Chapter 61: Bob's Third Close Call
Joyce
The lab's emergency lights painted everything red. Sirens wailed. Demo-dog shrieks echoed through corridors.
"Tunnels breached basement level," Dr. Owens reported, voice tight. "Power systems failing. We're going into emergency lockdown."
Doors slammed shut throughout the facility. Mechanical locks engaging. People trapped in sections, demo-dogs loose between them.
Bob studied the facility schematic. "Manual reboot from basement server room. It's the only way to restore full power and open locks."
"That's suicide," Hopper said flatly. "Basement's crawling with those things."
"Then people die trapped." Bob's hands shook but his voice stayed steady. "I know the system. I can reboot it."
"No." I grabbed his arm. "Bob, please—"
"Joyce, people need help." He kissed my forehead. "I'll be okay. I promise."
How many times can you promise that before it's broken?
Steve
Bob moved toward the basement access. I blocked his path.
"You're not going alone."
"Steve, you should—"
"I should protect valuable assets. You're valuable." My Phase 3 senses tracked demo-dog movements below—dozens of them, scattered throughout basement levels. "I'll clear the path. You reboot systems. That's the deal."
Bob nodded. "Thank you."
Hopper handed me a shotgun. "Don't die down there."
"Not planning on it."
The basement door opened onto darkness and clicking. Phase 3 perception mapped the space—demo-dogs three corridors ahead, moving in pack formation. Heat signatures, breathing patterns, threat assessment.
I could see them through walls. Feel their positions. Predict their movements.
"Stay close," I told Bob. "Step where I step. Stop when I stop."
We descended.
Bob
Steve moved through the basement like predator. No hesitation, no fear. Each demo-dog that emerged died within seconds—shotgun blast, knife throw, brutal efficiency.
The corruption on his face pulsed darker with each kill. Like violence fed it.
"Server room ahead," I whispered, checking the schematic by flashlight.
"Six demo-dogs between us and it." Steve reloaded. "Wait here."
"Steve—"
"Wait. Here."
He advanced. Time seemed to slow around him—I swear his movements blurred, faster than human capability. Six creatures attacked simultaneously.
Steve killed them all in under thirty seconds.
"Clear. Move."
The server room's door hung open, systems dark. I got to work—manual restart protocols, bypassing failed safety measures, rerouting power through backup systems.
Steve guarded the door. Watching. Waiting.
"How long?" he asked.
"Five minutes. Maybe less."
Demo-dog shrieks grew louder. Closer. Coming toward the server room in coordinated assault.
"Work faster," Steve suggested.
Steve
Phase 3 senses cataloged every approaching threat. Ten demo-dogs. Pack formation. Coordinated by hive intelligence. Converging on our position because the Mind Flayer recognized Bob's importance.
It wants him dead. Specifically him.
"Four minutes," Bob said, fingers flying across the console.
The first demo-dog appeared in the doorway. I fired. It fell.
Two more from the left corridor. Knife throw, shotgun blast. Both down.
Three from the right. Fight Master calculated optimal engagement—step, shoot, dodge, shoot, knife to throat. Perfect execution.
"Three minutes!"
Four more demo-dogs emerged. I was running low on ammo. Switched to pure Phase 3 combat—bat, knife, bare hands when necessary. They were fast.
I was faster.
"Two minutes!"
The demo-dog came from the ceiling. Dropped silently, bypassing my peripheral awareness. Lunged at Bob's back while he worked.
Time fractured.
Phase 3 perception slowed reality to crawl. The creature's trajectory, Bob's exposed neck, the distance between us. I calculated impact point, threw my knife before conscious thought.
The blade struck mid-leap. Demo-dog twisted, fell, died inches from Bob's throat.
He spun around, saw the corpse, went pale. "I didn't hear it."
"That's why I'm here." I retrieved my knife. "How long?"
"Thirty seconds."
The remaining demo-dogs gathered outside the door. Waiting. Coordinating.
They're going to rush simultaneously. Overwhelming force.
"Bob. Whatever happens, finish the reboot."
"Steve—"
"Finish it."
Bob
The power came online. Systems hummed to life. Lockdown released throughout the facility—doors opening, lights returning, security measures reactivating.
The demo-dogs outside the server room scattered. Retreating from the restored lights and systems.
Steve lowered his weapons, breathing hard. Corruption pulsed across his chest, darker after the violence.
"We should go," he said quietly.
I followed him out, past the corpses, through the restored corridors. People emerged from secured sections—lab personnel, Dr. Owens, security teams. All alive because of what we'd done.
Joyce met us on the main level. She grabbed me, held tight, didn't speak. Just shook.
"I'm okay," I promised. "Steve protected me."
She looked at Steve—corrupted, exhausted, covered in demo-dog blood. "Thank you. For bringing him back."
Steve nodded silently, then walked away. Like hero's acknowledgment hurt more than combat.
Joyce
Hopper found me after Bob got checked by medical.
"Third time," he said quietly.
"I know."
"How many more close calls before he runs out of luck?"
"I don't know." My hands still shook. "I asked him to stop volunteering. He says he can't. Says people need him."
"They do. But you need him more."
"I know that too."
Hopper lit a cigarette, technically illegal inside the lab. "Steve's protecting him specifically. Noticed that? He coordinates teams, deploys resources, but Bob? Bob gets personal escort. Steve won't let him out of sight during danger."
"Why?"
"Don't know. But I'm grateful." He exhaled smoke. "Whatever Steve is—corrupted, superhuman, whatever—he's keeping Bob alive. That counts for something."
Three close calls. Three miraculous survivals.
How many more miracles before reality demands payment?
Steve
Found Bob later, sitting alone in a conference room. He stared at his shaking hands.
"You saved my life," he said without looking up. "Again."
"That's the job."
"Why? Why protect me specifically? You coordinate everyone, but with me, it's... personal. Like you're terrified I'll die."
Because you did die. In the original timeline. Right here in this lab. Eaten by demo-dogs while rebooting power.
"Because you're good," I said instead. "You're brave and selfless and Joyce loves you. Good people deserve to survive. That's reason enough."
"But you're obsessed with it. Hopper sees it. Joyce sees it." He finally met my eyes. "What aren't you telling me?"
That I've tried saving you in multiple iterations. That your death is canon event I'm desperately trying to prevent. That every close call is butterfly effect cascading through my changes.
"That I'm terrified of failing people. Of not being fast enough, smart enough, prepared enough. You're good person in horrible situation. If I can't save you, what's the point of any of this?"
Partial truth. Best I could offer.
Bob studied me—corrupted face, exhausted eyes, weight of impossible responsibility.
"You're carrying too much," he said quietly. "No one can save everyone."
"Watch me try."
He smiled sadly. "That's what worries Joyce. You trying so hard you burn yourself out."
"Better burned out than letting people die."
"Is it? What happens when you're gone and we still need you?"
Good question. No answer.
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