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Eddie was sick. That was Richie’s main concern.
He hadn’t been to school in, like, four days. For Eddie? He might as well have dropped off the face of the Earth. Dude doesn’t miss school for anything.
Riche’s on his way over there right now, because,
duh.
It’s Eddie. The list of things he
wouldn’t
do for Eddie is pretty damn short.
Or, well. Maybe nonexistent.
He has a plastic bag at his side, rustling loudly. It’s got all sorts of medicine inside, one half recommended by Beverely and the other half by Bill. Richie can hear the pills rattling inside of their containers.
By the time he gets there, it’s beyond late. Mrs. K would
kill
him if he came over during the day. She hates Richie, for some reason. Honestly, it could be any number of things. Hell, he could
sneeze
too close to Eddie and she’d throw a fit.
Climbing up to Eddie’s window like he always does isn’t as easy when he’s got a plastic bag in one hand, but he manages.
Finally
his gangly legs are coming in handy.
Eddie’s room is dark, but so is literally everything else in his house at this time of the night. Doesn’t matter, Richie learned a long time ago that he could open the window from the outside; locked or not.
So, he does. Of course, the damned thing squeaks about as loud as it physically can, so by the time he’s
in
the room Eddie’s already shot straight up in bed.
“Tozier
?
” He croak-whispers.
“Jesus, Eds. You got the plague?”
Luckily, after the whole It situation, Eddie’s hypochondria had calmed down significantly. He’d stopped freaking out so hard about germs, but it was still prominent enough to make it pretty freaking weird that he was
this
sick.
“What are you doing in my
room?”
Richie grins at Eddie’s silhouette in the darkness.
“Healing you.” He holds up the bag. “Figured Mrs. K wouldn’t want me during the day, so –,” he shrugs, “-- I found a way in.”
“You’re insane,” Eddie rasps, slumping back down.
Richie squints at him. “You got a nightlight or something? It’s dark as all get-out, Mista K.”
Eddie’s resulting mumble from under the blankets isn’t very helpful, so Richie helps himself to poking around until he finds the lightswitch, flicking it on.
Eddie groans, and the blankets pull tighter around him.
“Ahh, c’mon. Rise and shine, Frankenstein.
Hey,
that rhymed!”
“Get
out,
Richie,” Eddie mumbles.
“I’m helping, ditwad.”
“Whatever,” Eddie rasps back from under the blankets. He remains an unmoving lump, though, so still totally unhelpful.
Richie scoots forward, slowly shuffling across the carpet. He gets to the edge of the bed, gets a decent grip on the blue blanket, and…
yank!
The covers fly off in one massive
swoosh,
leaving tiny little Eddie all alone on his twin bed, curled into himself. As soon as the blankets are off, he presses his face into the bed, away from the light.
“Eddie,
c’mon.
Gotta get some meds in ya system. Doc’s orders,” Richie says, dropping Eddie’s bundled blankets.
Eddie makes an exhausted, sickly noise and heaves himself up.
Holy
shit.
Eddie’s face is pale as all hell, the whites of his eyes gone a terrifying yellow. His bottom lip is tinged red, and his teeth are ringed in it when he grimaces. His neck is marred by long, red scratches, like he’s been clawing at his own skin.
“Eddie, man, are you –?”
“Just a cold,” he rasps, eyes darting down and away.
“Yeah, ‘just a cold,’ my ass. You’re sick, man. Like,
sick
sick. You need a hospital.”
That exact moment is when Richie’s world goes to shit.
And that sort of thing always happens very quickly.
First, Eddie opens his mouth to apparently try to explain whatever the fuck is going on with him. Before he really gets much further, a grotesque clicking comes from the open window Richie left.
They both turn, confused, only to find the pale, sunken face of
someone
staring at them from the window. Their face is fucked, all bloody and torn apart. One grimy hand grips the window sill, and their fingernails are caked with blood. This thing friggin’
growls
and it’s exposed, glistening red throat contracts. Richie watches as its vocal cords tighten, making that nauseating clicking noise again.
Fucking
zombie.
“Richie…?!” Eddie’s terrified voice is what really sets the stone rolling.
Like, Richie’s got no fucking clue what’s going on, but he knows two things.
First of all, he needs to get the
hell
away from this grotesque, bleeding thing currently dragging itself through the window.
Second of all? Hell will freeze over before he leaves Eddie here with it.
He leaps into action before he even really realizes it, snatching Eddie’s wrist and dragging him right up out of bed. He slams into Eddie’s door so hard that it flies open, and they both scramble right on down his stairs into the kitchen.
Without any reasoning of
where
to go, Richie’s dragging Eddie outside, and then they’re running down the moonlit street.
And, like. Richie
knows
zombie apocalypses. He's read plenty of comics, and they've killed basically the physical manifestation of one. So his brain is all like,
That easy, huh? Thought there might’ve been a few more –
He doesn’t even get to finish before something off to their left snarls disgustingly. Footsteps approach from the same direction, headed directly at Eddie.
Richie’s brain doesn’t really have time for processing stuff like a plan, so he just yanks Eddie ahead of him and spins around.
Another snarling, clicking zombie-thing rushes at him, say maybe four feet away? Without a single thought in the world, Richie squares his feet and winds his fist back. Eddie groans.
And Richie fucking
clocks
this thing across it’s bloody maw of a mouth, sending it sprawling back. The zombie-thing trips over its own heavy feet, landing itself square on its ass. It looks shocked, yellowed eyes gone wide as it tries to pick itself back up.
“
Ha!
Get
fucked!
Zombie motherfucker! Eddie, did you see –?”
“Yes!” It would’ve been encouraging, but Eddie’s voice sounds like a window in a windstorm, cracking like there’s no tomorrow. “We’ve gotta go, Richie!”
As much as Richie would’ve liked to continue gloating about how hard he just
suckerpunched
that thing, Eddie’s got a point. It’s already picking itself back up, and now that it’s gotten over the shock, it looks pissed
.
“Right, right,” Richie says, scrambling back over to Eddie.
And, like, he was kind of expecting a tired, sickly version of Eddie after all that running and terror. But, somehow, Eddie looks sort of
rejuvenated
. Yes, his chest is heaving and eyes are wide as all get out, but he’s grinning like an idiot.
Together, Richie no longer dragging Eddie by the arm, they race down the street, away from the beginning of the end.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Richie doesn’t even realize that they’ve been running toward Bill’s house until they get there. He’s not really that surprised, though. They always run to Big Bill when things get bad.
And,
yeah,
it’s late, but that really doesn’t seem to matter when the fucking apocalypse appears to be starting back at Eddie’s house. Since they’ve left his street, things have been eerily quiet, but Richie imagines it won’t stay like that for long.
Luckily for them, Bill doesn’t lock his back door.
“How do you even
know
that?” Eddie asks, perplexed when the door swings open without an issue.
“Best if ya don’t know, Eds.”
“So you just break into everyone’s house, then,” Eddie whispers as they creep towards Bill’s room.
“Pretty much,” Richie whispers back. A floorboard creaks under his sneakers, and he winces.
“
Quiet,
dumbass,” Eddie hisses.
“Oh, no shit Eds? I thought we were supposed to be making as much noise as possible. Hey, whaddya say –?”
“Shut
up,
” Eddie snaps, but he’s smiling. It looks sort of weird, what with his yellowish eyes and his bloodstained teeth.
Richie grins back, but he’s glad that they’ve finally reached Bill’s room cause he’s scared a little shitless.
What he’s
not
expecting is to find Bill’s room with the lights on, and with a fully alert, pajama-clad Bill holding a baseball bat in
prime
swinging position.
“Woah, woah,
woah
!” Richie whisper-yells. Eddie yelps beside him.
“What the fuh-fuh-f-fuh-
fuck,
Richie?” Bill snaps, lowering his bat.
“I could ask the same!” Richie squeaks.
Bill shakes his head. “G-get in, buh-before you wake up my whole fuh-family.”
They both scramble into Bill’s room, trying to shut the door as gently and quietly as physically possible behind them. Once they’re in, Bill gets to work on chewing them out.
“What the f-fuck are you guys
doing?
It’s two in the muh-morn-morning!”
“Okay, I’ll tell you, but you gotta promise you’ll believe me. I promise I’m not bullshitting ya,” Richie says, holding out a hand as if to shake Bill’s.
Bill raises his eyebrows skeptically, looking over to Eddie for confirmation. Eddie nods somberly. Richie raises his eyebrows, expectant.
“Fine. This buh-better not be something stupe-stupe-st-id –
fuck
. You know what I meant.”
With that, he slots his hand in Richies and squeezes tightly, letting Richie shake his hand up and down vigorously.
With that promise of unquestioning belief, Richie explains. Eddie patches in some of the finer details, including their little run-in on the street, but they manage to get the whole story out.
For a while after, Bill just looks between the two of them, silent.
Then, “No buh-bullshit?”
“None,” Richie says gravely, Eddie nodding beside him.
