Apocalypse, Steve Harrington

Chapter Fifty-Three. Operation Child Endangerment

      It was her first breaking-and-entry. When they were younger, in middle-school, Daniel and his friends were the type to explore the abandoned homes on the outer-rims of Hawkins of New York City. They'd gather flashlights, and move through the decaying-home, and he'd return to her and mention how cool it was to walk through an old place like that. She'd been tempted, at times, to join them in their creeping. . . but she never did, fear stopped her. This wasn't as intense, at any means, but the heaps of paper-boxes was enough to prompt panic in the chambers of her chest.

      The pads of her fingers moved to trace the surface of the box, "the panda's cute," she said, in whisper, with a lifting-shrug of her shoulders. "What if it is Chinese food. . . that'll be kind of embarrassing."

      Steve's chest heaved with a sigh. He pulled a switchblade from his pocket, and moved to take one of the boxes in his hand. Swiftly, he sliced through the tape, and lifted the flaps— a metal-device sat inside.

      When he reached to open it, her hand flew to grab his bicep. "Woah, woah," she said, eyes deer-wide, "who's saying there's not a bomb in there? Or, like, toxic gas?"

      He looked at her, through his peripheral. "I've got this," Steve said, prompting an eye-roll from the girl beside him. He reached forward, again, and folded a hand around the handle of the device— with a twist, air hissed out of the box, and up at their faces.

Each leaned in, the tops of their heads grazing one-another. Lucy's lips formed an O, and her eyes widened, and she took a small, hesitant step back. With a hand wrapped around the handle of Erica's backpack, she tugs her, "yeah, that's a fucking bomb."

Steve narrowed his eyes, "it's definitely not Chinese food." He placed the cover down, reached a hand inside, and turned to the others, "uh, maybe you guys should, you know, stand back."

Dustin planted his feet, and fought Steve's push-back, "no," he said. "No way!"

      She spoke between her teeth, "just step back, man."

      "No!" Dustin was yelling, now, "if you die, I die," he said, firm and slightly-emotional.

      Steve stared, for a moment, before lifting his shoulders with a heavy shrug. ". . . Okay." He reached in, carefully, and folded his fingers around the latch— when he pulled, a clear, glass-case of a green-substance was revealed. It hissed, and prompted a deer-in-headlights look from all of them. He gawked, "what the hell?"

A rumble. The ground beneath her dusty-Converse shook, and something behind her shuffled. Her eyes, somehow, widened further, lips parting on their own accord. "Um. . ." she hummed, "the room just moved."

Erica's brown-eyes shifted upwards, to look at her, "booby traps," she whispered, high-pitched.

At a mechanical-whirring, the dirty-blonde stepped forward, and snatched the glass-vile from Steve's palms, "let's just grab that," Robin turned on her heels. "And go."

Her brown-hair swayed behind her back with a sharp movement. Pointer-finger moving towards the buttons, she hovered over them, and bit the inside of her cheek in hesitance, "which button is it, Erica?"

She made a sour-face, "jeez, Babysitters Club, press any button," Erica shouted.

With her sweaty-palm, she slammed against all eight multi-colored buttons, "alright, I'm pressing them!" her voice cracked. "Nothing is happening!"