Chapter 31: The Aftermath
The hospital discharged me after a week with instructions to "take it easy" and "avoid strenuous activity."
I lasted three days before resuming training.
Not full combat drills—my ribs still screamed protest with deep breaths—but careful movement. Stretching. Light forms. Fight Master worked even in recovery, analyzing which motions accelerated healing versus which risked re-injury.
My basement became rehabilitation center. Robin watched me move through tai chi forms with critical eye.
"You look like you're eighty."
"Feel like it too." I flowed into the next position, ribs protesting. "But sitting still makes it worse. Body needs motion to heal."
"Body needs rest to heal. That's literally what doctors said."
"Doctors don't have Fight Master accelerating their recovery." I finished the form, breathed carefully. "Three more weeks at this rate, I'll be back to full capacity."
"And the nightmares?"
I'd been having them since the hospital. Every night. Shadows and vast intelligence and a voice that wasn't quite voice: I see you, traveler.
"Managing," I lied.
Robin saw through it but didn't push. "Chrissy's worried. Says you wake up screaming."
"I know. Can't help it." Can't explain that I absorbed Mind Flayer corruption from Will. That piece of it lives in my head now, watching, waiting.
My phone rang. Joyce Byers, voice tight with panic.
"Steve. Something's wrong with Will."
I was moving before she finished the sentence.
The Byers house smelled like fear and cleaning products—Joyce trying to scrub away the memory of those terrible days.
Will sat on the bathroom floor, pale and shaking. Jonathan beside him, hand on his brother's shoulder.
And on the tile: a slug. Gray-black, writhing, wrong.
"He coughed it up," Joyce whispered. "Just coughed and it came out and—"
"I know what it is." I knelt beside Will, examining the creature. Identical to the ones from Season 2. Mind Flayer infection manifesting physically. "Will, has this happened before?"
He nodded, barely. "Twice. First time two days ago. I flushed it. Didn't want to scare Mom."
"Buddy, you need to tell us these things." I looked at Joyce. "It's residual contamination from the Upside Down. The dimension left... traces. In his system."
"Can you fix it?" Jonathan demanded. "Like you did before?"
Not fix. Just slow. The infection's too deep.
"I can help. But it's going to hurt. Me, not him."
"I don't understand—"
"Trust me."
I placed both hands on Will's shoulders, closed my eyes, activated Pain Heal.
The corruption hit me like ice water injected into veins.
Not physical pain—dimensional wrongness. Reality rejection. My body recognizing something that shouldn't exist and screaming in protest.
And behind it: vastness. Intelligence. The Mind Flayer's attention turning toward me like searchlight.
You, it said without words. You touched my vessel. Took what was mine. I remember you, little thief.
I pushed back mentally, flooding Will's system with... what? Not healing exactly. Purification. Burning out the infection through sheer determination and whatever metaphysical force powered my abilities.
The corruption resisted. Fought. Tried spreading to me instead.
Fight Master's mental discipline helped. Compartmentalize. Accept the pain as data, process it, route it away from anything vital.
Three minutes. The slug on the floor dissolved. Will's breathing steadied. The wrongness in his body reduced from screaming to whisper.
I broke contact, gasping.
"Steve?" Joyce grabbed my arm. "What happened? Your eyes—"
"I'm fine." Lie. My eyes had probably rolled back during the healing. "Will's better. Infection's reduced. Not gone, but manageable."
"For how long?"
Until Season 2. Until Halloween 1984. Until the Mind Flayer makes its real move.
"Months. Maybe longer. We monitor him. If symptoms return, I treat again." I met her eyes. "This isn't over. The Upside Down left a mark. But we can manage it."
Joyce pulled Will into fierce hug. "Thank you. Again."
After they calmed, after Jonathan walked me to my car, I sat in the driver's seat and shook.
The Mind Flayer's attention lingered. A presence at the edge of my consciousness. Watching. Waiting.
It knows me now. Really knows me. Not just as threat but as individual.
That was dangerous. That changed equations.
I drove home and tried not to think about the shadow creature's final words echoing in my head: We'll meet again, traveler. When I return, I'll be ready for you.
Steve - Five Days Later, November 16, 1983
Barb's physical therapy session happened at the hospital's rehabilitation wing—working with occupational therapist on adapting to missing fingers.
Nancy sat in waiting area, doing homework but mostly watching the door. When Barb emerged, exhausted and frustrated, Nancy was there immediately.
"How'd it go?"
"I can't hold a pencil right. Can't type properly. Can't do anything." Barb's voice cracked. "The therapist says I'll adapt but it feels impossible."
I intercepted them before Nancy could spiral into guilt.
"Barb. Got a minute?"
She looked at me—guy who'd saved her life, whom she'd barely known before. "Sure."
