Chapter 45: Bob's First Close Call
Bob
The tunnel map spread across the table looked like something from a horror movie. Red lines marking passages that shouldn't exist, branching beneath Hawkins like diseased veins.
"We need visual confirmation on the eastern junction," Dr. Owens said, tapping the map. "Camera placement here, here, and here. Remote monitoring will give us real-time intel on demo-dog movement patterns."
Hopper nodded. "I'll take a team down tomorrow."
"I should go," I said.
Everyone looked at me.
Joyce's face went pale. "Bob, no—"
"I'm the tech specialist. You need someone who can install the cameras properly, sync them to the monitoring station, ensure the frequencies don't interfere with tunnel electromagnetics." I kept my voice steady despite my racing heart. "That's me."
"Absolutely not," Steve said from where he sat monitoring Will. His corrupted face looked worse today, black veins spreading down his neck. "Bob stays here. Too dangerous."
"Someone has to help." I stood, meeting his eyes. "Will needs his family safe. Joyce needs this resolved. I'm not useless."
"I never said you were useless. I said you were essential. Essential people don't go into death traps."
"Then who goes? You? While you're absorbing Will's possession daily? While you're coordinating six different teams?" I gestured at the bunker's organized chaos. "You can't be everywhere, Steve. Let me do this."
Joyce grabbed my arm. "Bob, please—"
"I'll keep him alive," Hopper interjected. "We go in, plant cameras, get out. Thirty minutes maximum."
Steve's expression darkened. "This is a mistake."
"Noted." Hopper checked his shotgun. "We leave at dawn."
I kissed Joyce's forehead, squeezed her hand. "I'll be careful. I promise."
Hopper
Bob Newby was terrified. Didn't hide it well—hands shook while loading equipment, kept checking his gear three times, breathed too fast in the hazmat suit.
But he was going anyway. That took guts.
"Stay behind me," I instructed, descending into the tunnel entrance at the old industrial complex. "Don't touch anything. If I say run, you run."
"Got it."
The tunnel swallowed us. Organic walls pulsed with faint bioluminescence, slime coating everything. The air tasted wrong even through oxygen filters—sulfur and rot and something else. Something alien.
Bob followed close, carrying camera equipment in a reinforced case. He didn't complain about the smell or the wrongness. Just focused on the job.
"Junction ahead," I radioed to Steve's command center. "Installing first camera."
Bob worked efficiently despite his fear. Mounted the camera on tunnel wall using adhesive that could survive the organic growth, synced it to the network, tested the feed.
"Camera one active," he confirmed. "Signal strength good."
We moved deeper. Second camera installed without incident. Third position was the critical one—junction where multiple tunnels converged, maximum visibility of demo-dog traffic patterns.
Bob crouched, working on mounting bracket.
That's when the walls exploded.
Bob
Six demo-dogs burst from the tunnel walls simultaneously. Coordinated. Hunting.
Time fractured into snapshots of terror:
Hopper's shotgun roaring. Two creatures falling, howling. The rest circling, faces peeling open to show rings of teeth.
My brain screamed at me to run. My body froze.
Hopper firing again. Click. Empty. Fumbling for shells.
A demo-dog lunged.
Drop and roll. Steve's training. Drop and roll.
I hit the ground. The creature overshoots, claws scraping my backpack. Hopper's shotgun thunders—the demo-dog's head explodes.
"RUN!" Hopper roared, grabbing my arm.
We ran.
The tunnels came alive. Vines whipped at us. Walls constricted. The remaining demo-dogs gave chase, clicking and shrieking.
"Which way?" I gasped.
"I don't—" Hopper spun, disoriented. The junction branched six directions. Wrong choice meant death.
Steve's voice crackled through radio: "LEFT! Take the left tunnel!"
We veered left. Hopper fired backward without aiming, buying seconds.
"Straight forty meters!" Steve guided. "Don't stop!"
The tunnel narrowed. Slime made footing treacherous. Behind us, clicking grew louder.
"Vertical shaft ahead!" Steve's voice held strain, like he was seeing something painful. "Climb! There's a ladder!"
The shaft appeared—maintenance access from before the corruption. Rusted ladder leading up.