“Fuck,” Bill mutters. Richie nods appreciatively. They all swear like sailors, but there’s just something about when Bill does it. He just seems so
grownup,
it’s hard not to be a little in awe.
“We’ve gotta f-find the others. Get t-tuh-together. Make a plan.”
“Shouldn’t we suit up before we go out? Get, like, weapons or something?” Eddie pipes up in his raspy voice.
Bill turns to him, mouth opening in response before he just
stops,
staring at Eddie.
“Eddie, what ha-ha-
happened
?”
Eddie turns his head away. “Just a cold. Quit freaking out about it, jeez.”
“A c-cold?” Bill replies, obviously unconvinced. Richie frowns, but for once he stays quiet.
“
Yes,
” Eddie croaks. “Now, can we please get some weapons, or something? I don’t trust Richie to defend us both.”
“Hey, I –,” Richie starts, but Bill cuts him off.
“Yeah, sure. I’ve got s-suh-some stuff. Flashlights, b-baseball buh-bats. We can probably borrow my Dad’s knife.”
“Your Dad’s got a knife, Denbrough?” Richie tilts his head.
“O-
oh,
trust me. My dad’s got a lot more than just a nuh-nuh-knife.”
“Jeez, Big Bill. All this talk, I might just have to leave Eddie for you.” Richie grins.
That sentence earns him two punches on either arm, one from each of them. He grins even wider.
“Let’s go get suited up, th-then, huh?” Bill says, and they set out into the dark, sleeping house, following Bill.
—
Thirty minutes later, they’re properly suited up.
Eddie’s got his pale face streaked with dark face paint, covering most of his paleness. A baseball bat is strapped to his bat, and he’s got a pair of Bill’s old boots on and a black shirt/camo jacket combination from when Bill used to go hunting. He looks kinda cool, in Richie’s opinion.
Richie’s got the same sort of face paint on, painted carefully away from where his glasses push against his face so that it doesn’t smear. Bill gave him a bat, too.
Apparently baseball players keep their bats from each season. Who’d have known it’d be so useful in the apocalypse?
He’s also got a pair of Bill’s slightly newer boots, and he’s exchanged his Hawaiian shirt for a black, skin tight long sleeve. Bill said it was some sort of athletic t-shirt, but it was mostly for camouflage. He’s also got an old fishing knife that Bill resharpened for him.
Bill looks the best of them all. He’s got a whole getup, with camouflage hunting pants and a black t-shirt with an old hunting jacket thrown over. He’s wearing the newest version of his boots, and he’s also got a baseball bat (this season’s) strapped to his back.
But the real selling point of his whole outfit is the fact that he’s got a wicked looking knife at his side, pitch black and
sharp.
Bill had tested it on his finger, and it had drawn blood so easily that he had to wrap it up to get it to stop.
Oh – and they each had a backpack filled with scrappy basics; water and some food and random bandages. Eddie had a long scrap of towel, too.
‘
For a tourniquet
,’ he’d said.
Now, Richie had no clue what a ‘tourniquet’ was, but he wasn’t excited to find out considering Bill’s grim nod afterwards.
So, all of them now properly suited up for a proper apocalypse, they headed out down the road, setting out for Mike first.
Mike had a certain understanding and way with words the rest of them didn’t, even Bill, so it made sense to go to him first. He could help explain it to the rest of them, at least.
—
Surprisingly, Beverly was perfectly okay with the apocalypse.
Once they’d all gathered together, Bill had decided they would actually have a proper talk about it in the clubhouse. So, they’d all marched down there, carefully sneaking around one zombie-thing that was crawling through the streets, dripping blood.
That had pretty much sealed the deal for anyone in the group who didn’t believe them.
Of them all, though, Bev was definitely the most chill about it. Took it on the chin when they showed up to her door at around three in the morning.
She nodded, cool as a cucumber, and very calmly turned back into her house. About five minutes later, she’d come back out, a backpack over her shoulder.
“Supplies,” she explained at Richie’s dumbfounded look. “My dad’s a doomsday prepper, y’know?”
“She’s our final girl,” Richie stage-whispered to Bill. That earned him another punch in the arm.
So, anyway. Once they were all gathered in the clubhouse with Ben’s flashlight illuminating them, Stan lost it.
“
Zombies?
Why are we even here, Bill? We need to, I don’t know, call the
police?
”
“In Derry? What would they do, Stuh-stuh-Stan?”
Stan scowls, like he wouldn’t follow Bill to the ends of the Earth. “I don’t
know.
But this?” He gestures around at all of them sitting in a little circle. “This is insane. We’re not gonna make it. And Eddie’s
sick.
”
“Yes, and he’ll get better,” Mike chimes in evenly. “But you know how it is in Derry. Nothing would happen if we wasted time with the cops.”
“Better to stick it out on our own, with a good leader,” Richie says, saluting Bill. No one laughs, but Bev grins appreciatively.
“I think it’s a good idea,” Ben murmurs from where he sits beside Beverly. His face is still flaming red, but no one calls him out for it.
“Me, too,” Eddie agrees in the same ruined voice. It hurts Richie a little to hear.
“Shuh-should we get a group vuh-vuh-vote? Show of hands?” Bill asks, looking around.
Richie puts his hand up first with Bill, looking over to Eddie. Eddie’s hand goes up next, along with Mike’s and Beverly’s. Ben’s goes up after, a little meekly. Finally, realizing he’s beat, Stan reluctantly puts his own up.
Richie looks around at all of them. Seven hands in the air.
“The Losers are in it to win it, baby!” Riche shoots up, bouncing around and slapping his hand against each of theirs. Stan scowls at him. “Best apocalypse crew, right here. Staking it out on the
rrooooaaaaddd,
baby!”
“Richie, please shut up.” Eddie rolls his yellow eyes, and Richie’s smile dims little, concern dimming his excitement.
“Right-o Eds,” Richie salutes him as well before retaking his seat.
Bill stands up after, cracking his knuckles in a very ‘Alright, team,’ sort of way before immediately breaking into a massive, splitting yawn.
“Who s-suh-says we sleep here tonight?” He asks.
This time, all the hands went up without hesitation. It’s far beyond late, and no one feels like arguing anymore. Tomorrow, they’d work out the details of their own families and what the fuck they were
doing,
but tonight they’d sleep in the clubhouse.
“Is the trapdoor safe, Haystack?” Richie asks as they all trickle away from the circle. “No zombies bursting in on us?”
“Should be,” Ben answers through a yawn. “It’s locked, right?”
Richie nods, and that’s that. Ben’s the architect after all, and he’d know better than anyone if the zombies would be able to get in. Richie trusts him well enough.
With that, they all find hammocks to crawl into. They were stationed around the clubhouse, made for when they all just felt like lounging around on the hotter summer days. Ben had suggested it awhile back.
They worked pretty well for sleeping, too. Pretty convenient for a zombie apocalypse, after all.
Problem was, though, there were seven Losers and only six hammocks. Richie had broken his last summer when he’d tried to stand on it to prove a point about his balancing skills.
Yeah, turns out when you fall off of a hammock with your foot still tangled in it, you tend to drag the hammock down with ya.
Oops.
And,
usually,
this isn’t a problem. They’re not all always in the clubhouse at the same time, so Richie can just use someone else’s hammock.
But now that they’re all here, Richie’s left standing around in the middle of the clubhouse, scowling around.
“Anyone feel like sharing with little ole’ me?” He asks hopefully.
No response.
Well, time to beg,
Richie thinks.
So, he puts on his best ‘I won’t kick you off in the middle of the night’ type face, and starts making his rounds.
He tries Bev first, scooting over to where she’s climbing into her hammock, setting her bag underneath.
“Heyyyy, Bev. Good old Beverly. Rockin’ Red, how’s ya feeling about sharing tonight?”
She looks him up and down. “Beat it, Trashmouth. Go see if Stan’ll share.”
Ah, well. Worth a shot.
He tries Stan next.
“Hey, Stan the Man. I seem to be
fresh
outta luck, so –,”
“No.”
“Awhh, c’mon. I won’t even kick you,” Richie says.
“Yeah, right,” says Stan. “Go beg at someone else’s feet.”
Also worth a shot.
He tries Ben. Also a no, but more sympathetic. He tries Mike. A solid no, as well as a short lecture on how he, “Should’ve been more careful, Richie.” He tries Bill, and gets a short no and then silence.
So, with all other options exhausted, he steps up to Eddie’s hammock.
It’s not like he doesn’t wanna share with Eddie, it’s just. Well. It feels
weird
sleeping beside Eddie. It’s not even cause he’s another guy, ‘cause he’s bothered Stan enough to bunk with him and it’s been perfectly fine. It’s just
something.
It’s weird.
But right now, he’s bone dead
tired.
He could care less about feelings and how he’s gonna feel in the morning seeing Eddie’s sleeping face across from him.
“Hey, Eds?” He whispers.
Eddie groans. “If you’ll shut up about it,
yes.
Ugh.”
Richie grins in the darkness, taking off his glasses and setting them down. “Knew I could count on ya, Eddie Spaghetti.”
