𝔸𝕥 𝕊𝕚𝕩𝕖𝕤 𝕒𝕟𝕕 𝕊𝕖𝕧𝕖𝕟𝕤

ᴍᴏʀᴇ ᴛɪᴍᴇ ⑦

Thursday, November 10, 1983, (Not Quite) Hawkins Indiana

Tyler figured it would be inhumane to compare a literal monster to a human being. But when he thought back to meeting Billy Hargrove, he couldn't help but see the striking similarities. Leaving him behind was the only good part of moving to Hawkins, and the worst was coupled in the same boat; he'd never got to say goodbye to his best friend, Max Mayfield.

He spent most of his summers hanging out up the creek bed by Max's house, dried out until spring. It was like their own clubhouse, complete with a mangy couch their other friend, Brandon Patterson, had found set out by the curb on trash day.

He'd come over around nine, and his entire day was just Max. Reading comics, hanging out at the skateboard park, and splashing around in the community pool with Brandon. The day he'd met Billy, he'd been sitting on the couch with Max, looking out over the road that ran along the bottom of the hill.

Metallica blared from inside the house, which only amplified when the door slid open and three boys stepped out; one was tall and sort of pudgy, the other with greasy hair down to his shoulders, and the last with a face like a movie star, wearing a denim jacket.

The three of them came out to the creek bed and sat down next to Max on the couch. Tyler had to shift over for them, forced onto the armrest, watching as the handsome one leaned back and lit a cigarette.

For a while, they all sat and watched the traffic at the bottom of the hill without saying anything. It wasn't exactly uncomfortable as it was hostile, though Max tended to be like that with everyone.

Finally, the greasy-haired one jumped up, stuck his arms out, and spun in a circle.

"This sucks, man," he said to the denim-jacket guy. "I can't believe your dad jacked your car."

The handsome guy gave the other boy a bored stare, then blew out a long plume of smoke and took out a lighter from his pocket, staring intently at the weeds and dry scrub brush that grew all over the hill. There was a look in his eyes that made Tyler gulp nervously. He was so focused on it that he didn't notice the greasy-haired boy leaning down over some bushes, his eyes wide.

"Nasty!" he exclaimed. Something was rotting under there, the carcass of some orange-furred animal. "Look at this thing. Its ear's all messed up. I bet it used to be a total brawler. Do you think if I got some pliers, we could pull out its teeth for a necklace?"

"Gross, !" Max protested, her red hair glowing fiercely in the hot sun. But he had ignored her, and sauntered over to the bush, his eyes dark, despite being electric blue.

"Or we could pay our respects and give it a Viking funeral. What do you think, Sid?"

The pudgy boy on the couch didn't answer. He turned to Max, who was sitting above him on the back of the couch, and held up a catalog to her face. "This one's a Kramer Baretta. It's got a slanted humbucker, just like the Frankenstrat that Eddie Van Halen plays on 'Hot for Teacher.' See this little plate under the strings?"

She nodded, completely understanding him, while Tyler was still trying to remember who Eddie Van Halen was.

Over by the body of the cat, Wade was laughing. "You're the one who said it would be cool to see one. At least Billy's got the balls to be a man about it!"

Sid, irritation flashing across his face, folded the corner on the Kramer Baretta and didn't look up. "You mean, do the dumbest thing possible?"

"What's a Viking funeral?" Tyler asked, finding his voice again. He hated how he sounded so shy, but there was something just wrong about Billy.