"Are the communists behind this?"
"No."
"So our government lied?"
"Our government is behind this!"
Did Scarlett think she would be involved in a huge...
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"Oft hope is born when all is forlorn." J. R. R. Tolkien ｡❅*⋆⍋*∞*｡* ∞*⍋⋆*❅｡
Without a trace of hope or joy, Scarlett, Lucas, Floyd and Erica sat in the waiting room of the Hawkins hospital. Doctors and nurses had taken Max away from them, and the group had been left behind. A steady stream of people continued to run into the hospital with injuries or injured loved ones. An hour passed before Scarlett rose from her seat and inquired about Max, only to receive no news. She did manage to acquire two bags filled with ice, and walked back to her friends.
"Max?" Lucas croaked, looking up at Scarlett with one eye.
The Henderson woman shook her head. "There's no news yet," she whispered before holding out the two bags. "Here, hold these to your eyes." Better late than never. Floyd took one of the bags and crunched the ice between his fist as he held it up to his bloodied face. Lucas didn't react, and so Scarlett gently pressed the ice against the boy's face. She took a shuddering breath. Still no news from the others, she could only hope they were all right.
The hospital doors opened again, and Scarlett looked up. The Greene family filtered in, carrying their baby, who appeared to be wailing.
Scarlett stood up, placed Lucas' hand against the ice and told him to keep it there. She walked over to the seat next to Lucas, where Erica was sitting. "Erica," Scarlett knelt in front of the little girl. "Do you want a hug?" She asked softly, green gaze staring into Erica's brown one. After a few seconds of processing, Erica nodded. Scarlett reached up and clutched the girl against her chest. Erica hugged Scarlett back after a moment. The two remained tightly embraced.
They ought to try and let their families know they were alive, and to find out if their families were alive. Floyd made a mental map of Hawkins and determined most of their houses shouldn't have been in the paths of the gates. But how could he be sure? At best he had a vauge idea of how the gates ran, nothing was certain.
Floyd stood and ignored the pain radiating from his back and abdomen. "I'm going to call my parents," he muttered before stumbling to the payphone. The boy dug around in the pockets of his mud-stained jeans before producing two quarters.
Roughly, Floyd jammed a quarter into the phone and punched in his parents' phone number. He held the horn up to his ear and leaned his head against the payphone. It rang until Floyd decided they really weren't picking up and all but smashed the phone back on the horn. He considered dialling his aunt, but decided against it. They were probably all out looking for them and not at home.
The ice crunched in Floyd's hands before he hissed and tossed the bag away from him. It smacked into the vending machine El had once sabotaged. The moist bag then flopped harmlessly to the ground. It landed in front of a pair of nice leather shoes. The shoes sat under a pair of acid-washed jeans, which were topped with a thin sweater with countless colourful specks and stars. A sharp white collar peeked out over the sweater and framed a dark neck.
