far too pale but more alert around the eyes than the other boy.
Bill’s eyes look glassy and vacant, his motions are stiff and robotic.
Eddie strides up to their leader swiftly and takes up one of his empty hands, lacing their fingers. He places the free hand to his forehead, checks his temperature, and then waves it in front of Bill’s face with minimal reaction.
“He’s in shock, I think,”
The sound of Eddie’s voice close to him seems to stir Bill awake and he blinks several times before he looks down. Almost as if a conditioned response to seeing Eddie, Bill grants him with a soft smile. It doesn’t last very long. A second later, his eyes grow very wide and brim with tears. It looks like he’s seeing something far away beyond the seven of them, remembering suddenly something which he recently forgot.
“G-georgie, uh,” Bill licks his chapped lips and brings a trembling hand to wipe his suddenly sweaty brow. Before he can touch skin to skin, Bill wrenches his hand away from his face and looks at his palms like they are a pair of offensive and horrifying appendages he does not remember owning. His breathing speeds up, chest heaving.
“I thi-think I k-k-kil-” Bill gasps again, he fists his hand in his hair and tugs at the strands in distress.
“I k-k-killed him! A-and m-my dad, oh g-mmph!” Bill hunches over and retches several times. He coughs, expelling strings of bile. His whole body is dripping in sweat by now, his palm is clammy in Eddie’s grip and his lips are white, he looks like a ghost.
The others go still at the horrific revelation. Stan is already making space next to Eddie, helping Bill upright, wiping his mouth clean, and pressing himself up to Bill’s side. He soothes Bill in one breath and curses god and destiny as a bastard hoax in the next.
“Water, anyone got water?” Eddie urges.
Richie snaps the plastic bottle out from the base of his bike frame and tosses it to Eddie, who brings it to Bills mouth and makes him take a swig. Bill downs it successfully, but continues trying to talk.
“They were all in-inf-f-ect-ect- inf-f-f-” Bill tapers off into silent heaving again. Eddie rubs his back as Bill stares down at the floor blankly, his voice changes tone, coming out flat and clear, deeper like his father’s. Like he’s parroting something he’s heard.
“Let Georgie play in the rain. My fault he got sick. For God’s sake,”
“No Bill, stop that,” Stan says, softly placing a hand over Bills lips. “That’s not fair to you,”
Bill shakes his head, quiet tears slide down his cheeks.
“She knew it, she knew it that’s why w-wh-why she hates me, she knew I’d kill Georgie,”
Bill’s face crumples just as Richie rushes to reach him. Slotted between Eddie and Stan, he clasps a pale hand gently along the curve of Bill’s sharp jaw.
“No, no Bill, it’s not your fault. Bill look at me it’s not your fault,”
“I l-let him g-g-go out in the bad water an-a-and-”
“He’s a kid, of course he wanted to go out to see a December rain. You didn’t know the water was bad, did you big Bill?”
Bill shakes his head furiously. “Di-didn't know, I didn’t know, I’m s-s-o-sorry!”
Bill truly lets go then, crying between big messy gulps of air, stuttering so bad that any words he tries to get out are unintelligible. Mike, Beverly, and Ben hurry to complete the tight circle of comfort. Each touching Bill in some way, wiping at the tears running down his face, or rubbing at his cold skin, trying to bring him out of shock and raise his core temperature.
“I left my ma to die,” Eddie blurts out, pressed in on the left by Richie’s lanky frame and on the right by Beverly’s soft curves. His voice is shaky but somehow determined, like he’s trying to make a point. “Some infected homeless guy got inside our house and he- he bit her neck open. I didn’t even try to save her! Bill- Bill I just ran,”
Bill nods in understanding through his tears. “N-not your f-fault Eds,”
“Not your fault,” The others murmur in echo, almost a mantra of reassurance and a transfer of loving energy, sharing the grief between the seven of them.
“I didn’t look for my mom at all,” Ben says, guilt thick on his tongue. All I could think of was finding you guys, of warning you, and making sure you were safe,”
“I don’t even know where my parents are, or if they’re okay,” Richie admits. “I don’t think it would change a thing if I did though, I’d still be here with you guys,” He rubs his thumb across the freckles on Bill’s cheek and squeezes Stan’s hand where their fingers are laced. Eddie’s warm breath flows against his ear and Richie thinks he doesn’t ever want to move from this spot. No matter how horrible the world outside is, right now he has this, and it makes the idea of going on bearable.
Mike nods shakily, temple pressed up against the back of Bill’s neck, his strong arms reach through a maze of limbs and reassuring hands to wrap around, securely hugging Bill around the middle. “Yeah, me neither. I had to see you guys, it’s like there was this thing beyond myself, something pulling me in,”
Silence reigns for a few moments until Beverly shifts, taking in a steadying breath.
“My dad’s dead and I’m not sorry,” she says, steel to her voice. The group presses in on her collectively, enfolding her, protecting her in wordless understanding and acceptance.
“You guys are my family now,” Stan whispers, earnest and pure. The statement seems to bind them together in a final way and they fall silent, touching and breathing as one.
Eventually enough time passes that the sun has noticeably shifted positions, slicing the shadows in the darkened hall to the shortness of noon.
Richie is the first to stir. The seven seem to come back with a collective breath and slowly break apart, once again returning to their individual selves. Bill’s eyes have regained the faintest clarity but he is still weak, and staggers a little on his feet once deprived of the support of the six.
Eddie and Stan lead Bill to sit down and rest against the lockers with a soft reassuring string of murmurs the others can’t quite hear. They all yearn to extend comfort to him forever and ever but the day is burning up minute after minute and there are time-sensitive things that need doing before darkness falls. Stan and Eddie seem to have Bill covered for now, so the remaining four set to work securing the school.
