The storm drains breathe cold air like the exhale of something sleeping too close. Mike holds his flashlight steady, but even that thin beam seems hesitant to enter. The stench hits them first—greywater, rot, something sour and metallic beneath it all.

Bill stands at the front, his fists trembling at his sides. His rain-matted hair sticks to his forehead, but his eyes are sharp, fixed on the black mouth of the sewer.

“W-We’re g-going in,” he says, and the stutter punches the others with its desperation. There’s no doubt in his voice—only fear… and hope sharp enough to cut him open.

Eddie pulls his inhaler from his fanny pack like it’s a weapon. He doesn’t use it yet, but he clutches it, knuckles whitening. “This is a bad idea. Like. Really bad. This is, like, top ten of bad ideas ever invented by children. Maybe top three.”

Richie, weirdly quiet for once, pushes his glasses up. His voice drops low, too steady. “Well, if Georgie’s in there, I’m not letting Bill go alone.”

Stan keeps glancing over his shoulder. His curls are frizzing from the humidity and panic. “This place is… unnatural. It’s wrong. Like the dead air in a synagogue basement kind of wrong.”

Mike steps beside Bill, clutching the cattle gun strapped to his back. “Wrong’s here whether we walk away or not.”

They take their first steps inside—the water nearly up to their knees, thick, cold, murky enough to hide anything beneath its surface. The greywater laps at their shins like an unseen hand. The tunnel walls sweat moisture and grime. Something plops behind them in the dark.

Eddie lets out a small, strangled squeak.

But then—

Footsteps. Rapid. Uneven. Splashes tearing through the muck.

Ben.

He bursts into view from the opposite side of the Barrens, stumbling through tall grass, clutching his stomach. His shirt is soaked—blood mixing with mud and sweat—and he’s gasping, struggling to stay upright.

“B-Bill—! Guys—!”

Richie grabs him before he can collapse, his glasses sliding off as he steadies Ben’s weight. Eddie instantly panics—both about the blood and the fact that a person is bleeding near him.

“Holy—Ben, what the—what happened?!”

Ben tries to breathe through the pain. His voice cracks. “Henry—Bowers. He—he tried to carve—”

But he doesn’t finish.

Because Patrick Hockstetter emerges from the tree line with a grin stretched too wide, holding a lighter in one hand and a can of hairspray in the other like some homemade flamethrower from hell. His shirt is smeared with paint and dirt, his eyes twitching with that unstable glint that always made the Losers recoil.

“There you are, fatboy,” Patrick says, flicking the lighter with a spark. “Thought you could run?”

The flame spits to life. The hairspray hisses when he shakes it, the promise of fire in every droplet.

Stan immediately pulls Ben behind him, heart hammering. “We have to go. Now. NOW.”