“Don’t make me change my mind.”
“Right,” Richie says as he clambers into the hammock beside Eddie.
The official rules of Sharing a Hammock declare that when you share a hammock with someone you aren’t going steady with, you gotta lay across from them. Your legs will touch, but it won’t be super awkward. Also keeps the hammock in balance better so you both don’t go tumbling out.
So, Richie lays
across
from Eddie, his gangley legs tangling into Eddie’s. His stomach turns, but he forces himself to ignore it.
“Goodnight, Eddie,” he whispers, trying to get his nerves to
cut it out.
“G’night, Tozier,” Eddie murmurs back. Richie’s stomach twists into knots.
Eventually, much later on in the night, he manages to finally fall asleep.
—
Ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod, OH MY GOD.
That’s essentially how Richie’s morning starts. With sunlight streaming in through the slats in the floorboards above them, his face hardly an inch from fucking
Eddie Kaspbraks,
and a raging internal monologue.
Somehow, someway, in the middle of the night they’d managed to completely ignore the Number One rule of Sharing A Hammock. They were
somehow
tangled together, Eddie curled into Richie’s arms and their legs a jumbled mess under them. And that fucking
face.
Richie’s paralyzed. He can’t
move,
cause then Eddie will wake up and it’ll be super awkward and he’s not sure his heart can handle that. At the same time, he can’t relax cause this is the stuff of nightmares
and
dreams and he’s gonna fucking
explode
if Eddie moves away from him.
He doesn’t know how long he lays there, internally dying as he studies the way Eddie's chest rises and falls. Maybe fifteen or so minutes before Bill saves/ruins it.
“Ruh-ruh-Richie. Get up. We’ve gotta go, c’mon,” Bill says from behind him.
Richie flinches, caught, and cranes his neck up to see Billy’s narrowed eyes staring at him. For a few seconds, they just look at each other. Richie’s pretty sure his heart has either stopped or it’s going so fast he can’t hear it anymore.
“Is he oh-oh-okay?” Billy only says.
“I, uh, I don’t know. I think so?” Richie hates how his voice cracks right in the middle of that sentence.
“Let’s hope. Come on. I’m getting everyone eh-else up,” Bill warns him.
“Thanks,” Richie whispers. It’s a clear warning, and Rich could
kiss
Bill for it.
Bill nods, and turns away to go wake the others.
Richie gets to work on untangling himself from Eddie, which is near impossible, because like. A) He and Eddie are really tangled, here, and B) He
really
doesn’t want to move.
Eventually, heartbreakingly, he
does
manage to untangle them and he also somehow manages to step out of the hammock without spilling them both over. He grabs his glasses from the floor and slots them back on.
For the next minute and a half, he just stands there, watching Eddie sleep. Which,
yeah,
sounds super creepy. But he just can’t bring himself to wake Eddie up.
Luckily, that little internal conflict is solved for him when chaos explodes behind him.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
The first indicator is the slow, steady creak of the trapdoor opening. Richie doesn’t turn at first, (rightfully) figuring it’s one of the other Losers.
As he so often is, he’s immediately proven wrong.
“Stuh-Stan, wuh-wuh-w-wuh-wuh–,”
Richie turns, confused. Bill usually doesn’t stutter that hard unless there’s a big fuckin’ problem.
“
Watch out!
” Bev screams, finishing Bill’s sentence for him. Richie whips around just in time to witness the whole thing.
Stan, who’s standing directly under the trapdoor, tilts his head up in time to see the snarling, blood-dripping zombie above him. It reaches a gnarly, bloody hand down to grab at him.
As its fingers begin to curl into grabbing claws, Bill launches forward, holding his wooden bat aloft. His mouth has curled into a nasty snarl, and Richie’s never seen his eyes go so dark.
Bill swings the bat in a deadly arc, and the thing connects so hard with the zombie’s head that it comes crashing down into the clubhouse. Stan scrambles out of the way, eyes wide and his thin chest heaving.
“Stan, are you –?” Mike starts, but he’s cut off by a nasty squelching
thud
as Bill brings the bat down on the zombie’s head.
Richie turns away as soon as his brain connects the pieces, but something warm sprays his legs anyway. He doesn’t need three guesses to tell you what it is.
“Thanks, Bill,” Stan whispers shakily. Richie looks back over as Bill lifts his head up, his face splattered in blackish-red blood.
“Nuh-nuh-n-nuh-
ugh. No problem
. Are yuh-you alright?” Bill asks as he wipes blood from his face with the back of his hand.
“Yeah.” Stan’s eyes are so damn wide, and Richie doesn’t even have the stomach to tease him for it.
“I’m gonna vomit,” Eddie’s whisper turns Richie’s head. Eddie is sat straight up in the hammock, face deadly pale. Was it really like that less than a few minutes ago when they’d been laying together? Surely it couldn’t have been, right? Richie would’ve noticed, surely.
Bill lets go of the bat, and Richie hears it clatter loudly to the ground. None of the other Losers say anything as Richie helps Eddie up and out of the hammock, but he can hear them gathering their things wordlessly. Preparing for the day.
Right. They’ve seen worse.
When they’ve all collected their things and packed it up, they file up through the clubhouse without a word between them. No one says anything as they gingerly step over the bloody pile of zombie on the floor.
In the broad light of midday, the smeared blood all over Bill looks nothing short of gruesome. He’s gotten most of it off of his face, but there’s nothing he can do to rid it from his clothes yet.
“So, where to?” Mike asks, breaking the tense silence and drawing the eyes away from Bill’s blood-soaked self.
“We have to check on our families.” Eddie’s voice is hardly loud enough to be heard, but he manages.
Bill shakes his head. “We can’t. If a zuh-z-zombie found us
here
, then wuh-wuh-what do you think it looks like back there?”
“I don’t think we should, either,” Bev agrees. “I mean, I
care
about my parents, I
do.
But it’s dangerous,” she finishes meekly, trailing off into silence.
“Yeah, I agree with Red and Big Bill. I don’t want any of us to risk our bottom half trying to protect our families,” Richie adds in. It’s hard enough to joke even in the light of day, but he’s managing.
Stan frowns. “What if they’re hurt, though?” It looks like the shock’s wearing off of him a little, but he still looks (understandably) shaken.
“Every man for himself in the apocalypse, son,” Richie responds in his best Southern Dad accent. It needs a little work, he’s not proud to admit.
Of course, though, they all look at Bill to make the final decision. He’s frowning, still trying to rub his bloody hands off on his camo pants.
When he realizes everyone’s gone quiet, watching him for an answer, he sighs. “Shuh-sh-show of hands? Who wants to go back?”
Eddie, Mike, and Stan raise their hands. Slowly, as if being forced to, Beverly raises her hand as well.
“Four outta seven. Guess that’s decided, then,” Richie sighs. Bill nods beside him.
“Home it i-is.”
So, they begin the trek back home.
—
Eddie once told him (exasperatedly and bleeding from his nose) that the day they got some peace and quiet in Derry would be the day he died. In that context he was still wiping a bloody nose gifted by their very own Henry Bowers, but it makes Richie nervous anway.
He checks his pulse nonchalantly.
He’s
never
seen Derry this quiet, even in the nighttime. There’s usually
something
happening, even in small town Maine. For chrissakes, even the birds have gone silent.
And Derry’s got plenty of birds to spare.
No one says a thing as they gently step onto Mike’s street, which is the closest to the Barrens. It’s silent, devoid of any cars or people or even
bikes
.
Richie’s fresh outta jokes, which is spectacularly awful because he could really use a few right now.
“Are we sure this was the right choice?” Beverly asks quietly when a gust of wind sends a stray newspaper across their path. It looks like the city version of a tumbleweed, which is sort of hilarious.
“Not at all, Lassie,” Richie answers in his Australian accent, which is pretty damn good by now.
“Beep-beep, Richie,” Bill whispers. Richie sighs, but quiets.
When they get to Mike’s house, they all know what they’ll find inside that quiet old farmhouse. No one’s really ready for it, though.
At first, the plan had been to reach the city, split up, and find their own houses. But now, in the light of a now-silent Derry? No one had even mentioned it when they’d all turned down Mike’s street together.
But as Mike pushes open the front door of his house, Richie really wishes they could’ve just stayed in the Barrens. Back there, the apocalypse still seemed absurd. Something that could be easily disproved, and like they’d come back and everything would be
normal.
Of course, because it’s them, they don’t get that privilege.
When the door hinges open all the way, the most prominent feature of Mike’s house is the blood splattered on the walls.
Richie hears Eddie gasp. The other Losers might make agreeing noises of shock, but Eddie’s is what catches his attention. Who knows why.
Maybe the first thought is worry, left over from when Eddie still believed he had asthma. That initial gasp signified a genuine issue, usually followed by some pretty terrifying choking. Richie always hated to watch Eddie’s supposed ‘asthma attacks,’ even if they weren’t real.
Richie turns his attention back to the problem at hand when he hears Bill murmuring to Mike, low and comforting. Bill’s good for that.
