✓ | 2. young blood [STEVE HARRINGTON]

eight.

CHAPTER EIGHT:
VIOLENT REUNIONS

[ DIG DUG PART II ]

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           Stretched across the solid black marble wall in front of him, a huge crack split the stone, splinter spider-webbing outward from the main hole and the ripped away brick piled up in a mountain of rubble at the base of it. Like some form of plant, purple-grey ivy that looked sticky to the touch spread outward and leeched along the walls and the edge of the floor, while the gap itself was bridged by strings of a similar goopy substance. Through the crack, an eerie red glow shone from the unknown, casting Thomas' face in a hot orange, like sunset in hell; the shadow of a creature loomed forward, its head rearing toward the gap but not pushing through it.

A gate. The gate. And there was something on the other side.

            Fearfully, puffing out air in only short, hard gasps of air, scared at the impossible speed of his racing heart, Thomas looked down to the thick branches of ivy spreading from the gate. The closest one crawled along the floor not one foot from where he stood, continuing along beyond him, weaving an uncertain pattern along the wet ground.

            The arm of ivy was scorched black, the material — whatever it was, was usually a fresh and damp purple, slick with moisture that reeked of mould — blackened and charred, flaking in certain places. Dead — possibly. Burned in an attempt to bring death upon it — definitely.

          Thomas shuddered, looking up at the gate. Ice slipped across his back as fear clasped a merciless and cold hand around his heart, squeezing so tight his whole chest constricted. He couldn't imagine the damage, didn't want to even think about the damage for more than a second, if a creature like that leaked out of its home and poisoned Hawkins in the same way its home had poisoned Thomas' mind.

Instinct surged through him and Thomas stepped forward, toward the gate, but with what purpose, he did not yet know. He just knew he had to do something. Instinct — be it muscle memory or just a plain old human reaction — sent him into action and he wanted to move, to do something, but there was so much to do and he didn't know in what order and he didn't know how, which was, naturally, his biggest worry. His brain felt fuzzy: anxiety and stress was already getting the better of him.

           "Thomas," a voice whispered, and the thoughts that bounced around his brain seemed to lose all of their energy, smoothing out, vanishing into thin air, at the sound of that all-too-familiar voice.

           Instinct surged through him, but this time Thomas knew what to do. Knew what was important. He whirled around, eyes already burning with tears.