Chapter 13: The Fifth Extraction
The basement was cooler than the June heat outside, but sweat still dripped down my spine as I felt the Dimensional Backpack reach full capacity.
One hundred percent. Ready to extract.
I stood there, hand hovering beside my hip where the dimensional pocket waited, and made a choice: Not yet.
"What do you mean, not yet?" Dustin's voice pitched higher with frustration. "It's at 100%! You can get a new item!"
The Party had gathered for our Tuesday research session, and I'd just told them about my decision to hold the extraction. Four faces stared at me with varying degrees of confusion.
"Resources should be used strategically," I said, leaning against my workbench. "Right now, I have four useful items. Another random extraction might give me something critical—or it might give me something useless. Better to wait until I actually need whatever comes out."
"That's..." Mike frowned. "Actually kind of smart. But what if you need it before you extract it?"
"Then I'll extract it immediately. The battery doesn't drain on its own. It'll sit at 100% until I use it."
Lucas crossed his arms. "You're getting more paranoid. Training us to fight, hoarding supplies, now refusing to use your power when it's ready. What exactly do you think is coming?"
A gate to hell opening under Hawkins Lab. A flower-faced monster hunting kids. The Mind Flayer preparing to possess your best friend.
"Something dangerous enough that preparation isn't paranoia," I said instead. "Look, you guys have been researching dimensional theory for months. You know the compass activity is increasing. You've mapped the weak points. Will's been drawing that dark dimension in perfect detail. What does all that evidence suggest?"
Silence. Then Will spoke quietly: "Something's coming through. From the other side."
"Exactly." I grabbed a water bottle from the mini-fridge. "So we prepare. And part of preparation is resource management. Saving the extraction for when it matters most."
Dustin scribbled notes furiously. "Holding at maximum charge might affect future recharge rates. The dimensional energy could saturate differently. I'll need to recalculate—"
"Later," Mike interrupted. "Steve, if you're this worried, shouldn't we tell adults? Like, actual authorities who could do something?"
"And tell them what? That my magic backpack says monsters are coming?" I shook my head. "They'd think we're crazy. Or worse—they'd investigate, find the dimensional weak points, and accidentally make things worse by poking at them."
Lucas nodded slowly. "Fair point. So what's the plan?"
"Training continues. You learn to defend yourselves. We maintain the supply caches. And when November comes—"
"Why November?" Will asked.
Because that's when you disappear. When everything starts.
"The patterns suggest fall," I said carefully. "Dimensional activity peaks seem to correlate with seasonal transitions. Late fall, early winter—that's when things are most likely to happen."
"Five months," Mike calculated. "We have five months to prepare for something we don't fully understand."
"Better than being caught unprepared when it happens."
Will
Will Byers couldn't shake the feeling that Steve knew more than he was saying.
The way he talked about November specifically. The certainty in his voice when he described the dark dimension—like he'd been there, seen it, survived it. The sketches Will kept drawing matched Steve's descriptions too perfectly to be coincidence.
And sometimes, when Will looked at Steve, he saw something beneath the surface. Fear, maybe. Or grief. Like Steve was mourning something that hadn't happened yet.
He knows what's coming, Will thought, watching Steve demonstrate a basic defensive stance. He's trying to save us from something specific.
The training started that afternoon. Steve cleared space in the basement, lined them up, and began teaching.
"Real fights aren't like D&D," Steve said, demonstrating a simple punch. "No turn-based combat. No dice rolls. Just chaos and reaction time. If something dangerous comes at you, you need to know how to run, how to fight back, and how to protect each other."
"This is ridiculous," Mike muttered. "We're twelve. What are we supposed to fight?"
"Anything that tries to hurt you." Steve moved through the basement, adjusting Lucas's stance, correcting Dustin's fist position. "Might be bullies. Might be worse. Point is, you need options beyond hiding."
Lucas took it seriously, practicing the movements with focused intensity. Dustin treated it like a game, making sound effects with each punch. Mike remained skeptical but participated. Will watched everything intensely, memorizing each technique.
Steve noticed. "Will. You're too tense. Fighting isn't about force—it's about efficiency. Use your opponent's momentum against them."
He demonstrated with Lucas, showing how a smaller person could redirect a larger attacker's energy. The physics made sense. The practical application made Will nervous.
"How do you know all this?" Will asked quietly.
"I've been training." Steve grabbed water bottles for everyone. "For years now. Learning everything I can about fighting, surviving, protecting people. Because I'd rather be prepared and wrong than unprepared and dead."
"That's dark," Dustin said.
"That's realistic."
They trained for two hours. Basic stances, simple strikes, how to break grabs and create distance. By the end, everyone was exhausted and slightly more confident.
"Same time Thursday," Steve said as they packed up. "We'll work on environmental awareness—using whatever's around you as weapons or shields."
"You're insane," Mike said, but his tone lacked heat.
"Probably. But you're all learning anyway."
Steve
The supply cache upgrades happened gradually over the next two weeks.
I spent careful money from my investment portfolio—$25,000 now, growing steadily—on tactical supplies that wouldn't raise suspicions if purchased separately. Hardware stores in three different towns. Army surplus from Indianapolis. Online orders shipped to post office boxes.
