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Mike detested the term ‘waking up on the wrong side of the bed.’
It was a stupid thing to say, in his opinion. It was exactly the kind of harebrained, bullshit idiom that his dad would pull out in his dry, detached voice whilst glancing at someone over his newspaper. He’d flick his gaze up, see something he didn’t like— for example, his own son, eyes sunken and hair just barely tamed by combing his fingers through it— and make that exact kind of comment. Wake up on the wrong side of the bed, son? he’d ask, and then not wait for an answer before returning to his reading, rustling the paper in his hands as if in dismissal.
This was because, to nobody’s surprise, Ted Wheeler didn’t actually give a shit about whether or not Mike slept like shit.
Which he did. He consistently slept like shit, actually, in case anyone was curious. Some days, such as today, he downed coffee like water if only to keep his brain from fading to static. That or prevent himself from faceplanting in the middle of school or somewhere equally embarrassing.
The problem with that, however, was that his worst days were accompanied with a caffeine-induced jitteriness. If he held his hand up to his face, he could see his fingers start to tremble from the idleness. Not that he was particularly stationary even on a good day, but it was ramped up to ten with three cups of coffee thrumming in his veins. It used to be even worse, too, back when he’d started drinking it.
Fun story: That was how his room got reorganized.
A not so fun story: Caffeine absolutely wrecked his nerves.
Not that Mike couldn’t give most of the credit to a pretty severe lack of sleep, but as much as caffeine kept him going, it tended to work a little too well. He got a bit, well, jumpy.
But he’d also already promised Lucas that he would meet with him to visit Max that day, which was why he was striding through the hospital’s reception area at a pace that anyone would generously describe as harried.
The receptionist, an older woman who always called him ‘honey’ or ‘sweetie’ with the kind of well-meaning condescension that made his hair stand on end, gave him a sugary smile as she spotted him approaching and waved him through.
He offered a tight-lipped smile in return that survived an impressive half-second before settling into his normal scowl as he pushed his way through the doors past the desk to head for the stairs. There was an elevator a bit further down the hall, currently vacant of passengers and undoubtedly a faster way to get up four floors.
Mike never took the elevator.
The motion of dashing up the stairs, taking two at a time, was a far more soothing notion than the concept of putting himself in a cramped, moving box with no idea of what waited for him when the doors opened again. By the time he reached the fourth floor, he felt out of breath. That was his own fault for running, of course, but the pace agreed with his racing thoughts and rapidly-pattering heartbeat that he could currently feel pulsing in his ears.
He burst from the stairwell with a particularly forceful push on the door, and a nearby nurse startled and dropped her clipboard with a gasp. He ignored the way he himself flinched at the loud clatter and pushed onwards with no mind to how the nurse started muttering under her breath as she stooped to pick the clipboard back up.
He only registered the sound of another door opening and clicking shut from somewhere behind him, leaving him alone with the cold, linoleum floor echoing his footsteps and the white walls that reflected the lights in various states of decay overhead. One of the lights was out a few feet ahead of him, its weak sputters of life not enough to prevent the shadows from slithering into the corridor. Mike lightened his footsteps instinctively, resisting the urge to fist the sleeves of his jacket.
Room 412, he told himself, repeating it like a mantra, Room 412.
Another bulb flickered further down. The shadows hungrily raced to sink their teeth into the unlit corners of the hall, only to skitter back as the light returned.
Mike glanced at the nameplate hung next to the door he was passing.
Room 403. It currently sat empty.
He kept walking, passing under the dead light with an involuntary shiver. This part of the hospital had been fuller a year ago, both from patients who were unfortunate enough to have been caught in the ‘earthquake’ and other, equally unfortunate people who were scanning the halls for loved ones who hadn’t ever made it home, nor would they ever.
The fourth floor, in those bustling first few weeks of the apocalypse, had been far more bearable to walk through. It was a guilt-inducing thought to have been grateful for the filled rooms of the ICU wing.
A nearby vent suddenly rattled as cool air was pumped through its metal grates. Mike’s steps stuttered for a moment as his head snapped towards the sound, assessing it before continuing. He finally relented and pulled his jacket tighter around himself as he passed by and felt a frigid gust press down on him.
He glanced at another door. 406. Also empty.
“Jesus,” he muttered. The light flickered again. He started to walk a bit faster to reach the end of the hall, only slowing to peek around the corner. There was nothing, aside from more hallway. The state of the lighting was an eclectic mess at best. The hum of the air conditioning settled into white noise, and his breaths came a bit easier as he fully rounded the corner. He was almost there.
Another door. 408.
Another. 409.
410.
411—
The lights cut out, and the shadows devoured the entire hospital in a blink.
The sudden silence ached like an open wound.