We sat on the hospital's outside bench. November cold bit through jackets but the sun felt good.
"I almost didn't get to you in time," I said. "Another hour, maybe two, and the webbing would've been too deep. You'd have been past saving."
"But you did get there."
"Yeah. But it was close. Closer than anyone knows." I met her eyes. "And I need you to understand something. What happened to you—the abduction, the torture, the injuries—none of that was your fault. You didn't do anything to deserve it. You were just in wrong place at wrong time."
"Nancy blames herself."
"Nancy needs to process her own guilt. But you? You're the victim who survived. That's not something to feel guilty about."
Barb looked at her ruined hand. "I keep having nightmares. The monster. The darkness. Being trapped and knowing I was going to die."
"That's trauma. That's PTSD. It doesn't just go away." I'd done research at the library—every psychology book I could find. "But it does get manageable. With time and therapy and people who understand."
"You sound like you know."
I died and woke up in another world. Spent three years knowing apocalypse was coming. Fought an interdimensional monster and absorbed psychic corruption. Yeah, I know trauma.
"I've had nightmares too," I said instead. "Since the rescue. Every night. Sometimes I wake up screaming and can't remember why."
"What helps?"
"Having people around who know. Who've been through it. Chrissy doesn't understand but she tries. That's enough."
Barb absorbed this. "Nancy's been amazing. She refuses to let me isolate. Forces me to talk, to process, to keep moving forward."
"That's what friends do. What real friends do."
"We weren't really friends before. Not deeply. Just... surface level. High school friends."
"And now?"
"Now we're trauma-bonded. She saw me at my worst. I saw her fight a monster. That's different. Deeper."
"Good different?"
"Terrifying different. But yeah. Good."
Nancy emerged from the building, found us on the bench. "Am I interrupting?"
"No," Barb said. "Steve was just reminding me that surviving isn't something to feel guilty about."
Nancy sat on Barb's other side. The three of us—unlikely alliance forged in nightmare.
"We should do something," Nancy said suddenly. "The three of us. Not hospital visits or therapy sessions. Something normal."
"Like what?" I asked.
"I don't know. Movie? Diner? Something that reminds us we're still alive and allowed to have fun."
Barb smiled—first genuine smile I'd seen from her. "That sounds perfect."
We made plans for Friday. Normal teenager things. Recovery through normalcy.
When I drove home, the Mind Flayer's presence felt distant. Manageable.
Maybe we'd all heal. Maybe trauma didn't have to define us.
Maybe.
Steve - Training Basement, November 19, 1983
The Party gathered for combat training three days a week now—stepping up from previous casual instruction.
I'd modified the curriculum post-rescue. They'd seen real threats. Needed real preparation.
"Lucas, stance." I corrected his footing. "Weight forward. You're off-balance."
He adjusted. Better.
"Dustin, hands up. Protect your head."
"This is exhausting."
"Combat is exhausting. That's why we train."
Mike practiced with the practice bat—lighter than my nail-wrapped version but same technique. "When do we get real weapons?"
"When you're ready. Which you're not."
El watched from the corner, recovering her strength. She'd pushed too hard during the rescue, needed time for powers to regenerate.
"Can I try?" she asked quietly.
"Physical training or powers?"
"Physical. Powers still... tired."
"Then yes. Come here."
I taught her basic self-defense. She was small, light, but Fight Master calculated leverage points that worked for her size. Joint locks. Pressure points. Techniques that didn't require strength.
She learned fast. Frighteningly fast.
"Good. Now Mike, attack her. Slow."
Mike hesitated. "I don't want to hurt—"
"She's tougher than you. Attack."
He moved. El redirected his momentum, put him on the ground in two seconds.
"Holy shit," Dustin breathed.
"Again," I said. "Lucas, your turn."
We drilled for two hours. By the end, The Party was exhausted but competent. Not experts. But survivors.
"Why are we doing this?" Mike asked, gulping water. "The gate's closed. The monster's dead."
Because Season 2 is coming. Because the Mind Flayer isn't finished. Because Bob Newby dies in eleven months and I don't know how to prevent it.
"Because there are always threats," I said instead. "The Upside Down existed before the gate opened. It'll exist after. We stay prepared or we die unprepared. Your choice."
"Prepared," they said in unison.
"Good. Same time Wednesday."
After they left, I stood alone in the basement, staring at the training equipment.
Fight Master at 72% of Phase 2. Pain Heal functional but contaminated. Dimensional Backpack at 17%—still weeks from next extraction.
Three powers. One mission. Keep everyone alive.
The nightmares would continue. The Mind Flayer's attention would grow. Season 2 approached like clockwork.
But tonight? Tonight they were safe. Trained. Ready.
That would have to be enough.
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