Mike shakes his head, hand still on the door handle, and murmurs something back. Bill nods, and Mike closes the door on the whole scene.
They walk back to Mike’s street in silence, and start the walk to Beverly’s house.
The scene there is the same, but Beverly has the cat-killing curiosity to explore further. Deeper in the house, they find streaks of blood most prominently in her parent's room. Her own door has been shoved open, and dark smears are left on the door.
No sign of her parent’s bodies.
“Well,” Bev sighs, her jaw tight. “Who’s next?”
No one volunteers, but Bill’s house is the closest, so they go there next.
They find more of the same, but Richie distinctly remembers Bill walking into Georgie’s long-deserted room. Standing behind him, Richie had watched his shoulders draw tightly together, before he turned around, pushing them all away and slamming the door.
Richie had opened his mouth to ask, but Bev had shoulder checked him hard enough to stop.
At Ben’s house, they find the same. Stan’s house? A wreck. Torn apart. Eddie’s house has scattered pills strewn on the floor, sticking to pools of blood.
And, finally, Richie’s house.
He hadn’t wanted to return anyway. It’d put the whole group at risk, especially Eddie. He’s been getting paler by the house, and Richie knows the walking in between isn’t doing him much good.
So Richie stops at his door with a sigh. “We all know how this is gonna go, right?”
Bev’s mouth tightens, and Stan looks away. Ben and Bill nod somberly. Mike sighs sympathetically, holding Eddie upright.
“Just makin’ sure,” Richie whispers to himself, pushing the door open.
He’d expected blood. Slippery and cooling on the floor, coagulating into gruesome chunks. Gore splattered on the walls, the house torn apart. Empty, hollow of the life he knew it was once full of.
And don’t get him wrong, he finds all of that. Expect for, well, the ‘empty’ part.
Richie’s house is stuffed right full of gurgling, groaning zombies.
“Oh,
shit!
” he scrambles away from the door, down his porch and right into the other Losers, who have gathered at his steps. Confused, they try to peer around him into his house, trying to gauge the severity.
Richie can gauge the exact moment they all see the scene within, cause it’s the exact moment they all stiffen in unison.
“O-oh
fuck.
” Bill mutters.
“Fucking –
go,
you
idiots,
” Richie snaps as the zombies inside his house begin to filter out, made ravenous by the idea of – what, more
food?
Luckily for him, the others listen. They turn tail and bolt down Richie’s street. They’ve got no direction, only
away.
Richie’s got no idea how fast the fuckers are. He only knows that Eddie can’t keep up this pace for much longer.
Luckily, he doesn’t have to. Apparently, in their collective terror, they’d decided that crashing into the forest and through the Barrens would be the best choice.
It turns out that it is, because eventually they’ve gotten deep enough that they can’t hear the added pounding of feet or the wet snarling.
The only thing that really stops them, though, is the fact that Eddie’s finally stumbled hard enough to fall.
They all turn, but Richie makes it to Eddie first. He loops an arm around the other’s waist, heart pounding and breathing jagged. Richie slowly helps Eddie to his feet, trying to be as gentle as possible because he looks like he’s about to pass out.
“Dude, are you okay?”
Eddie answers by vomiting up blood, darkening the surrounding greenery.
“Oh, shit,” Stan whispers. Ben gags.
Eddie finishes his retching after a while, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand. It comes away smeared with red.
Richie’s heart drops at the sight. He stumbles, moving his hands to grab Eddie by the shoulders and steers him around to look him in the eyes.
His mouth is dripping with a dark, terrifyingly prominent blood. It dribbles down his chin, catching on the hem of his camo jacket. His eyelids droop terrifyingly, but he makes a notable effort when Richie tilts his chin up.
“Eds? Eddie, c’mon. Are you okay?” Richie’s voice is painfully high, strung with concern.
“Ugh,” Eddie grits out. His teeth, which are usually so white, have stained red. “Yeah, ‘m fine. Just a cold.”
Richie feels a hand brush his, and he looks over to see Stan silently pressing a cloth into his hand. He nods a tight
thanks,
and uses it to gently wipe away as much blood as he can. It smears, but he gets most of it.
“Should we go back to the clubhouse? He can lay down there,” Beverly asks.
Doesn’t sound like a terrible idea, considering how hard Eddie’s swaying right now. Richie shifts, sliding his arm under both of Eddie’s to keep him upright. His free hand holds the rag so tightly that it threatens to tear.
“Ruh-right. Let’s go.” Bill says. He takes a step forward, then pauses. Looks around. Frowns.
And Bill, god bless him, doesn’t sugarcoat it.
“I don’t know where the fuh-fuck we are,” he says.
The rest of them look around, trying to find any identifying features of their tangled surroundings. A familiar rock or tree, maybe.
It’s useless, of course. They’re in a different section of the Barrens entirely. Away from the river, even, so there’s a chance they’re not even in the
Barrens
at all. And the suns working its way down, leaving them too surrounded by shadows for Richie’s taste.
They spend the next few minutes shifting around, taking a few steps and then retreating. No one dares to go too far, just in case it’ll get them even more lost. At least they’re in a clearing for now, so they’re not actively fighting the trees and underbrush for way.
“Ruh-ruh-right, then,” Bill says after the fifth or sixth tiny venture. “We’ll sleep here tuh-t-tonight.”
No one ever argues with Bill, so they begin to settle down. The night’s dawning on them, so it’s not cold yet, but it will be. Well, summer nights in Maine aren’t exactly
cold,
but they’ve got a bite.
Richie gingerly sits Eddie down, careful to avoid jostling him too roughly. Ben gives them an odd look, but it seems more pointed towards Eddie than Richie. He frowns, but crouches next to Eddie on the leaves without a second thought.
“Still alright, Eds?” Richie murmurs. His throat hurts, and it feels like he’s forcing the words through half-set concrete.
“Yeah,” Eddie croaks in return. His eyes are still all droopy, but with the dimming light, it’s harder to see the paleness of his face. Obscurity saves the truth.
“Tired?” Richie prompts. He’s being careful, so goddamn
careful
.
“Mm,” Eddie hums, grabbing Richie’s arm with both hands. He tugs Richie toward him, leaning against his arm. Eddie’s eyes drift close, his face pressed into Richie’s shoulder.
Richie
really
wishes the sun would set quicker. At least then it’d cover the blazingly obvious blush currently overtaking his face.
He can hear the others behind him, shuffling and murmuring, trying to find a comfortable place to lay. Desperately, Richie tries to tug his arm away, but it’s half hearted. He’s saving face.
Anyway, it only earns him a proper tug in response from Eddie. It sends them both down onto the mossy ground they’re sitting – no,
laying
on. Eddie gives a creaky laugh and hides his face in Richie’s chest, still holding his arm.
I can’t handle this twice in a row,
Richie thinks desperately. He’s looking away from Eddie so hard that it’s making his neck hurt. If he looks, he knows he won’t be able to move.
But Eddie, the fucking devil that he is, curls in closer. Richie looks down.
Eddie’s jacket, the camo one Bill lent him, has fallen off of his shoulder. Gently, using the hand Eddie isn’t holding, he tugs it back up.
And, like. He doesn’t mean to. But his hand just… never leaves? He puts it on Eddie’s shoulder, and he just can’t move.
Maybe he’s too caught in the way the fading light catches on Eddie’s hair. Or maybe it’s the welcome warmth Eds brings, cause god knows the thin longsleeve Bill gave him isn’t great for warmth.
But he doesn’t move. Instead, he wraps himself around Eddie and lets his eyes close.
As he falls asleep, he has the faint idea that using majority rules as a deciding factor is stupid. But then he’s reminded of the warmth he’s curled into and he hums, letting the darkness hold him.
—
Richie wakes up bright and early the next morning, and it has absolutely zip to do with the rising sun.
I mean, it’s not like the glaring thing is doing much good to his sleep cycle, but it’s more so the fact that Bev’s gently shaking his shoulder.
“Yeah?” He whispers. He doesn’t realize exactly
why
he’s whispering until Eddie shifts under his arm. His entire body stiffens, his throat going all sorts of dry.
“We’re leaving. Trying to find our way back,” she murmurs. Richie tries to frown, but his heart is too busy having a stroke in his chest.
“This early?” He manages.
Bev nods, rolling her eyes. “Stan convinced Bill we’d make better progress with more daylight to work with.”
“Tell Bill –,” he splits his sentence with a massive yawn, “-- that he needs to stop being so susceptible to what Stanley says.”
Bev grins. “I know, right? I think he’s got a crush,” she giggles.
Eddie shifts again beneath his arms, and Richie winces.
Too on the nose, universe.
Noticing his silence, Bev goes on. “Anyway, you two need to get up. On the
road
, right Tozier?”
“I’d rather be bitten by a zombie.”
She sticks her tongue out at him before turning back to the others. Richie huffs.
There’s no zombie to wake Eddie up for him this time, so he’s left to gently extract himself from Eddie. Taking a deep breath to steady his heart, he gently shakes Eddie’s shoulder.