Mike froze right where he stood. He could suddenly hear his own breaths, the sound an intrusion on the blackness yawning wide before his eyes.
This was a power outage. The hospital had a backup generator that would kick on within a few minutes. Probably. Maybe. But it was a power outage. Why did the power go out?
Shit.
He was uncomfortably aware of his chest expanding and contracting as he took a few, tentative steps forward. His footsteps felt loud, too loud, against the floor.
Light was beginning to filter through the doors lining the hall, barely enough to trace the lines of the walls and floors into existence. Mike, wide-eyed, latched onto it like a lifeline, stepping further down the hall. He needed to get out.
He needed to find the way out.
How did he get out?
He’d have to take the stairs. The stairs, not the elevator. There could be bodies in the elevator, white coats stained with gore. There could be monsters in the elevator, laying in wait. They could be on the stairs, too, though. They could already be running to the fourth floor.
He heard a door slam open, banging against the wall.
Shit.
His feet started moving before he could think, pounding further down the hall. Then his brain caught up and he threw the nearest door open and flew inside, pulling it shut behind him and turning the lock with a final click. He backed away quickly, breaths escaping him in short stutters of air. He slammed a hand over his mouth to quiet the noise, keeping his eyes locked on the door’s window. He heard another door slam open. He jumped at the noise. It was close. Closer than before. Fuck.
He glanced behind him, seeing the empty hospital bed and literally nothing else. Fuck.
Mike still slipped behind it, ducking down so that only his head poked over the side. He strained his ears, but he didn’t hear anything else. It was quiet again. Maybe it was gone—
“Mike?” The second he heard his name, Mike jolted to his feet. He forgot Lucas was here. Lucas, who was going to get them fucking killed.
He raced for the door. The handle didn’t work. He fumbled to unlock it, fingers sliding off the small lock. “Mike? Is that—”
He finally tore the door open and spilled out into the hallway, head whipping left and right until he caught sight of Lucas standing out in the open, eyes wide as he took in Mike’s sudden appearance.
“Mike, what were you—” Mike didn’t let him finish, darting forward to meet him.
“Lucas, Lucas we have to go,” Mike rushed out, gripping the other boy’s upper arms, “we have to go right now.”
“What? What’s going on?” Lucas questioned carefully, far too measured.
“No time, we have to go,” he urged, starting to pull him down the hallway.
But Lucas didn’t budge. “Go where?!”
Mike shook his head, still trying to pull him forward. Why wasn’t he moving? “We have to take the stairs, okay? The elevator isn’t safe. It’s not safe.”
“Dude.” Lucas suddenly yanked him back, forcing Mike to meet his eyes. “You gotta calm down and tell me what’s happening.”
“I heard them coming. Did you see them? Did you see?”
“See what?!”
“The demodogs, Lucas!” Mike finally snapped.
Instead of the expected alarm, Lucas only seemed to pause. His eyebrows furrowed, then, eyes flicking across Mike’s face. Whatever he saw made his lips part in a small ‘o’ shape, and he released Mike entirely.
“Mike…” Lucas spoke, his voice suddenly softened to a whisper, “there’s no demodogs, man.”
A beat.
“...What?”
“Do you…” Lucas hesitated, “do you know where you are? Right now?”
Mike stared at him, trying to comprehend his friend’s stupidity. What kind of question was that? “Hawkins General.”
For whatever reason, that made Lucas release a breath. “Yeah. Yeah, good. Okay. Yeah, there’s no…no demodogs.”
“But—” Mike started, stopped. “But the power went out.”
“Yeah, I know. Just the faulty power lines acting up again. You remember when our neighborhood lost power for a few days?” Mike nodded absently. It’d been Will who freaked out a bit in that instance. But Will was better at concealing it than Mike. Instead of flying into a frenzy, Will had gone rigid, breaths growing far too measured to be natural as he had looked around the basement in search of a monster that never appeared. Will was a fighter, in that sense, preparing to face the danger. Mike just ran away. “It’s just like that. The generator’ll turn on in a minute.”
Mike felt very wrong-footed at that moment, emotions spilling out with no place to direct them.
“I heard them in the hall,” he argued weakly, hoping to justify himself, “they came up the stairs. Broke down the door.”
Lucas raised his hands placatingly. “Just me. Sorry. The power went out on my way up and I panicked thinking about Max. I’m sorry for scaring you.”
“I wasn’t—” I wasn’t scared, he wanted to say. Instead, he looked down at the floor, cheeks heated as he rubbed a hand up and down his arm. “Is Max okay?”
There was a notable pause. “Yeah, she’s okay. I’m guessing a nurse will come up to check her equipment when the power comes back.”
“Cool.” Mike cleared his throat. “Great. Good. Yeah.”
