Chapter Text
I, Mike Wheeler, can't believe what I've just seen.
I take a few steps forward and drop to my knees. They burn. Concrete eats at the denim of my jeans, but I hardly feel it. The people around me rush and scream orders; I barely notice.
My ears are still ringing from the explosion. Tears bubble up in my eyes and I buckle forward, clawing uselessly at the ground. My breaths come to me in airless sobs. I stare up at what the gate left behind.
A broken building. That's all. It closed.
Rough hands grab at me, yanking me upward. I protest. "No!" My voice is hoarse and my throat scratches with the word. I thrash at the soldiers, but their grip doesn't let up, and they throw me into the arms of my sister.
Her face contorts. She hugs me tight, crying, "Mike . . . oh my God, Mike." Her hand gently removes my toboggan, and she pets my sweaty hair as it slowly slips down between us. I snot into her shoulder.
"Nancy," I snort, voice cracking. I sound muffled through her scratchy shirt fabric. "Please . . ."
The chaos crescendoes around me. My world is blurry with tears. I'm not sure what I'm begging for. They keep shouting. My ears are still ringing. Each breath I take through my nose feels chlorinated, like I'm in a swimming pool, and my tears don't stop raining.
"Please . . ." I cry. "She can't be. She can't be . . ." Dead is left implied.
When they take us for questioning, no words come out of my mouth. I only stare. My eyes must be conveying what I feel, but they keep pressing anyway.
"How did you know her?"
"What was your goal?"
"How did you do it?"
I know they have to be asking everybody the same questions. They can answer them. I only stare. The pale grey walls of the discarded military quarters press in on me, and the soldier looks at me with malice.
At this moment, I decide: nobody's good in this world except for my friends.
I pick at my shaky fingers until my cuticles bleed.
She can't be dead.
But . . .
I look up through my red-rimmed eyes. When I open my mouth, my voice is cracked and pathetic.
"Screw you."
Despite the glaze of tears, I glare the hardest I think I ever have. The man only looks at me, quirks his brow, and writes something down.
I decide then that I hate this man especially. His brows are rigid and pronounced, skin tanned and wrinkled with age. His presence is vaguely threatening. His broad, square shoulders remind me of Hopper, and I think he wants to hit me.
"Michael," he says. His voice is stony, but he's trying to play it off as soft. "You have to cooperate—"
"This is your fault," I snap. I look at him with blazing eyes, and as I blink I realize I'm still crying. "You're disgusting. Disgusting."
Then I shut down again. I go quiet. The man's hand twitches, but he only writes something else down. I think to myself about how dumb they are. My thoughts are brash and conflicting. She's not dead. She's gone. She isn't. I think she must be coming back. I think she must be gone forever.
When they finally give up on me, they send me back outside into an empty room. Everybody's gone into their own interrogations. They must be cooperating more than me.
With a flash of fear, I wonder where they've taken Holly. Are they being just as horrible and cold? Are they worse? Are their twitches of hand less restrained? Where is she? I need to see her. I need . . .
Looking angry, Nancy strides out of the room they had her in and slams the door. I wonder what she said. What they said. I think she's courageous for acting out to authority, but I also know they aren't gonna do jack-shit. They have to keep the silence. It's a wonder they don't just kill us, but the death of the entire Wheeler family, two Sinclairs, a Henderson, and three Byers would be impossible to cover up.
I look at her. She sits down on the stiff vinyl couch next to me, smooths her face of any bitterness, and offers me her hand. I take it.
"What did they say?" I muster, clearing my throat. The corner of her mouth twitches.
"Questions," she answers vaguely. "How long she had been in Hawkins. How long we had been planning . . . everything."
"The same stuff they asked me," I confirm. "Did you answer?"
"Some of them." Nancy shifts. She squeezes my hand tightly in an act of sympathy. "Did you?"
I look past her. My eyes land on the wall, just above her shoulder.
"No."
My sister sighs, scooting close to me so that we're pressing against each other. I think back to when I was young. When I would get upset, she would always do anything she could to make me feel better.
