Hawkins Junkyard, One Hour Before Contact
The chopper's roar echoed across the rusted metal graveyard of Hawkins Junkyard, slicing through the twilight like a warning. Dust rose in small clouds as the machine passed overhead, its searchlight sweeping the skeletal remains of old cars and discarded appliances.
Inside a battered, graffiti-scarred school bus near the far edge of the yard, Mike, Dustin, Lucas, and Eleven sat frozen. Their bikes had been shoved underneath the chassis moments earlier to hide any trace.
The air inside the bus was stale, heavy with the scent of old vinyl and oil. None of them dared to breathe too loud.
"They've been circling for ten minutes," Dustin whispered, peeking over the edge of the cracked window. "Why the hell would they be searching here?"
"They're not just searching," Lucas muttered, adjusting the strap of his army-surplus backpack. "They're hunting."
"We shouldn't have come here," Dustin said. "What if they tracked us?"
"They didn't," Mike answered firmly. "We lost them near the creek. This is the best place to lay low."
Eleven sat quietly between them, knees pulled to her chest, her wide eyes following the shadows moving across the yard.
Lucas pulled out a folded piece of paper and set his compass on top. "You guys remember what I told you—about the gate?"
Mike and Dustin nodded, leaning closer.
"I tested the compass. Four times," Lucas said. "Every direction it pointed—it led back to the same place."
"The lab," Mike finished.
"Exactly," Lucas said. "It's the only thing that makes sense. The gate's there. The magnetism is off the charts."
"Okay," Dustin said, thinking. "So... who owns the lab?"
Lucas shrugged. "It's labeled as a Department of Energy facility."
Dustin frowned. "Department of Energy? You mean like, solar panels and stuff?"
"Yeah, right," Mike snorted. "Energy is just a cover. It's military. Weapons. Experiments."
Lucas nodded. "Mike's right. I've seen soldiers, lots of them. Trucks, guns—the works."
"This is really bad," Dustin said, voice rising. "Like, Cold War bad. Like, aliens and brainwashing bad."
Lucas looked out the window. "No kidding. That place is a fortress."
"So what do we do now?" Dustin asked, his tone half-hoping someone had a brilliant plan.
Mike hesitated. "I don't know. We can't go home. We're probably on a watch list now or something."
"We're fugitives," Dustin muttered. "Awesome."
And then they heard it—low at first, but growing fast.
A deep thrum rumbled through the ground.
The chopper. Closer now. Too close.
Without a word, the kids snapped into motion. Mike pulled open the panel where they'd hidden the bikes. Together they kicked a few more leaves over the tires, shoved rusted scrap on top, disguising them as best they could.
Then they clambered into the back of the bus, crouching low behind the torn seats, hearts pounding.
Outside, the helicopter swept low over the yard.
A stark white beam swept across the bus windows, cutting through shadows cast by the wreckage. Even in daylight, the spotlight made the junkyard flicker — sharp, searching, merciless.
For a few long moments, no one moved.
Only the sound of shallow, synchronized breathing filled the stale air inside the bus.
Dustin wiped sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of his hoodie. "That was way too close."
"No one saw us," Mike said, though his voice was a notch tighter than before. "We're good."
Eleven sat silent, still hugging her knees. Her eyes hadn't left the window since the chopper appeared.
Lucas slowly unzipped his backpack and pulled out a half-crumpled map. "We need to figure out our next move. Fast."
Mike nodded, but his gaze lingered on Eleven. "You okay?"
She gave a small nod but didn't speak.
"An hour passed."
Then—
Crackle.
The walkie in Mike's bag came alive.
"Mike? Are you there? Mike?" It was a girl's voice. Familiar. Urgent.
Dustin's eyes widened. "You guys hear that?"
Mike pulled the walkie from his bag.
"Nancy. It's Nancy," he whispered.
"Nancy?" Lucas asked. "What's she doing on the radio?"
The static continued, then: "Mike, it's me. Nancy. Please, are you there?"
"This could be a trap," Dustin said quickly. "What if they're making her say that?"
"She sounds scared," Mike said. He stared at the walkie, torn.
Nancy's voice cracked through again. "Mike. Do you copy? We need to know that you're there."
Then a new voice came through—rough, commanding.
"Listen, kid. This is the chief. If you're there, pick up. We know you're in trouble. And we know about the girl."
Mike's heart pounded. He looked at Eleven. Her face was unreadable, but her fingers had curled tightly around the frayed edge of her jacket.
Lucas leaned closer. "Why is Nancy with the chief? And how the hell does he know about El?"
More static.
Then silence.
The walkie went dead.
No one spoke for several seconds.
"They're serious," Mike finally said. "That didn't sound like a trap."
Dustin bit his lip. "What if it is, though?"
Mike made a decision. He pressed the button on the walkie, hands shaking slightly.
"I'm here," he said. "We're here. We're okay. We're at the junkyard, near the old bus. Tell Chief Hopper."
---
Meanwhile – Byers' House
Joyce paced in the living room, arms crossed tightly. Nancy stood near the couch, clutching the walkie, while Jonathan looked out the window.
After minutes of silence, the walkie hissed.
"I'm here."
Nancy's breath hitched. "Mike? Oh my god—thank God."
"We're at the junkyard," Mike's voice crackled. "Near the old bus. We're okay."
Relief crossed Hopper's face for only a second. Then it was gone, replaced by grim urgency.
"I'm going," he said. "Joyce, Jonathan, Nancy—stay here."
"I'm coming too," Jonathan said quickly.
Hopper stopped at the door, gave him a firm look. "No. I need someone here in case they radio back. I'll bring them in safe."
The door slammed behind him.
---
Back at the Junkyard
Mike lowered the walkie. "They're coming."
"Let's hope we're still here when they get here," Lucas said, watching the sky.
Eleven looked toward the edge of the yard, eyes narrowing as if sensing something.
The wind picked up, rustling the heaps of metal.
They weren't safe yet.