“Hey, Eds. C’mon, up and at ‘em. Places to be and people to see, my man.”
Eddie groans, shifting. He’s awake, but not by much.
“Eddie. Ya gotta wake up. Bill is gonna have my scalp. C’
mon.”
Eddie gives a monumental sigh, and rolls over onto his back. Richie desperately scans his face for any sign of his sickness worsening, but it looks the same as yesterday. He sighs.
“You up, Sunshine?” Richie grins, switching back to the easy teases. Eddie’s eyes slowly drift open, and he scowls at Richie.
“What
time
is it?” Eddie mumbles, pushing himself up into a sitting position. He winces, and Richie knows he’s feeling the effects that they’re all feeling right now. Sleeping on the ground isn’t great for any of your bones, as it turns out.
“Dunno. Early? Hey, we gotta get out there. Find civilization. Beat some zombie
ass,
Eddie Spaghetti.” He taps his fingers rhythmically on his knees before pushing himself up.
“I’m gonna make sure no one’s died,” he tells Eddie, because in all reality he just can’t stand to look at Eddie’s sleepy face anymore. If the zombies don’t get to him first, Eddie’ll kill him.
The other Losers are standing around, yawning and blinking away precious sleep. Richie joins them, heartstrings bending unhealthily.
“Morning,” Bill says, nodding to Richie.
Richie scowls at him. “Morning. Any particular reason we’re up at the ass crack of dawn?”
“We have to get out of here. Maybe we can find someplace that isn’t… zombified,” Stan tells him, frowning in thought.
“Zombified?” Richie grins.
“Shut it, Trashmouth.”
“Stuh-Stan’s right. We’ve got to find an actual sh-shelter.”
Richie rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t debate the topic because he hates when Stan’s right.
Within the next few hours, Richie’s pretty positive he’s gone through hell and back. The sun’s risen in full glory, making a muggy hell of a previously cool night. The heat’s made worse by the black long sleeve he’s wearing, and he can only imagine how Eddie’s coping in that jacket.
Speaking of which, Eddie’s taking the worst of the heat. It’s not even fully due to the layers he’s wearing, either, because he’s been steadily shedding them through the morning. He coughs like his lungs are rebelling against him, and the red flush stands starkly against his pale cheeks.
Several times, they stop in the middle of tangling greenery to let Eddie sit and take a drink. Richie hates it, hates that they’re forcing Eddie to do this even though he’s
sick,
goddamnit.
Eventually, Bill stops them. They’re in a thicker section of trees, where the underbrush is thin and the shadows are heavier. It hardly looks any different from the section they’d left over four hours ago, but some part of it must stand out to Bill.
“St-stuh-stuh-st–
ugh,
stuh-st-stuh– mother
fucker,
” Bill spits out. He’s always had trouble with the ‘st’ sounds, and Richie suspects the heat isn’t helping.
“Duh-don’t move. I’ll be back.” And then he turns and heads into the trees. Within a few seconds, he’s swallowed by the greenery.
Stan frowns, and Beverly shifts uncomfortably. Ben, Mike, and Eddie take a seat on the mossy ground. Richie sits beside Eddie, mostly to keep him from passing out here and now.
They sit for maybe five or ten minutes before they hear Bill’s footsteps again. They all glance up, and watch a massively grinning Bill push through a bush.
“A city!”
“Fucking
finally,
” Richie sighs. He hears the exhausted excitement around him, and he’s about half-certain they’re gonna be alright.
They follow Bill through some pretty sketchy dark areas of the forest, but – no bullshit. They break through a particular section of heavy bushes and once Richie’s managed to muscle a path for him and Eddie, he sees it.
There’s a sign, rusted and grimy, posted on a chain link fence. Past it, there are obviously houses. Or buildings at least, which means
people.
Richie looks up at the sign, glances at the plastic letters that have obviously been slotted into place. A few have fallen, so it’s not obvious what was previously displayed.
He lo Strang r!,
it reads.
Pray, b t
o
ca t
el .
“Buh-toe cattle,” Richie says with a nod. “I think we’re in the right place!”
“That’s not what it says, Richie.” Stan rolls his eyes.
Richie points to the sign. “B-t-o-c-a–,”
“Yeah,
obviously.
But some of the letters must’ve fallen –,”
“Shuh-shut up,” Bill interrupts them impatiently. He walks up to the metal fence, and gives it a good shake. Then, he looks back at the rest of them.
When he says nothing, Richie does. “That’s a fence alright, Big Bill.”
“We’ve gotta climb it, ruh-r-Rich,” Bill says.
“Could’ve said that,” Richie mumbles to himself. “You know, you’ve got this
crazy
thing called a voice box? You see, I’m using mine right now to prove –,”
“Beep-beep, Richie,” he hears several of them say in unison. He glances around, and notices nearly all of them smiling. Except for Eddie, who looks like he’s going to pass out.
“Alruh-ruh-right, then. I’ll g-go first and then you all can follow,” Bill says. He looks exhausted as he turns back to the fence, but so do all of them.
The Losers watch Bill hitch a foot into a chain link, pushing himself up. Then his next foot, and then he’s scaling the fence. It’s about 7 or 8 feet tall, which isn’t a terrible drop from the top. Bill hops off on the other side, wiping his hands off on his pants.
“Who’s next?”
Slowly but surely, they all make it over the fence. Even Eddie, who crumbles to the ground when he lands on the other side. Richie rushes to him, his heart dropping so far he’s pretty sure it’s in his feet.
“Eddie?” He hears himself ask. “Eds, are you alright?
Eddie?”
Eddie gives a short whine, but manages to push himself up using the palms of his hands.
No one says a word. Richie’s pretty sure even the wind has lost its breath.
“Fine. ‘M fine. Really,” he adds at Richie’s disbelieving expression.
“He’s sick,” Bev whispers. She sounds scared.
Beverly doesn’t really
get
scared.
“Okay then, soldier,” Richie murmurs gently, offering a steadying arm as Eddie gets up. “Let’s find a place for you to lay down, then.”
Eddie nods despite his resilience, and leans into Richie’s shoulder when Richie loops his arm under both of Eddie’s. He sways, and Richie knows he’s the only thing holding this sick mess of a boy upright.
When he looks around, he feels five pairs of eyes centered on him. He feels his cheeks go numb with embarrassment, but he tries for determination.
“Let's go, then,” he says, not meeting anyone’s eyes.
“Maybe we can find, like, a doctor. Or someone,” Ben offers. Bev makes a noise of agreement, and Mike nods.
“Yeah,” Richie says, so goddamn scared it makes his hands shake. “Let’s just go.”
They make their way towards the town.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Trying to make light of a dark situation is much easier when you don’t have something to lose.
Richie’s been crouched by this crusty old bed for ages, and despite the god awful pain in his knees, he’s not moving. Not until Eddie wakes up.
When they’d finally stumbled into the house-filled part of the town, it was abundantly clear that it, too, was abandoned. Streets deserted, buildings unlit, and an awful silence. Luckily, no bodies, but plenty of dried blood.
The apocalypse must’ve hit here before it hit Derry.
They’d found the nearest house when Eddie started shivering violently. It’d taken all of Bill and Mike’s strength, along with Richie’s watchful gaze, but they’d managed to haul him into an apartment tower and up into the first room. From there, they’d slid him into a nasty-looking bed that was probably crawling with diseases, but whatever.
That was about two hours ago.
Eddie had been out of his mind, babbling nonsense and whining after Richie. The others had gone back down to the main office to try to gather whatever was left of the destruction, but they hadn’t questioned it when Richie stayed.
As soon as they left, Eddie heaved a great sigh.
“
Richie,
” he whined, sounding pitiful.
“Yeah, Eds?” Richie managed.
“Don’t leave.” He turned his face to Richie, bloodshot eyes softening. “I don’t want you to leave.”
Richie’s throat constricted. “I’m not, Eds. I won’t leave. Promise, okay?”
“Okay,” Eddie whispered back. He gave a half-attempt at a smile, and then closed his eyes.
He’d been sleeping since. Richie
knew
he was still alive, because he’d been compulsively checking Eddie’s pulse every 30 seconds. In between these erratic checks, he’d watch Eddie’s chest rise and fall in a slow, steady rhythm.
He hadn’t even known Bill was there until he heard that signature stutter.
“Wuh-we got some fuh-f-food, if you’re hungry,” he murmured.
Richie jerked around, hastily removing his hand from where it rested on Eddie’s wrist, counting the low rhythm of his heart.
“Oh — yeah, okay. I’m coming.”
His face had to be so goddamn
red.
“Is h-he okay?” Bill’s expression was hard to read. Plenty of pity, but it was layered over another emotion Richie couldn’t figure out.
“I don’t know.”
Silence for a second.
“Come down and eat, Rich.”
“Yeah. Yeah, okay.”
—-
Official diagnosis? This fucking
sucks.
Not the food or anything, that stuff's fine. The Losers managed to find enough to make a salvageable meal, and none of it was even expired. Richie’s sure that was a luxury that wouldn’t have for very long.
