Time After Time (a Stranger Things fanfiction)

Rain on the Scarecrow

"Rain on the Scarecrow"

Rain on the scarecrow blood on the plow

- John Mellencamp

It had not been a pleasant morning. El was still mad about last night—and with justification, Hopper had to admit—and he was still hurt that she hadn't come out and shared the candy and watched movies with him—with less justification, he also had to admit, although he didn't want to. So he'd already been annoyed when he got to the office and started looking at maps and discovered what he had hoped he wouldn't have to discover—that the decaying crops and grasses appeared to have a lot to do with Hawkins Lab.

Of course. Who else could it be? That damn gate, he thought, grabbing his hat and maps and heading out to drive over to the facility.

He laid the maps out for Owens, showing him what he'd found.

"Grass, crops trees—everything in this area is either dead or dying, and that's a radius of over three miles. And it all leads back to here." He tapped the rectangle in the center of the map that was the lab building.

Owens tapped the rectangle as well, then traced the topographical markings with his finger. "See, these patterns here are really pretty. I like the design." He waved his hand around over the map. "It's almost psychedelic."

Hopper rolled his eyes. He'd had some hopes that Owens might take this seriously, but apparently he had overestimated the man. "Everything's a joke to you, huh," he muttered, taking a seat.

"No, it's not a joke, I just—I really—I don't understand what this has to do with me, Chief Hopper."

How could he not get this? "Whatever's happening is spreading from this place. From this lab."

"That's impossible. It's—the last burn, it was two days ago. It's contained."

"What if there's a leak?" Hopper demanded.

Owens laughed, as if the idea was impossible. "A leak? No, no."

"I don't know, man! You're the scientist."

"Exactly. And I'm telling you, there's nothing to worry about."

He might be a small town police chief, Hopper thought, but that didn't mean he had to buy a pig in a poke. "Convince me."

"Convince you?"

"Yeah." Hopper got out of his chair, leaning over the desk. "You and your egghead friends go out there to every area on this map, and you run your tests, or whatever the hell it is you do, and you see if anything comes up."

"All right, so—so, you're giving me orders now?" The laughter faded from Owens's face, and he shook his head decisively. "No."

"I keep things nice and quiet for you," Hopper reminded him. "And you keep your shit out of my town. That is the deal."

It was the deal; Owens couldn't argue that. What he seemed to be arguing was that the current shit wasn't his, and Hopper wasn't buying it.

"I have done my part. Now you do yours." Hopper shoved the maps across the desk at Owens and leaned in, his voice very soft. "Convince me."

He hoped it was clear that he wasn't going to let this drop until they did, and he hoped even more that he was too valuable an asset for them to piss off, just in case he decided to tell what he knew. A few words in the right ears—they didn't even have to be true ones. A little bit of mass hysteria in town, and Hawkins Lab might well find the place too hot to hold it.

Truth be told, Hopper had absolutely no idea if he could do anything to dislodge the hold the lab had on Hawkins, or if he had any leverage whatsoever that might make them listen, but he was going to act as though he did for as long as he could, if that was what it took to keep whatever shady crap they were up to over there from spilling out onto innocent people again. Barbara Holland was dead because of them, and Benny, and others. Whatever was going on with the crops—that was someone's livelihood, someone's home, being destroyed, and Hopper wasn't going to sit by and let that happen if he could do anything about it.

Of course, he had the biggest piece of leverage he could possibly find locked in a cabin in the middle of the woods, but he would never use her as a bargaining chip, or even think about her on the Hawkins Lab property, in case they had some poor kid who read minds locked up in there doing their bidding. Besides which, if they ever found out he had her, forget leverage—he'd just be dead. They'd kill him and take her and never give it a second thought.

Owens seemed like someone's grandfather, ready to hang up his shingle and go fishing, but Hopper wasn't about to underestimate the man. He wouldn't have been brought in to fix Brenner's mess if he was as much of a regular Joe as he pretended to be.

So Hopper's job was to keep one step ahead of them, to try to out-think them and be prepared for whatever came, while trying to keep anyone else in Hawkins from knowing there was anything more to the lab than a simple military medical facility. Easy as pie, he thought to himself, lighting a cigarette as he sped away from the building, menacing in all its everyday normality. If your pie could blow up in your face at any second, at least.

An hour later he got a call from Owens, asking to meet at the pumpkin farm. When he got there, he found a crew from Hawkins Lab, in full white suits, digging up the field and carting away the rotted pumpkins. He stood next to Owens for a few minutes, watching, before Owens admitted, "Well, you were right about these pumpkins. Some nasty stuff. And that smell! Gee, mother of God."

"So what exactly do you think is going on?"

"Well, I told you what I think. But we'll run the tests and we'll see what comes up. In the meantime, I just need you to keep the area clear for us. I don't think it'll be more than a day or two."

"What do you want me to tell people?" Hopper demanded.

"I'm sure you'll figure something out." With a dismissive pat on the arm, Owens walked away.

Before Hopper could go after him, or kick a pumpkin, or do any other petty thing to show how much this situation pissed him off, his walkie crackled. It was Powell, checking in. He snatched the receiver off his belt. "Yeah."

"You remember that Russian girl Murray was going on about the other day?"

A chill moved through Hopper's veins and he immediately turned his head to look at Owens. The doctor was getting into his car. It didn't appear that he had heard anything.

Powell went on, "Yeah, well, now I'm thinking he's not so crazy after all."

"Stay where you are. Do not move." Hopper all but ran for his own car. What had Eleven done? Gotten mad at him, left the cabin, and then what? This was what he had been afraid of all these months—but not afraid enough, it seemed.