Chapter 33: December Planning
December frost made Hawkins look clean—white coating over decay, hiding the scars.
I drove to the quarry cache at dawn, breath misting in cold air, trunk loaded with supplies. Investment portfolio had exploded over Thanksgiving weekend. Apple stock up 300%. Microsoft paying off exactly as predicted. My trust account showed $35,000—more money than most families made in a year.
I was using it to prepare for war.
The quarry cache was my largest—buried in a waterproof container beneath the old tree line. I'd dug it three years ago, updated it monthly since.
Now I was upgrading everything.
New weapons: two more nail-wrapped bats, hunting knives, a crossbow with practice bolts. Medical supplies: advanced first aid, antibiotics I'd convinced a sympathetic doctor to prescribe "for camping trips." Food: military MREs with five-year shelf life, water purification tablets, emergency rations.
Communications: upgraded walkie-talkies with ten-mile range, emergency flares, waterproof matches.
Everything sealed in vacuum bags, labeled, cataloged.
Fight Master made the work efficient—every motion precise, no wasted energy. But my hands shook occasionally. Side effect of the corruption.
Mind Flayer's attention growing. Can feel it watching through the connection. Whispering at night.
I finished the quarry cache, moved to the Mirkwood location. Same process. Upgrade, catalog, seal.
By noon I'd hit three of five caches. Body exhausted despite enhanced stamina. The corruption was draining me—subtle but constant.
My phone rang. Joyce.
"Steve. Will's having another episode."
Third one this week. Frequency increasing.
"I'll be there in twenty minutes."
Will sat at the Byers' kitchen table, drawing compulsively. Not his usual sketches—these were dark, geometric, spreading across multiple pages.
Tunnels. Vines. The Mind Flayer's infrastructure.
"When did this start?" I asked Joyce quietly.
"This morning. He won't stop. Won't talk. Just draws."
I knelt beside Will. "Hey, buddy. Can you hear me?"
His eyes focused slowly. "Steve? Sorry. I didn't mean to—it's just there. In my head. The map. It wants me to remember."
"The Mind Flayer?"
He nodded, hand still moving across paper. "It's building something. Preparing. I can feel it even though the gate's closed."
Because you're still connected. Still its vessel, just dormant.
"Let me help."
I placed my hands on his shoulders, activated Pain Heal.
The corruption slammed into me harder than ever before.
Not just wrongness—the Mind Flayer's actual presence. Its vast intelligence pressing against my consciousness, testing boundaries, probing for weakness.
Hello again, little traveler. Still playing hero? Still taking what's mine?
I pushed back mentally. He's not yours. None of them are.
He was mine first. I marked him. The connection is permanent. You can slow the infection, but you can't remove it. Eventually, he'll be mine again.
Not if I stop you first.
The Mind Flayer laughed—sound like continents grinding together.
You can't stop what's already inevitable. I've seen the paths. The futures. The boy will be my vessel. The only question is how many others die before you accept it.
I broke contact, gasping.
Will's drawings had stopped. The compulsion lifted. But exhaustion replaced it—he slumped in the chair.
"Better?" Joyce asked, steadying her son.
"Yeah. Tired. But better."
I stood on shaking legs. The corruption lingered—phantom presence in my skull, Mind Flayer's attention like weight on my shoulders.
Joyce noticed. "Steve. What's happening to you?"
"What do you mean?"
"You look like hell. You've lost weight. There are dark circles under your eyes. Every time you help Will, you get worse." She grabbed my arm. "What are you doing to yourself?"
Absorbing interdimensional corruption. Creating psychic link with cosmic horror entity. Slowly contaminating my own mind to keep your son functional.
"Transferring the infection. Piece by piece. It's the only way to slow it."
"But what does it do to you?"
"Nightmares. Visions. The Mind Flayer can... talk to me. Through the connection. It's not pleasant but it's manageable."
"Manageable?" Joyce's voice rose. "Steve, you're a kid. Eighteen years old. You shouldn't be sacrificing yourself—"
"Would you rather Will suffer? Rather the infection spread unchecked until Season—until next fall when it comes back?"
She went silent, trapped between maternal instinct and pragmatism.
"I can handle it," I said quietly. "The nightmares suck but I've got support. Chrissy helps. Robin grounds me. And every treatment buys Will more time. That's worth it."
"If it kills you—"
"It won't. I'm tougher than I look."
She hugged me—fierce, grateful, guilty. "Thank you. For everything. I hate that you're paying this price."
"Someone has to. Rather me than Will."
Jonathan drove me home. I stared out the window, watching Hawkins pass by, Mind Flayer's whispers constant background noise.
343 days until Halloween 1984. Until the tunnels. Until Bob Newby dies and Will is fully possessed and the true war begins.
343 days to prepare. To get stronger. To find a way to cheat fate.
The corruption was the price. I'd pay it gladly.
Steve - Harrington House, December 20, 1983
Father called at 8 PM—rare event, must be important.
"Steve. Your portfolio performance is remarkable. Thirty-five thousand from an initial five thousand investment in less than four years. How?"
"Research. Pattern analysis. Lucky timing." Foreknowledge of which companies dominate the next decade. But can't say that.
"I'm impressed. Your mother and I discussed it—we're increasing your trust fund. Another ten thousand as seed capital. Invest it wisely."
"I will. Thanks."
"Also, we're extending our Tokyo stay through New Year's. Business opportunities. You'll be alone for the holidays but there's money for—"
"I know. Food, utilities, don't burn the house down. I've got it."
"Good. We'll see you in January. Maybe."
He hung up.
I stared at the phone. Parents who funded my war chest without understanding what they were funding. Perfect.
Forty-five thousand total now. More than enough for the next phase.
I'd been researching property near the future Starcourt Mall site—empty lot currently, scheduled for development in late 1984. If I bought adjacent parcels now, I'd have strategic positioning when the Russians built their secret base underneath.
Assuming that still happens. Timeline's already changed. Max and Billy arrived early. Barb survived. Who knows what else shifted?
But some events felt fixed. Will's possession. The tunnels. Bob's death.
Need contingency plans. Multiple approaches. Can't rely on show knowledge anymore.
I pulled out my coded journals—three years of preparation documented in cipher only I could read. Began planning new strategies for Season 2.
By midnight I had outline:
Continue Will's treatments weekly, accept corruption as ongoing costTrain everyone harder, focus on team tacticsPosition resources near critical locations (lab, mall site, tunnel entrances)Build relationship with Bob, teach him survival skills subtlyMonitor Billy Hargrove for early intervention opportunitiesExpand cache network to seven locations instead of five
The Dimensional Backpack sat at 49% charge—51 days until 100%. I'd hold extraction until 200% in late April. Use the request board for something critical.
What do I need most? Better weapons? Medical supplies? Dimensional detection equipment?
No clear answer yet. I'd wait, see what developed over winter.
The Mind Flayer whispered: Planning is futile. I've existed for eons. You've existed for eighteen years. Our war is already lost.
Maybe. But I'm fighting anyway.
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