No, that’s not what ruined it. It was more so the cloying pity and the choking silence.
No one had said a
word
since he’d come downstairs. Not
one!
Bev had shot him an odd look, half warning and half pitying, but that was all.
They’d all gathered in the living room of this shoddy, gross apartment. Who knows how long it had sat abandoned; weeks, months?
Richie is sitting at the foot of the couch, cross-legged on the carpet. Bev, Bill, and Mike are on the couch above him. Stan and Ben had claimed the smaller couch that had notably less stains than the other.
And no one is fucking
talking.
Richie finds it in him to break the oppressive silence. Light in the darkness, or whatever. He’s sick of this damn silence.
“So… Opinions on the apocalypse?”
For a second, Richie thinks no one will take the bait. But Bill, god bless him, Bill
laughs
, and the stretch of silence is over.
“Sucks,” Bev tells him, spooning noodles into her mouth.
“Definitely not ideal,” Mike agrees.
“Tuh-tuh-two out of ten.”
“What? No, definitely lower,” Stan says, shaking his head. “Like, one out of ten. Max.”
“Are we going into negatives?” Ben asks. Richie grins.
“Yes! How low, Haystack?”
“Like. Negative ten out of ten.”
“Woo! Breaking news, lady and gentlemen! The apocalypse as we
know it
officially has a negative 100% ratio! Can we get some more insight on that answer?” Richie asks, scrambling over to sit at Ben’s knees. He holds up a pretend microphone, and Ben indulges him. Someone giggles.
“Well, Rich, I’d definitely say my rating is affected by a bit of a bias, if the viewers at home don’t mind.”
Richie turns, improvising, and points his pretend microphone to the trio on the couch. They grin.
“Bias allowed!” Bev shouts.
“Perfectly acceptable.”
“We hate it tuh-tuh-too!”
“Ooh! Look at that, looks like the audience is on your siiiideee! We’ll let this one slide, but let’s get another opinion! Sliding over to… Stanley Uris!”
Stan smiles, exasperated, but he plays along. They’re all kinda sick of being scared.
“I’d say it’s, uh, definitely subpar.”
Bev, Bill, and Mike gave a chorus of
boo!
’s.
“Uh oh! Seems like the audience needs a little more than that, Mr. Uris. How about a rating, then?”
“You know what?” Stan says, smiling. “Give me that —,” he reaches for the mic, pretending to snatch it away. “If the apocalypse is out there, watching this, I just have one thing to say to you.”
“He’s going rogue!” Richie shouts, pretending to fall over and faint from shock.
“
Tell us! Tell us!
” The ‘audience’ yells. Richie laughs from the ground. For a moment, he forgets. Forgets about the same damn thing they're joking about. For a moment, they’re fifteen-year-old kids.
Stan stands up, pointing randomly into the distance. “Fuck you!”
That
sends them into hysterics. Stanley hardly ever swears, and when he does, it’s phenomenal. Being a Rabbi’s son and all, you wouldn’t even think he’d know
how
to swear.
As they collapse into a fit of childish laughter, Richie really only has one thought. It persists, dimming the smile he’s got until there’s hardly anything left of it.
I wish Eddie was here.
—
Richie doesn’t mean to punch Stan. He really doesn’t. Shit happens, alright?
It’s just. Well, y’know. The story speaks for itself, anyway.
Once they’d finished losing their shit over Stan’s spectacular display, wiping tears from their eyes, the low rasping coming from the stairs was the last
thing they’d expected.
Richie had been expecting zombies. Something bleeding and grotesque and
killable.
Something they could get rid of.
It wasn’t, of course. They never got the luxury of things being easy.
The noise on the stairs was Eddie. He was slumped against the wall, eyes sunken and unfocused. Blood dripped down his chin, making him look unearthly.
“Holy fuck,” Richie gasps, scrambling up and over. He gets about halfway to that point when he’s grabbed by the back of his shirt and fucking
yanked
backwards.
“What the fuck?” Richie turns, and it’s fucking
Stan
.
“He’s sick, Richie. You can’t go near him,” Stan says immediately, looking a little guilty even as he says it.
Richie has just stepped on the landmine. He heard it click, heard the gears shift into place. All he has to do is lift his foot, and…
boom.
“Like fuck I can’t. Let go of me,” he snarls. His hands curl into themselves.
His foot tenses, ready to move. The slightest change in pressure, that’s all it takes.
“Richie, you can’t touch him. He’s —,”
His knee bends, ready to step away. Just say the
damn
word.
“He’s what, Stanley? He’s
what? What?
” Richie’s shouting. It doesn’t matter, not when Eddie looks two seconds away from choking in his own blood.
“He’s a zombie, Richie.”
Richie steps off of the landmine.
Boom.
His fist flies before he can even think about why it shouldn’t. He watches as Stan’s head jerks back, watches as his lip splits against his teeth. Bev shouts, and Mike reaches for him, but he’s gone.
Stan stumbles back, shocked, holding his mouth. Richie goes to Eddie.
He hardly even reaches Eddie when he hears a grotesque gurgling sound. Eddie’s mouth gapes open, and the blood runs out in a sickening surge.
“
No,
” Richie gasps. He can feel the hole opening in his chest. “No, no,” He chokes as he tries to stem the flow. It doesn’t matter.
Eddie crumbles, falling to the floor in a boneless heap.
Richie’s read zombie comics. He knows what this is, and he refuses to believe it.
“Please,” he moans as he tries in vain to wipe away the blood. “Please don’t, Eddie. You can’t, you
can’t
.”
“Richie…” he hears, softly, from behind him. He doesn’t listen, because the sound of his heart being ripped out is much louder.
Eddie gurgles softly. The blood stains his chest, his shirt, fucking
everything.
Richie didn’t know a person could even lose this much blood.
Not a person
.
He slides his hands under Eddie, gently lifting him to his chest. His head lolls to the side, limp and lifeless. Richie tries not to let another sob wrack his body as Eddie’s head slumps forward onto his shoulder.
“Richie.” That’s Mike’s voice. “Come on. You can’t –,”
“Mike, shut the fuck up.” Even he can hear how badly his voice is shaking. His eyes sting, and it sort of feels like a weight has been dropped right square on his esophagus.
“He’ll bite you,” Ben murmurs.
“He
won’t
.” Richie doesn’t turn – doesn’t give them the satisfaction of seeing the tears in his eyes.
He can hear the silence. He knows they’re waiting. Waiting to be proven right, to have to drag Richie away. He can feel the staggering wave of pity. It’s fucking sickening. How do they not
care?
Eddie is limp in his arms, but his heart is still pounding away. Richie lets the sound overtake him, existing within the short space that is Eddie’s weight on him and the sound of his heart against his own.
A hand on his shoulder jerks him out of it. His eyes fly open – when had they closed? – and he turns.
It’s Bill.
“Richie. Stuh-st-stand up, please. It’s not s-safe.”
“Bill,” Richie says, and it’s a plea. A desperate cry for it to not be the truth.
Eddie twitches underneath him. His heart rate increases noticeably, and Richie’s… scared. Holy shit, Richie fucking Tozier is scared of Eddie Kaspbrak.
Bill notices. “Cuh-come on, Richie,” he urges. “This isn’t suh-s-safe.”
“Bill, we can’t – we can’t just
leave
him, you
know
we can’t,” Richie says. He’s crying now, he can feel the tears spilling in vain down his face.
Eddie gives a soft snarl beneath him, something guttural and terrifying. He’s not fully conscious yet, but he’s not far from it. God help them when he is.
“Richie,” Bill’s eyes go wide, and his tone is final. “Up. You’ll g-get hurt.”
“
I don’t care!
” Richie screams. He’s sobbing, hands digging into Eddie’s jacket like it’s the only thing he’ll ever feel again. He can hardly see through the tears, but he sees the hard line of determination on Bill’s face.
“Muh-m-mike. Help me get him, please.”
Mike doesn’t say anything, but he steps forward. Richie kicks against the ground, pushing himself and Eddie into a corner. The tears won’t stop. He can feel Eddie stirring.
“
Please, please,
no you can’t – you
can’t, please –,”
They each grab one of his arms. They pry his hands away from Eddie’s jacket. They drag him away from the only person he thinks he’s ever truly loved.
Richie is feral. Kicking, clawing, yelling. He’s scared, mad, backed into a corner. He’s reduced to base instinct, lashing out at his restraints. He can’t even hear himself anymore, but his throat is raw from shouting.
Finally, they manage to subdue him. Dragged into the opposite corner of the room, all of the Losers grab onto him and hold him still. He sees Beverly gingerly reach for his glasses and take them off.
The world goes blurry and out of focus. All of it – not even just the things far from him. His eyesights
fucked.
But, somehow, it helps. This sudden essential loss of a sense takes him aback, diverting his brain away from whatever it had gone to.
The others seem to notice this. Or, at least, their grips on his limbs loosen a little. He can breathe again.
“You duh-duh-done?” He hears Bill say, a little out of breath.