Hopper went first, providing cover fire. I climbed, hands slipping on corroded metal. Lungs burned. Arms screamed.
A demo-dog's jaws snapped inches from my ankle.
Hopper's shotgun bellowed. The creature fell.
We burst from the shaft into cold November air, collapsing on dead grass behind the industrial complex. Covered in slime, bleeding from a dozen scratches, alive.
I vomited. Couldn't help it. Terror and adrenaline purging through my stomach.
Steve
I was already running when they emerged.
The corruption link had let me see through the tunnels—Mind Flayer's perspective, hive consciousness mapping every passage. I'd guided them perfectly, but feeling that vast intelligence while doing it nearly broke me.
Now Bob and Hopper lay on the ground, gasping and shaking.
Joyce reached them first, pulling Bob into her arms while he sobbed against her shoulder.
I knelt beside Hopper. "Injuries?"
"Scratches. Nothing serious." He sat up, reloading his shotgun with mechanical precision. "Thanks for the directions. How'd you know the layout?"
"Corruption link. I can see through its eyes sometimes."
"That's both useful and deeply disturbing."
"Yeah."
Bob looked up at me, face streaked with tears and tunnel slime. "I'm sorry. You were right. I wasn't ready."
My anger evaporated. He'd gone because he wanted to help. Because he loved Joyce and cared about Will. Because he was brave despite being terrified.
"You installed the cameras?" I asked.
"Two of them. Third one—"
"Is still in the equipment case," Hopper confirmed. "Grabbed it when we ran."
"Then the mission wasn't a complete disaster." I helped Bob stand. "But next time? Please listen when I say something's too dangerous."
"There's going to be a next time?"
Five more, if canon holds. Five more chances for you to die.
"Hopefully not," I lied. "But if there is, we prepare better. More weapons, better planning, multiple escape routes."
Bob nodded shakily. Joyce held him like she'd never let go.
Dr. Owens approached with medical supplies. "Let's get you both checked out."
Steve
The bunker's medical bay smelled like antiseptic and fear. Bob sat on the examination table while Owens cleaned his wounds—nothing deep, but enough scratches to scar.
I watched from the doorway, corruption throbbing behind my eyes. The Mind Flayer whispered congratulations for keeping Bob alive this time.
But how many times can you save him? How many narrow escapes before his luck runs out?
Joyce sat beside Bob, holding his hand. "You scared me."
"I scared myself." Bob managed a weak laugh. "I thought... I thought I was dead. That thing was right there, and I just... froze."
"But you didn't die. You remembered Steve's training."
"Barely. Everything was instinct. Terror instinct."
"That's what training is," I said. "Making survival instinct automatic."
Bob looked at me, really looked. "You knew this would happen. That's why you didn't want me going."
"I knew it was possible."
"No. You knew. I saw your face when I volunteered. You were..." He searched for words. "Resigned. Like watching something play out you'd already seen."
Too perceptive, Bob. Way too perceptive.
"I'm just paranoid. Comes with the territory." I forced casual tone. "But you survived. That's what matters."
"This time."
"Every time. Because you're going to be smarter now. More careful."
Bob studied his bandaged hands. "I wanted to prove I could help. That I wasn't just the goofy RadioShack guy Joyce is dating. That I could be... useful."
"Bob." Joyce cupped his face. "You don't need to prove anything."
"Yes, I do. Will needs protecting. You need protecting. I can't just hide while everyone else fights."
And that, right there, was the problem. Bob's bravery would get him killed. His need to help would put him in danger's path again and again until finally, inevitably—
No. Not this time. Not in this timeline.
"You are useful," I said firmly. "Your technical knowledge, your analytical mind, your courage—all useful. But useful people need to stay alive. Dead heroes don't help anyone."
Bob nodded slowly. "Okay. I'll be more careful."
"Promise?"
"I promise."
He won't keep it, the Mind Flayer whispered. Heroes never do.
I left before the corruption could spread further, before Bob could see how close I was to breaking.
Outside the medical bay, Chrissy waited with coffee.
"He's okay?"
"For now."
"And you?"
I leaned against the wall, exhaustion crashing over me. "Ask me in thirty-six hours. When this is over."
"If it's ever over."
"Yeah. If."
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