Baseball bats. Nails. Duct tape. Emergency flares. Cheap two-way radios. Waterproof bags. Non-perishable food. First aid supplies to supplement the medkit. Flashlights and batteries. Rope. Tarps. Everything I could think of that might help kids survive in hostile conditions.
I upgraded all five caches systematically:
Cache One (Quarry): Added nail-wrapped baseball bat, three-day food supply, radio, emergency blanket, water purification.
Cache Two (Mirkwood): This one got the most attention. Closest to where the gate would open. I buried a larger container with two bats, extensive first aid, five days of food, multiple flashlights, emergency flares, rope, and a radio.
Cache Three (Junkyard): Enhanced with weapons, food, radios, medical supplies. The bus where the kids would eventually fight demo-dogs got its own hidden cache inside.
Cache Four (Library): Kept minimal but updated with cash, contact information, emergency supplies.
Cache Five (Home): My basement bunker expanded constantly. Weapons mounted on hidden racks. Medical supplies in locked cabinets. Food and water for extended stays. Training equipment. Maps. Documentation.
I showed The Party the Mirkwood cache on a Thursday afternoon.
"Why are we hiking through the woods?" Lucas complained, swatting mosquitoes.
"Field trip." I led them to the rotted log where I'd hidden the main container. "If things go wrong, if you get separated from adults, if you need supplies and can't get home—you need options."
I pulled the container from its hiding spot, showed them the contents. Four faces went from skeptical to shocked.
"That's a baseball bat wrapped in nails," Dustin said faintly.
"That's a weapon," I corrected. "One that doesn't require training to be effective. Swing hard, aim for vulnerable points, create distance."
Mike grabbed the bat, testing its weight. "This is for real. You actually think we're going to need to fight something with this."
"I think it's better to have it and not need it than need it and not have it."
Will touched the emergency supplies with careful fingers. "You've been preparing for years. For this moment. For whatever's coming in November."
"Yeah."
"How do you know?" Mike demanded. "How can you be so certain?"
Because I've watched it happen. Because I know exactly what's coming and who dies and how everything goes wrong.
"Pattern recognition," I said instead. "The compass behavior. The dimensional activity. Your research. Will's sketches. Everything points to something crossing over from the dark dimension. I'd rather be wrong and overprepared than right and underprepared."
Lucas studied the cache contents. "Where are the others?"
"Four more locations around Hawkins. You'll learn them all before November. Memorize locations, memorize contents, know where to go if you need help."
"You really think we might need this," Dustin said quietly. "All of it. The training, the supplies, the preparation."
"Yeah." I repacked the container carefully. "I really do."
They were quiet on the hike back, processing the reality of what I'd been building. This wasn't a game or a fun mystery anymore. This was me genuinely expecting danger—expecting violence—and training twelve-year-olds to survive it.
But they kept showing up to training sessions. Kept practicing the defensive techniques. Kept asking questions about the caches and the dimensional research.
Because they trusted me. And that trust was a weight I carried every single day.
Summer 1983 unfolded like any other summer on the surface.
I maintained straight-As through the end of junior year. Hung out with Chrissy by the community pool. Helped Robin study for her SATs. Attended Eddie's Hellfire sessions. Trained The Party twice a week.
Normal teenage summer activities, layered over constant preparation for apocalypse.
My parents came home for four days in late June, didn't notice the basement modifications or the coded journals or their son's transformation into something beyond human. They left for Berlin with relieved expressions—fulfilling minimum parental obligation before escaping again.
The backpack stayed at 100%. Waiting.
Fight Master progressed steadily. Teaching accelerated my own learning—explaining techniques forced me to understand them at deeper levels. I'd reached the point where simple combat forms locked into muscle memory within thirty minutes.
Pain Heal remained Phase 1, but I'd gotten better at managing the suffering. Healed a kid's broken finger at the community center. Absorbed a sprained ankle from one of Eddie's Hellfire friends. Each time, the phantom pain became more bearable.
I was becoming dangerous. Competent. Ready.
But ready for what? The kids knew something was coming but not what. My friends suspected more than I told them but trusted enough not to push.
And Chrissy—
Chrissy was starting to crack the facade.
The calendar on my desk had November circled in red. Circled and highlighted and marked with a countdown I couldn't explain.
153 days. Then 140. Then 130.
The numbers dropped like stones into water, ripples spreading outward, and everyone in my orbit felt them without understanding why.
Note:
Please give good reviews and power stones itrings more people and more people means more chapters?
My Patreon is all about exploring 'What If' timelines, and you can get instant access to chapters far ahead of the public release.
Choose your journey:
Timeline Viewer ($6): Get 10 chapters of early access + 5 new chapters weekly.
Timeline Explorer ($9): Jump 15-20 chapters ahead of everyone.
Timeline Keeper ($15): Get Instant Access to chapters the moment I finish writing them. No more waiting.
Read the raw, unfiltered story as it unfolds. Your support makes this possible!
👉 Find it all at patreon.com/Whatif0