Richie doesn’t answer. He can feel his cheeks burning, and he doesn’t want to face the humility of whatever judgment they’re about to put him under.
“I’m giving your glasses back,” Beverly says. “Don’t freak.”
Slowly, he feels the familiar pressure on his nose, and the world slides back into place. He scowls at Bev’s cautious face in front of him. When he doesn’t immediately start kicking and clawing again, they release their holds on him.
He feels the sudden urge to explain, to give reason for whatever the fuck he just did.
“I –,” he tries.
“Don’t,” Mike interrupts him. “We understand.”
He sees the slow nodding of the others, a gentle agreement. He knows they’re only being careful so he doesn’t start freaking out again.
Eddie,
his brain reminds him.
“Oh, shit –,” Richie scrambles to his feet, pushing away the offering help of their hands. “Wait – can we just, like, put a face guard on him?”
“Huh?”
“On
Eddie
?”
“How?”
“No, listen –,” Richie pushes through them, crossing over to Eddie. He’s still slumped over, twitching. He looks like he’s on the precipice of consciousness, seconds from ruining the plan.
“Look, this disease transfers through the blood, right?”
“Uh,” Ben says. “Yeah?”
“So, if we stop Eddie from giving the zombie-ness to us, like through his mouth, he can stay with us until we find a cure.” All of that sentence comes out in a single breath. It’s hardly even comprehensible, but Bev seems to understand.
“Oh! Stan, give me your handkerchief,” she says immediately. Stan fumbles in his bag for a second before handing over the bloodstained handkerchief.
She rushes over, turning Eddie over. He groans, but she grabs both of his wrists without hesitation. Using the handkerchief, she ties them together. She triple-knots it, and Richie’s pretty damn sure it won’t come off unless it’s severed.
“There. Richie, you can keep an eye on him while we scrounge this stupid apartment for a muzzle or something. Cool?”
Richie wants to hug her, but they’re sort of on an unknown time limit. So, he just says, “Okay
– thank you.”
“He’s my friend, too. We kinda need him. C’mon!” She urges the others before dashing up the stairs. Hurriedly, they follow. Richie crouches beside Eddie, heart pounding.
He wipes the tears away from his own face, jaw clenched. Eddie’s sleeping face twitches a little as he gives a growl, deep in his throat. Richie winces, aware that their unknown timer is running out.
Hurry they do. Less than a minute later, as Eddie’s eyes slowly begin to drift open, they scramble down the stairs in one large, babbling group.
Held between them is a dog muzzle.
Richie holds back an incredulous laugh, cheeks still wet.
“That’s not going to work,” he protests with a little giggle. It’s sort of ridiculous. He’s terrified.
“Sure it will,” Bev breathes, snatching the thing. She crouches beside Richie, tilts Eddie’s head back, and fastens the muzzle over his mouth.
And, in amazing convenience, Eddie starts to wake up at about the same time Bev finishes securing the dog muzzle.
Eddie’s eyes – now shock white and blood red around the pupils – narrow. He gives a growl, and lunges at Bev.
She yelps and falls back, but the muzzle does its job. Eddie goes to bite her, but falls short by about half a foot, restrained. He tries to shake the thing off, but it holds. Finally, he tries to claw at the thing, but the cloth around his wrists stops him. Defeated, he resorts to snarling nastily.
“Holy shit, Bev. You’re a genius,” Richie whispers, ignoring the hollowness in his chest. Beverly gives a shaky laugh, and holds up a hand.
“High-five?”
“Fuck yeah,” Richie grins, and smacks his palm against hers.
For a while, there’s silence. They stare at Eddie, watching how he struggles against the muzzle without much success.
“So… what now?” Stan asks.
And, like. Great question, because what the fuck
do
they do? Eddie’s been subdued by the fact that he’s physically incapable of tearing their throats out, but. What do they do? Unless they find a cure or something, Eddie’s stuck like this until he dies.
So, two options. Let Eddie live (?) out his life as Zombie-Eddie, or epically cure him via their heroism.
Pretty easy decision.
“We’ve got to find a cure for him,” Richie says.
“That’s duh-dang-er-erous.”
“What other choice do we have?” Richie asks, standing up. Eddie thrashes at his feet, growling.
Stan frowns. “Let him walk it off?”
…
…
…
“Okay, so Stan doesn’t get to contribute to our decision-making conversations anymore. Noted,” Ben says. Richie snorts.
“Okay, shut up,” Stan sighs. “I’m trying to be helpful.”
“Maybe don’t?” Richie offers.
“Ruh-Richie, shut up. It’s getting late, why don’t we j-huh-hust stay here tonight? Eddie will be fine until the m-morning,” Bill says. He sounds tired.
But god bless Bill, because without him they’d be left bickering here like children until the exhaustion knocked them out.
“If ya’ say so, Billie,” Richie says. He reaches down to tug Zombie-Eddie to his feet.
“I’ve tuh-told you
several
times not to call me that.”
“Ahh, sorry,” Richie says as he leads Eddie to the couch. “I don’t seem
to recall?”
Bev walks past him and flicks him on the forehead, the motherfucker. He sticks his tongue out at her as she finds herself a room.
“You can keep an eye on him?” Stan asks as he gathers his things. It’s a weirdly phrased question, more of a confirmation than anything. Maybe a warning, too, a silent
be careful.
“Yeah,” Richie says. “He can’t really do much.”
“Okay.” Stan frowns at him, hovering at the door. “Goodnight.”
Richie’s eyebrows furrow. “Night, Stan.”
And then Stan’s gone. And he’s left with a snarling, furious version of his best friend.
“We really need to find your cure,” Richie solemnly informs Eddie, who gurgles at him.
“Right,” Richie mumbles.
Eddie wrinkles his nose into a snarl.
“Goodnight, then,” Richie offers, slinking down into a lying position.
Eddie thrashes a little. Growls. Curls into a ball regardless, watching Richie reproachfully.
“Love you too,” Richie whispers, and it hurts. It hurts so badly.
He falls asleep imagining what Eddie would say if he were still Eddie.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
It’s been a year.
Richie’s hair has gone long. Long enough that Bev gave him a hair-tie to hold it back. Since then, that's pretty much where it’s stayed. His body is riddled with scars and he doesn’t know what safety feels like anymore.
He struggles to crack jokes, and he's silent more often than he's even considering speaking
.
Bill has assumed a much more official position of leadership. That had sort of been his unofficial place anyhow, but now? No one thinks twice before turning to Bill for direction or instruction.
He’s also freshly 16, scared out of his goddamn mind, and trying hard not to show it.
Beverly has gotten tough. She’s rougher around the edges, and her words don’t curve around the truth anymore. She’s direct, straight to the point, and painfully dull. When she smiles, it’s more of a grimace.
She’s seen horrors beyond anyone’s comprehension, and if she didn’t put up walls she would crumble beneath the weight of it all.
Stan’s brilliantly curly hair has lost its shape and he doesn’t sigh as much anymore. He sees a problem, sets his jaw into a hard line, and fixes it. His begrudging friendship to the group has become more of a blood oath, now.
He’s nearly died seven separate times trying to save each of their lives.
Mike has assumed a role of protection within the group. Their own personal doctor. He scavenges for medical supplies before learning first aid on the spot. Without him, all of them would be long dead by now.
He sat with Bill for nine hours straight as his body fought to regenerate the two and a half liters of blood he’d lost.
Ben has stepped up to find them shelters in the most remote places. He’s made a temporary home out of a rusty old van that’d been smeared in blood and gore from God knows what. He keeps them safe and warm through the nights.
He had to drag a stranger's body four miles before they realized she had no pulse.
Eddie has shown no signs of recovery.
A year into the apocalypse (362 days since Eddie’s Turning) and they’ve not stopped fighting it. Tooth and nail, they’ve scraped through.
They traveled out of the state on foot. Down through several states. Richie’s not really sure, but if he had to guess they’re somewhere in Pennsylvania.
So far it has been unremarkably and unnervingly quiet.
They’re all damaged, bending and fighting against the unending pressure. Scars and bruises litter each of their bodies, less of a surprise to see them each day. Bill has a particularly nasty gash splitting through both of his lips and tearing down his chin. He’d taken an ax to the face. Nearly killed him.
The apocalypse has shown absolutely zero chance of abating. The zombie-creatures don’t seem to age or rot. They don’t die unless you get them with a nasty blow to the head.
Or a good solid bullet, but the noise of a gun attracts far too much attention. Anyone’s best bet is to run, or start swinging for your life.
There’s a joke or something here to lighten the mood a little, but Richie’s lost it.
It’s a cool night in the middle of some Pennsylvanian woods. Some of summer’s milder rain drizzles down around him as he sits, perched on someone’s balcony.
The building they’re hiding out in is some old but well-built log cabin. Like a getaway resort, or something. It’s got this huge balcony that’s perfect for watching the surrounding woods.
In normal times, Richie would guess someone would just enjoy the view from here. Now? He’s using it to watch for the infected.