They stood there awkwardly for a few seconds. As Lucas predicted, the hallway lit up again soon after, the hum of the air conditioning returning as if it never left. Mike balefully looked up at the ceiling, the lights personally offending him. Then, Lucas sighed, clapping him on the shoulder. His hand lingered, his grip firm. Anchoring. “Come on. Let’s go get some air.”
Mike looked back at him. “What?” His gaze flicked over to the door that was wide open behind Lucas. “What about Max?”
Lucas gave him a smile, though it looked visibly strained. “She’ll…she’ll be alright for a few minutes. You, however, look like a breeze could blow you over.” He jostled Mike a bit with the hand on his shoulder as if to demonstrate.
Mike, to his chagrin, stumbled a bit.
He scowled, shoving Lucas away, only growing more irritated when he, again, didn’t budge at all. “...Shut up.”
He still let Lucas lead him back down the hall. With Lucas at his side, Mike felt less inclined to shrink away from the odd flicker of light, the shadows losing their edge as they ebbed and flowed across the floor. The stairs weren’t that far at all, and the two of them made quick work of escaping the fourth floor intact.
Mike didn’t say anything as they descended the stairs, and, blessedly, neither did Lucas.
When they finally made it outside, he couldn’t help but breathe a little easier as a gentle breeze brushed against his face. His muscles finally began to lose their tension, and he slumped a bit where he stood. He hoped it wasn’t too obvious. He was embarrassed enough as it was.
Mike half-wished that Lucas would just leave him there. Go back inside. Visit Max. But another part of him didn't really want to be alone with his thoughts.
So, he was the first to speak. “Um, so…” he fidgeted with the cuff of his sleeve as Lucas turned to look at him, “sorry for flipping out back there.”
“Nah, don't worry about it, man,” Lucas waved him off. “I get it.”
“Yeah, but…” Mike trailed off, unsure of what he wanted to say. You shouldn't have to see that. You shouldn't have to deal with that. You have enough going on.
“But nothing,” Lucas said, when Mike couldn't pull together a full sentence. “Seriously, it's all good.”
He wanted to protest, but didn't really have anything to say. He just nodded once, and let the topic die. Lucas stood there with Mike for a while longer.
Then: “You never…really talked about what happened there.”
Mike swallowed thickly, making a show of shrugging. “I mean, there's not much to say, you know?”
“He’s lying! He’s lying! He’s lying!” rang in his ears defiantly. His hands twitched upwards a tick before he forced them down to his sides.
Lucas didn't look particularly convinced, either, but that was probably because of whatever expression was contorting Mike’s face. Speaking from experience, he was a far better liar when the other person couldn't see his face going on an emotional journey in real time. Mike kicked at a loose rock on the pavement, watching it skitter out further into the parking lot.
“Well, if you…ever want to, you know you can talk to me, right?” Lucas asked.
Mike nodded. “Yeah. I know.” Then, belatedly: “Thanks.”
His hand returned to Mike’s shoulder, squeezing once before letting go. “We're all here for you, man. I mean it. I know a lot of shit happened, but we’ll always make time for you.”
“I know.” It was more honest the second time, spoken around a tentative smile.
Lucas returned it. “As long as you know.” He paused. “I’m gonna head back in. Do you…?” He left the question open-ended. Mike appreciated the gesture.
“No. Yeah. Right, I should…I think I’ll head home.” He stumbled slightly over the words.
Mike felt guilty for not visiting Max, but he didn't think he could handle going back inside, huddling next to a hospital bed where one of his friends lay prone, listening to a heart monitor beep incessantly in his ear. It was too much.
But Lucas just nodded once, understanding.
“No worries, man.”
Mike started to walk off towards where he’d left his bike when Lucas called him back.
“And Mike?”
Mike turned around.
“Yeah?” he yelled back.
“For the record, I don't like hospitals much, either!” He had cupped his hands around his mouth, broadcasting his voice across the parking lot.
Mike huffed out a laugh. “No kidding!” He shook his head once, then waved. “See you tomorrow, Lucas!”
“Later!”
A few months later, when the group— a newly-awoken Max Mayfield included— all gathered at the edge of the abandoned lab, Lucas caught Mike staring up at the dilapidated building with a particularly sour look on his face. He approached him, alone, and nudged him on the arm once.
“I really do get it now,” he commented, voice low as to not carry it back to the others. He didn't have to elaborate for Mike to know what he meant.
Mike smiled grimly. “It sucks, doesn’t it?”
“Yeah. I think I hate hospitals now, man.”
For a while, they would share the same nightmares of white walls splattered in bloody viscera; of staring down at their cherished person clad in a hospital gown, unnaturally still; of faceless creatures with claws that scored gouges in linoleum floors as they relentlessly pounded after them.
It was Mike who placed a hand on Lucas’ shoulder, this time.
“...You and me both.”