Apocalypse, Steve Harrington

Chapter Fifteen. A Bad Fucking Idea

FIFTEEN
— a bad fucking idea

THE ONLY EXPLANATION for this was, well, insanity. They weren't thinking straight, they couldn't have been, not when they were practically throwing themselves at the creature, asking for it to eat their faces off! Desperate times make for desperate measures, and it was true; no teenager in the right headspace would be trying to catch a monster. So, insanity— Lucy thought, anyway.

Insane, but brave; they were doing what had to be done.

Her brother was livid. Being put on babysitting duty was the last thing he wanted, especially when he was almost positive that was the world was coming to an end. Was she supposed to leave the kids completely alone?— No, and she trusted Daniel to keep them safe while she and the two others monster hunted. Half of her wished she had been the one to stay behind, and not the other way around; purely because the danger of this situation was almost sickening.

She ran her hand down the baseball bat, the nails she had just applied leaving small scratches on her palm. Swallowing thickly, Lucy tried to be positive— maybe, the monster wouldn't attack her again. The (strong) probability that it would, though, was killing her. She really, really didn't want to face it again, not after the first time it had stalked her. Lucy was absolutely convinced this was all one, big, bad fucking idea.

    Nancy's voice broke her trance. "Luce," she called. "Are you ready?"

Joining them in the heart of the living room, she watched with weary eyes as she was handed a knife. Hesitating, Lucy spoke. "Do we all have to cut our hands?" she shook her head. "I dunno, it seems a little excessive—"

    "We need as much blood as we can get," Jonathan spoke, cutting her off. "It's the only way to get it here."

She blinked, shrugging. The plan was set in stone, now; wait for the yo-yo to move, then set the fire. Easy.

Her stomach flipped when the tip of the knife came in contact with her palm. She dragged down, heart lurching to her throat as the warm, thick blood dripped and poured down her wrist. Eyes screwed shut, Lucy let out a quivering breath. "I hate blood," she murmured, holding her hand out, and as far away as possible.

She bandaged herself. While Nancy wrapped Jonathan's hand, she sat with her hand in her lap, and one knee pressed to her chest. Her hazel eyes stared blankly at the bloodied bandage, crimson liquid seeping through the thin gauze. As the others talked, their voices were reduced to muffling— at the sound of pounding at the front door, Lucy nearly jumped out of her skin. Shoulders flinching up, and eyes darting towards Nancy, she held her breath in anticipation.

Then, his voice split the air. "Jonathan? Are there, man? It's Steve! he shouted. "I just wanna talk."

    Exchanging a grim look with her friend, Lucy motioning Nancy to answer the door. The girl rushed forward, barely cracking it open. "Steve," she huffed out. "You need to leave."

    His face twitched in confusion. "Nancy?"

    "Steve," she said, sternly. "Leave."