The sliding door behind him squeaks open, and he tilts his head to the side. The gentle footsteps that patter up behind him tell him that it’s Bev.
“You’re done for the night, Rich,” she tells him.
He nods, stands. His knees creak with the effort – they’ve been taking three-hour long watches, and Richie doesn’t like to take his eyes away from the forest.
He’d made the mistake before.
“We leavin’ tomorrow, like Billy says?”
Bev sighs as she settles into the same position he’d just left. “Guess so. Couldn’t tell ya why.”
Richie frowns. “He doesn’t like staying still.”
“This place is the safest we’ve stayed yet,” Beverly says with a shake of her head.
Richie manages a small smile. “And it’s not even moldy.”
Beverly shrugs, offering no further conversation.
Richie, who’s eagerness to annoy has abated significantly, takes the hint and goes inside.
The cabin is nice. The most freshly constructed they’ve seen so far, and not overridden with the infected. Ben had complained multiple times about the state of the hardware, or whatever, but that was Ben.
It was a home for a little while. But if Big Bill wanted to leave, they were leaving. That’s the thing; there’s no arguing anymore. If something was said, and especially by Bill, it was happening.
So Richie was heading back up to the second floor to collect his meager bundle of supplies. That old backpack Bill had given him so long ago, a backup dog muzzle for Eddie, a dented can of soup, and clothes they’d found while wandering. Oh, and the fishing knife that had saved his life that one time.
All of this he scoops into his backpack. All of this he will bring to whatever shelter they find next. All of this he will pick up again when they surely move.
He whistles quietly as he moves back down the stairs, some old tune that’s probably wrong. It’s been so long since he’s heard it, apocalypse or no apocalypse.
Stan stops him at the bottom of the stairs, scowling. “Are we leaving?”
“Yeah,” Richie says. “Bill’s orders.”
“Damn. I’ll go untie Eddie.”
Richie frowns because Stan sounds like he’s talking about a fucking
dog,
and not their best friend. He doesn’t say it, though.
“Thanks.”
Stan
mhm
’s and moves up the stairs past him. Richie watches him go, and then continues on.
In another world – a previous world – he would’ve said something else. Teased Stan, called after him, made himself laugh and Stan scowl.
As he moves into the kitchen, he quietly realizes he doesn’t know how to anymore. It’s a horrifying realization, one made worse by the fact that it’s unavoidable. Shockingly, the literal devastation of humanity is a bit of a joke-killer.
Mike is at the kitchen table. A plethora of medical supplies lay stretched out before him. It’s an impressive spread, mostly salvaged from the recently dead (not yet zombified) or stolen. His long-fingered hands sort them into neat piles of bandages, gauze, disinfectant, feverpills, what-have-you.
Richie crosses to him, leans on the wooden table.
“You hear we’re moving house?”
Mike stops his sorting and looks at Richie. When he decides that it’s not a joke, he scowls. “Again?”
“So says the boss.”
“Peaches,” Mike mutters. “Just peaches.”
“That’s about the general reply.” He tries to say something else, to keep the conversation, but his voice falters. His brain works, wheels spinning, but he’s got nothing.
“Guess I’ll start packing. Thanks, Rich.”
“No problem, Doc,” Richie says, and moves away.
—
They leave the next morning. Bill, with the knotted scar ripping through his lip, looks around at the house before they do. Some joke about having second thoughts bubbles to Richie’s mind, but it just doesn’t seem worth enough to say, so he doesn’t waste the breath.
Eddie’s leash is in his hand, attached to his collar. The most effective way to control your bestfriend-turned-zombie, it turns out, is to treat them like a dog. Muzzle, collar, leash. They even tie him up outside during the day, letting him get whatever sunshine his zombified self even needs.
He trails behind Richie now, snarling lowly as they move through the woods. He’s long given up on attacking them, but those fever spots on his white cheeks still flare a little redder when they disturb him.
They walk, just like they always have. They walked all the way to Pennsylvania from Maine in the last year, so what’s a little more? They trudge their way through the woods, feet landing significantly more quietly after much training.
Escaping a zombie on foot is hard enough without the added factor of clustered trees and underfoot branches. They try to go unnoticed in the woods.
They walk until the sun is well past set. Even then, it takes Stan’s gentle coaxing to get Bill to finally let them all settle.
A campfire is made, torn sleeping bags are put out, and a watch order is set up. Ben takes first (mostly so he can make adjustments to the temporary wall they’ve set up around them. A rustily weaved stick-and-log barrier is apparently not up to the architect’s standards,) and Richie takes the second. They all settle down as Ben idly adjusts the pocket knife in his hands. Richie ties the snarling zombie-Eddie up for the night.
He picks a sturdy pine tree to do it. Eddie can get pretty nasty during the night, so a good post is necessary.
“Hey, Eds,” he sighs as he loops the leash around the tree’s limb. They’re away from the others, but he still drops his voice a little.
He gets no answer; expects none.
“I miss you,” he admits quietly. His hollow chest tries to beat around a heart, but his ribs can’t find one.
The low murmuring of the others begins to taper off. He knows he should go back, but zombie-Eddie’s face is still Eddie’s, and it hurts to look into it and find nothing. No recognition, no scowling, no laughter.
Just two bright fever spots on deathly pale skin, with yellowed eyes and that same old snarl.
Richie stares at his best friend, tied to a tree, growling low in his chest, his eyes hateful. He looks at his best friend and sighs.
“Night, Eds. See you in a bit.”
He goes back to the fire and lays down, but sleep doesn’t visit him for a long time.
—
“Hey, c’mon Richie,” Ben’s voice tells him. He jolts up, all the comfort of sleep ripped from him.
“What?” he hisses.
Ben looks at him flatly, but his eyes aren’t mean. “Your turn. For night watch. C’mon, get up.”
“Oh,” Richie murmurs, his terror and adrenaline dripping away like riverwater. “Okay, sorry, I just –,”
“I know,” Ben says, and he does. They all do.
Richie pushes himself up and out of his sleeping bag, muscles still tense. The night is still young, but it’s cold. He’d gotten too used to the idle warmth the log cabin had provided.
Ben turns away from him, finding his own sleeping bag. The campfire has dwindled into the embers, which burn and pulse weakly among the ashes of burnt logs.
Standing up now, the lack of sleep eats at him. A weariness envelopes his body, his stomach growling loudly. It’s rare they find anything to eat out on these walks. If they happen upon a river, Bill and Stan make them a damn
feast
out of fish, but that’s rare. Out in the woods, they just keep walking.
The peaceful breathing of his group calms him a little, but it does nothing to ease his exhaustion. He sighs, though, because there’s still one more thing to do before he can sit and watch the woods.
He steps over Bev towards the tree where his best friend is tied, muzzled like a dog.
The woods are quiet at night, but there’s always noise. The trees creak, wind passes gently through leaves, and small animals scurry underfoot. If you’re unlucky, something larger will move in the darkness, sending the familiar haunting of paranoia around your ribs.
The faint glow from the dying campfire lights Eddie’s silhouette, hunched over on the floor. His head lists to the side, neck only held by the leash. He faces away from Richie, but maybe that’s a blessing. Seeing that vacant, sickly face is Richie’s own hell.
“Hey, Eds,” Richie murmurs out of habit. He approaches slowly; if he’s too quick, and Eddie will be up in a flash, growling and snapping.
Tonight, Eddie is silent. Even his typical, raspy breathing is mellow and even.
“We’re on the move again,” he informs Eddie. “Big Bill says we’re out. I think we’re on the way to Tennessee.”
Eddie is silent.
“I don’t understand why. That cabin was the safest place. We hadn’t seen a zombie in over a week. I think he’s just so damn anxious to be moving that he forgets it’s safer to lie still.”
Eddie is silent.
“And –,” Richie sighs. “I miss you, man. I miss you so much. Every day, it’s like – it’s like an ache. You’re here, I know you are because I have to fucking
see
you, but you’re not. You’re just a
shell.
And I miss my best friend. It’s, uh, you know. Not the same without you here. I miss you so fucking much, and Beverely told me–,” he breaks off for a second. “Um. Beverely told me she thinks that I love you. And I do. I love you so much. I’m sorry, Eds.”
The forest around them whispers and Eddie is silently slumped on the ground. His shoulders move slightly with his breath, the only indication he’s even alive.
Richie watches the gentle movements of his shoulders. They’ll probably have to catch another rabbit for him to eat. Since they can’t very well feed him human, though that would clearly be his preference, they’ve resorted to small animals.
Richie takes a moment, realizing the blur in his eyes is from tears that he refuses to let trail down his face. Eddie’s shoulders move, and his hair catches the moonlight.
“O–okay. Well. Goodnight, Eds. I’lll get you in the morning.”
He stands, and turns back to the light of the dying campfire.
As he walks away, he forces himself to think of tomorrow. Of the walk they will have to take. He will surely bring up the back of the group, trailing Eddie’s leash in tow.
And a year ago, he would’ve turned back one last time to give Eddie one last glance.
But time is irreversible, and the boy he loved is a zombie, so he walks back to the campfire.