In the days that follow, the boys discuss a plan to hunt down the bad men. They meet at Dustin's place, pouring over maps and taking notes. Mike brings his D&D binder, scouring it for the tiniest bit of information that might help them.
Though none can think of anything too remarkable, at least they have a place to start. They configure the street where the car stopped them, and the direction they were headed. Mike, insistent on setting out to find her as soon as possible, suggests they leave that very same night.
"Are you crazy?" Dustin says, incredulously. Mike frowns, obviously irritated by his friends' lack of enthusiasm.
"You may be okay with running after El in the pitch black darkness, but I'm not. Plus, we're not even ready. Our plan is mediocre at best, but it'll probably send us running straight into the bad men. Or worse. We don't even know if the demogorgon is dead!"
"It's dead! El killed it. It broke into a million pieces, remember?"
Dustin shakes his head.
"Yeah, and so did El." He pauses, staring at Mike with wide eyes.
"Mike, El broke into a million pieces and turned up three months later, all fine and dandy!"
Mike is shaking with anger. Anger that is hopelessly misdirected, but still.
"She was not fine." He hisses, through gritted teeth.
"But she was alive. Anyway, all I'm saying is that we need more time to prepare. You know it. We all know it. Right guys?" Dustin looks around at Lucas and Will.
"He's right. We go when we're ready." Lucas says, rolling his eyes.
Will nods in agreement, exchanging a glance with Dustin. Mike bites his lip, frustrated, heat rising in his cheeks.
"You must've been hit in the head really hard."
Mike looks at Dustin, stung.
"You think I'm insane?" He snaps, with so much venom Dustin blinks in surprise.
"What?"
"You know what. You think I'm insane. You think I'm completely crazy for wanting her back."
Dustin tries to backtrack, stuttering. Lucas jumps to his defense.
"He never said that, Mike."
"Oh, you too Lucas? I know. I get it. You think I'm crazy and you're scared. You're scared of the bad men and you're scared of her. You never liked her anyway. You called her a freak."
Lucas opens his mouth. Mike beats him to it.
"You never cared about her." Mike says, dully. "You're all cowards."
His voice is sharp and cold, but as soon as the words leave his mouth, he regrets them.
Mike glares at his friends, trying and failing to suppress the anger and frustration that boils so close to the surface. With shaking fingers, he hikes his backpack onto his shoulder and turns, wrenching open the door.
He sprints down the steps, swallowing the hot tears that spring in his eyes. The door swings shut behind him. The loud slam makes him cringe. He's too angry to dwell on it, though. He swings a leg over his bike, stealing a glance back. The three of them stand in the doorway. He catches sight of their expressions and immediately wishes he hadn't.
He rides blindly, not really thinking about where he's going. Tears blur his vision, and he relies on memory alone to guide him through the winding streets of Hawkins. He doesn't notice his house on the horizon, doesn't remember rushing through his front door.
Somehow, he winds up sitting at the foot of his bed, head in his hands. It's the first time he's actually broken down since the bad men took El. It's a miracle he's held on for that long. Terrible guilt and fear for her create a bitter storm of emotions that do nothing but confuse him.
He doesn't just cry for El. He cries for his friends, and the irreparable bonds he'd just severed.
The sobs wrack his body. His throat is raw, and his nose runs continuously. Eventually, he's reduced to a violent fit of hiccups. They punctuate his attempts to take deep, steadying breaths.
He pulls himself together enough to get off the floor. He crosses the room, picking up the Super Com from where it sits on his bedside table. He taps into the controls. Lucas' voice filters through the station.
"Mike. Mike. Mike. Mike. C'mon man, I know you're there. Pick up. Mike!" He turns it off, biting his lip. All the anger he'd had bottled up inside him is gone. Like a deflated balloon, he's empty and numb. Mike chokes back another sob.
Now he'd really fucked up. His own words echo in his mind.
You think I'm insane. You never cared about her. You're all cowards.
Lies.
None of it is true, and Mike knows it. Of course, he had to open his fat mouth and screw everything up.
Still, he can't bring himself to reply. What would he say, anyway? He can't apologize. The damage is done.
His mind wanders to Eleven. Probably locked in some dark cell, beaten and tortured and forced to do awful things. How could he have let this happen?
He tries to reach out to her, mentally. Sometimes, she reaches out to him. He's not sure how well it works the other way around. It's been eerily silent ever since she left. It leaves an awful feeling in the pit of his stomach.
Eleven?
Tentatively, he pushes on the mental barrier that houses the flow of consciousness that wanders between them. Radio silence. It's like she's there, but asleep. At least he can feel her.
He allows himself a small smile.
"I'm coming."
He says it aloud.
He joins his family for dinner, preoccupied with plans to get El back. He tosses the ideas around, shoveling spaghetti into his mouth. Nancy shoots him a questioning look, and he averts his eyes. They're puffy and red, no doubt. He focuses on his plate and avoids conversation.
"Mike, honey, are you alright?"
"Yeah. I'm just a little tired. Can I go upstairs?" He asks her.
"Of course."
As he makes his way upstairs, the guilt overwhelms him for a moment. Once again, he sees Dustin's face, etched with concern. He sees Lucas, mouth wide in shock. And Will. Hurt, reproachful. He pushes the image away. He'd try to apologize to them tomorrow. He'd fix this, and they'd get El back. Together.