"I understand," she starts. "When Barb died . . ."
I sharply look away. "Don't say that."
"Say what?"
"That word."
Died.
. . .
Nancy only sighs. Her eyes search my face for something. An answer. Something to say. Some encouraging words.
"What I'm trying to say, Mike, is that it gets better. You might not believe me, but—"
"It's not fair!" I wail. A rush of emotion surges through me. Nancy's eyes widen with alarm. "It's not fair! It's not!"
"Shh. Shh," she whispers. Glancing around the room, she continues. "I know. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."
"It's not fair," I murmur as she embraces me. I bounce with sobs. "She's not . . . it's not . . ."
Home is different.
They finally let us come home after what feels like forever. It's a wreck. The demogorgon destroyed the place when they came to take Holly away. I don't have a room anymore, because that thing crashed through my wall and threw Dad into my bed half alive. With him and Mom still in the hospital, we don't have much we can do until they're out. I sleep on the couch for the time being. I can't actually sleep at all.
The Byers still live with us. Jonathan and Will still have the basement. I thought about asking if I could join them tonight, but I didn't wanna make things awkward. I feel strange. Sometimes I expect her to walk through the door, to tell me it was all for show and that when they lift the quarantine, she can finally run away.
She doesn't.
Holly comes to be with me on the couch tonight. She doesn't want to go in her room. She says it scares her.
I tell her I would be scared too. I tell her I'm still scared, and I tell her I'm sorry she ever got wrapped up in any of this.
I feel numb, almost. I can tell Holly's picking up on it. She's smart for a ten year old. I guess it comes from always having her head in a book — A Wrinkle in Time used to be her favorite, but I think she hates it now. All that talk of Mr. Whatsit has probably soiled it for her.
I ask her how she's holding up. She says she's doing okay. I tell her what she did was very noble, and she lightly touches her necklace of Holly the Heroic. I think of Mike the Brave.
"I'm glad she helped you," I say. Holly looks at the figurine and then me.
"Do you still have yours?" she asks. A slight waver shakes her voice.
"Mine?"
I hesitate.
"Mike the Brave," she confirms, dropping the necklace back to her chest.
. . .
"No." I look down at my hands. "I used him. For the bomb."
I feel Holly shift next to me. Her voice comes in a whine. "Why?"
"I guess I thought I wouldn't need him anymore. With everything finally . . ." I swallow. "Being done. I guess I thought I could be brave on my own."
"Can you?"
I sigh. Choosing honesty, I shake my head.
"I don't think so, Holly."
"Oh."
I watch her frown and instantly regret my words. She's supposed to look up to me. But I'm not Nancy, or Jonathan. I still have people I look up to, too. Maybe that makes me wrong.
"But he's still here," I justify. I bring my hand to my heart. "Inside."
That seems to calm her. She nods.
I look at Dad's chair and I frown. Though I never cared much for him, a pang strikes my chest. Mom and Dad are in the hospital. Mom is stable, but Dad hasn't woken up yet.
Holly follows my gaze.
"He didn't know how old I am," she says sullenly. I raise my brows.
"What?"
"He was arguing with Mom. He didn't know how old I am."
My brows furrow. My lips part, but no sound comes.
"Don't take it personally," I say. "He thought I was ten when I was twelve. Last week he asked when I was moving out because he thought I was a senior."
"What grade are you in, again?"
I swallow. "Eleventh. A junior."
"Oh."
"I still have a whole year left of school after this year." I shrug.
"A year isn't a lot," Holly offers encouragingly.
"I think that's the problem. I'm scared to graduate," I say honestly. That earns me a weird look from Holly, who's nose crinkles.
"Why? I hate school."
"You'll understand when you're older," my voice trembles. In my mind, the closing gate flashes. I suck in a deep breath. "The world is . . . a weird place."
I'm not sure why I'm talking about this. It's stupid and irrelevant. But Holly seems to need me. Need somebody to talk to. I frown.
I fight back the tears that gather in my eyes. She's gone. She can't be gone. Everytime I think about something else, my sorrow just seems to intrude again.