They barricade all entrances and windows on the landing floor, and decide to leave the windows on the second floor above the outcropping of the side exit unlocked, in case the need for an unorthodox escape occurs, as its the shallowest fall.
They’ve just finished securing the side entrance when Ben stops dead in his tracks and tilts his head, listening to a sound in the distance.
“Do you hear that?” Ben asks, a thick note of dismay in his voice.
“Hear what?” Richie responds immediately without giving the barest listen.
“Oh no,” Mike breathes quietly. He backs away from the doors and leans up against the wall far from the steadily rising noise. Gooseflesh pricks his dark skin and dread washes through him. He would know the sound of that engine anywhere.
Beverly, Eddie, and Stan rush to the window swiftly. Bill, recovered in full now, steps over to Mike and asks him what is wrong.
“Bowers,” Mike says, clutching defensively at the bolt gun in its holster across his chest. Bill places his hand over Mike’s to ground him.
“Uh, guys we are about to have four very real and very ugly problems,”
Bill squeezes Mikes hand harder as Beverly’s voice rings out in the echoing hall. Richie and Ben have pressed themselves to the other row of street-facing windows to observe the spectacle. Mike closes his eyes and lifts his face to the sky, sweat visibly beading at his hairline.
“It’s g-gonna be okay Mikey, I’ve got you. You know I’ve got you,” Bill reassures him. Mike nods and focuses on taking deep breaths, steadying himself by the presence of Bill at his side.
The Trans Am pulls up to the high school, screeching around corners, and engine revving like crazy. The sound alone is bound to attract droves of undead to the school grounds. What’s more, it quickly becomes apparent that the Bowers gang might soon have a zombie of their own to contend with.
“Oh jeezus! Yuck! And here I thought he was scary enough before. He’s really gunning for the title of ‘walking nightmare’ isn’t he?” Richie says, dread clouding the humor in his voice.
What Richie means becomes painfully clear to the rest as the Firebird gets closer to the school and they all see that Hockstetter has been bitten right on the mouth. His face is a mess of puncture marks, a ripped lip and pearly teeth showing through the gore, but he’s still grinning that awful lazy smile. Like the whole world is a joke and he’s just been startled to comedy at the sight of his own blood.
They drive the car right over the sidewalk and park. Patrick hops out the sun hatch and lopes round back to the trunk of the car as the others get out by more conventional methods. He pops it up and grabs a ratty grey pack with stains, and rummages around in it until he fishes out another aerosol can, then he turns away from his crew and cheerfully begins to make his way to the doors of the school.
The other boys reach the trunk, and quickly begin to unload supplies. Things like sleeping bags, boxes of pilfered booze, and an old milk crate filled with weapons and girly mags. Vic balances the heavy box on his boney hip and shouts angrily after Patrick.
“Hey, you gonna grab your own overnight shit or what?”
“Nope!” He retorts cheerfully. It sounds somewhat wet, and blood bubbles from the lacerations on his face. A fly buzzes hungrily around his mouth and Patrick triggers off a blast of flame-lit hairspray, torching it mid air. He giggles like a child.
“Ugh, control your crazy dingo any time, Henry,” Victor sneers.
“Shut your trap and hurry unpacking this shit,” Henry growls.
Belch burps loudly as he unpacks his own and Patrick’s share, knowing better than to argue with Henry.
Patrick turns back to the car, cups his ruined mouth with two hands and lets out a long eerie howl, much more animal than man. It floats on the frigid breeze and plucks goosebumps from the losers skin.
“You wanna shut up! You’re gonna attract every goddamn zombie in town,” Victor grouses and flips him off with both hands.
Patrick responds to that remark in a predictable manner by making high pitched yelping noises that devolves into hyena laughter. Victor makes a face and spits on the ground. Henry barks angrily and they resume unloading. Soon the four older teens approach the school, Henry brings up the rear with a six pack of beer, and a set of keys.
“Fuck, how’d he get those! What do we do?” Beverly asks, looking at Stan and Eddie. Stan is breathing rapidly, eyes fixed on Patrick’s mangled face. His skin is grey, his pupils are dilated, and Beverly realizes she has about two seconds to catch him before he faints. She lunges forward just in time to intercept Stan’s slow slump down the wall.
“Shit!” Eddie whispers.
“We gotta go, now!” Mike whisper-shouts from behind them. This isn’t baby stuff, there’s no law or consequence in Derry anymore. If Henry and his goons catch them he’ll kill them all.
“Ben, help me carry Stan please?” Beverly asks. Ben quickly complies, crossing over stealthily and gathering Stanley up in his arms. Beverly brushes her slender fingers through his curly hair and dabs at the sweat on his forehead.
“He’s running a fever,”
“Fuck guys, they’re coming up fast,” Richie exclaims, ducking under the windows to join the main group. “We need to make like a banana and split,”
The losers disperse quickly, mouthing at each other and gesturing towards the end of the hall in a wild panic. Escape towards the side doors they just blocked off isn’t an option so instead they are forced to venture deeper into the school towards the cafeteria, teachers lounge, gymnasium and locker rooms.
Bill and Mike lead the rest, gracefully wheeling their bikes down the dark hall. Bill drops Silver and doubles back to assist Ben with his ride since he has Stan to carry. They round the corner out of sight of the entrance and gently deposit Stan next to Mike who crouches in a low sprint-ready position against a row of lockers. The rest follow in their wake, wheeling down the hall in mute terror.
Just as the last of the seven losers reach cover, Henry cracks the lock on the front door, and the Bowers Gang enters the building.