. . .
It comes in the middle of the night. A piercing scream. It echoes in the walls, in his own head.
The walkie talkie crackles, humming with static. Mike blinks, disoriented in the darkness. He's able to locate the device, pulling it close to him.
"Hello?"
He's sure the scream came through it, though the echo in his head is as real as anything.
"Mike." Eleven speaks through the walkie talkie.
"Mike!" This time, his name is a scream. There's terrible coughing, a great gasp of air.
"El!" He says, gripping the walkie talkie with white knuckled, his heart hammering.
"El. Listen to me. Tell me where you are." He says.
She coughs again, sniffing. More static. Mike's bedside lamp flickers.
"Don't know. Dark. Took me . . . car. Birch Street . . I saw . . sign. There's . . . river. I don't think . . . Hawkins. Not Hawkins."
The lamp continues to flicker, off and on.
"El! El, tell me more."
"Mike." She says his name.
"Town . . not Hawkins. River . . . Riverside."
"Riverside? El, El please. Stay with me."
"Mike. Can't stay . . . long. Not very long. Mike . . bad men. It . . . hurts."
Her words cause him physical pain. He feels that too familiar ache in his chest. like someone had driven a sledgehammer right through him.
"They're hurting you? El, talk to me. Please."
He can hear her shuddering breath. He feels his heart throbbing. The walkie talkie is inches from his face. He feels as if he could climb right through it and bring her back. But he can't and she's in danger and it's all his fault . . .
"It . . hurts. Hurry. Mike . ."
Her voice disappears, cut short. Only quiet static remains. Mike's grip on the thing loosens, and it lies defeated in his hands. He is reminded of a lifeless bird, crooked wings and dead weight. The lamp goes out, and he is once again bathed in darkness. With trembling fingers, he fiddles with controls, trying to establish the connection. No luck.
He throws the blankets off of him, pulling on his shoes and jacket. He picks his backpack up off the floor and begin stuffing it with a flashlight, extra batteries, his trusty wrist rocket, and his walkie talkie. Risking the kitchen, he stuffs an energy bar, some beef jerky, and a bottle of water in the pack. He heads down the basement steps, breath lodged in his throat. He hesitates, for a moment, before opening the door.
No turning back. He reminds himself. She's in trouble.
The October air stings his cheeks. Mike grabs his bike and sets off down the road.
He sucks in a breath, letting the chill set his nerves on fire. He pedals furiously,
Mike bites his lip as he rounds another corner. His head throbs, even now.
It's not his head that bothers him, but the nights' eerie silence. It reminds him all too much of last November's "incident". The pavement is wet. The sky is cloudy, and Mike Wheeler tries to ignore the steel ball of worry and fear wrapped up inside him.
Riverside is not far. A little over twenty miles. It's north of Hawkins. He'd been there with his family, out to dinner or to fish with his dad. He's there in two hours.
Mike's watch reads 3:24 AM. He blinks the blurriness from his eyes, watching his breath condense against the inky black sky. He slows a little, muscles aching and body heavy with fatigue.
In the darkness, he squints to make out the street signs.
Mulberry. Chelsea. Redding. He takes another turn, and the road takes him out of the neighborhood and out along the edge of town. The trees grow thicker, and dead leaves slide across the street, billowing in the wind.
There's no one around.
He continues for another mile or so, stopping to drink water or to read a sign. His walkie talkie stays silent, about as helpful as an empty box of Eggos. Mike tries and fails to establish a mental connection. He's forced to accept the truth: She can't help him. She's gone and it's his job to find her. Alone.
With another, awful stab of guilt, he recalls Dustin and Lucas' words.
We're going to find Eleven. Together.
Together. It's the first time he's really stopped to think. Now, he's kicking himself for running blindly into the night. He really is crazy. Stupid.
He chews on his lip, looking frantically at the houses in the distance and the dense foliage on his left. He couldn't believe she'd be out here, in the middle of nowhere. They had to have some fancy building, right? Some underground lab or something.
"Birch Street." He says it aloud, stopping at the corner. Birch Street. Hadn't El said something about Birch Street?
He's sure of it.
He turns down the street. The trees and brush continue on either side. He can hear the sound of rushing water. There's a small building a little way down the street.
He brakes, tires screeching over the pavement. He pulls the flashlight from his pack and jumps of the bike. Shining the light in the foliage, he continues on foot down the street.
"El?" He calls.
"Eleven? Where are you?"
He feels stupid. She's not here.
A twig breaks behind him. He turns, startled. There's a sharp pain in his head. Then nothing at all.
In the earliest hours on a Sunday in late October, 1984, Mike Wheeler disappears. There's a the dull thud of a body hitting pavement. There's the muffled voices of dark clothed captors. There's a flash of headlights and the squealing of tires.
There are no witnesses. Nobody notices the second vanishing in less than a week.
...
I should have clarified. Nobody notices his disappearance until some hours later.
Dustin, Will, and Lucas will wake up on a cloudy Sunday morning to their best friend's absence.
They will find his disturbed bed and missing bike. They will know exactly his intent.
This time, they will tell the Chief of Police. And then they will attempt to go looking for him.
But I'm getting ahead of myself.