Apocalypse, Steve Harrington

Chapter Fifty-Eight. The Great Escape

      She flies back, her head connecting harshly with the cage-like side of the vehicle. She winces immediately, lips folded into a shocked O-shape, eyes squinted at the sudden and sharp pain. Lucy looks over, and he's grabbing at his head, too. Great, she's thinking, another head injury for Steve. Another lump-and-bump she can add to the list of injuries he's acquired in the past twenty-four hours. Or is it forty-eight? Less than that? She doesn't know.

"Ugh, Dustin," she moves to her knees, again, and rubs at her throbbing-scalp, "you are so getting arrested for this. . . dangerous driving."

His blue-eyes are wide, and he gulps, and he's turning around to see the commotion, "you guys alright back there?" a pause, where he looks at Erica, and realizes that he has bigger-fish-to-fry, "They're fine."

      This headache is a total bummer, she's thinking, and everything is moving too fast for her to comprehend. She's wondering, suddenly, if her nose is bleeding again. Is a stream of crimson-liquid streaming out of her nostril, and down her upper-lip, and dangerously near the part of her lips, where her tongue sits between her teeth? Her head hurts. She remembers when her brother got a concussion playing football, and he fell asleep, and she was afraid he'd die, cause of death, concussion. She can't fall asleep, what if she has a concussion! Would there even be time to fall asleep?. . . no, probably not, because Dustin is clutching her hand, and he's pulling her out of the miniature-Russian-car.

      "Hey, I think my nose is bleeding," she thinks aloud, and brings two-fingers to her nostril— her fears are confirmed! A thick coat of red-blood drips her over fingertips, and she turns to Dustin with a gasp, "look, Henderson!"

      Steve scoffs, "aw, Henderson, you totally made her bleed."

      Her shoulder nearly dislocates, when he yanks her forward with the force of a-hundred men, "that was already there, come on," Dustin hurries the three, "Get out, come on!"

      "Ow!" Steve groans, his voice caught in his sore-throat, "we're coming!"

      She turns to Robin, and cups a hand around her lips to conceal her words, "this is terrible," she's whispering, loudly, "I mean, my head hurts, and Dustin has a huge stick up his ass."

      The dirty-blonde hums, "this little-man is so. . . uptight!" Robin shouts, in a half-laugh.

Her chest tightens, "you yelled, now Dustin knows we're shit-talking him," Lucy speaks, between her teeth.

"Yeah, whatever, I could hear you, anyway," the curly-haired boy says, "just get in the elevator!"

They're all bumping shoulders, and her brain feels like it's going to float, straight through her skull, and out into the open-air. The straps of her red-colored tank-top are twisted, and her mouth is dry, and her legs are moving faster than her thoughts. She's running the palms of her hands over the boxes, and she's humming to herself, and, now, her knees feel like they're going to buckle beneath her. A force pulls them up, and she laughs, and suddenly, the elevators movement is throwing her off-balance. Like all of the clamoring noises join in one big, sudden bundle, she can hear Steve shouting.

      "I'm surfing!" he stands on a cart, hands in the air, palms facing the sky (the ceiling, more like it. . . she forgets they're beneath the ground). Robin pushes it, so he has to fight for balance, and his chest is rumbling with whooping laughter, "hey, Hop, look!"