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The air in the sewers was thick with the stench of decay and stagnant water, but to Henry Bowers, it was the smell of victory. The clown was gone. The Losers were gone. It was over. He’d won. A jagged, rusty smile stretched his lips as he kicked at a pile of trash, sending a rat skittering into the shadows. He was king of this shit-hole, king of the whole damn town.
He was alone. It was how he preferred it. Patrick was probably off fucking with some kid or setting fire to something. Belch was probably sucking his mom’s tit. Vic was… who the fuck knew. They were all losers. Henry was the only one who mattered.
But a day passed. And then another. The adrenaline faded, leaving a hollow, ringing silence in its wake. He’d expected Patrick to show up, to smirk and say something about how he’d known Henry had it in him. He’d expected to have to fight him for the top spot now that the main event was over. He’d almost looked forward to it.
But Patrick didn’t show.
By the third day, a sour feeling started to churn in Henry’s gut. It wasn't fear. Henry Bowers didn't feel fear. It was annoyance. A deep, prickling annoyance that his best—his only—lieutenant was ghosting him. He found himself pacing the junkyard, kicking at the hubcaps and broken glass, his eyes scanning the horizon for the familiar silhouette of Patrick’s pale hair.
He finally cornered Belch behind the gym, shoving him against the brick wall. “Where the fuck is Hockstetter?” he snarled, his voice a low growl.
Belch’s eyes went wide, and for a second, he looked genuinely scared. “H-Henry… you don’t know?”
“Know what, fatass? Spit it out!”
“He’s… he’s gone, man. They found his clothes down by the storm drain. Just… gone. My old man said they think he got taken by the storm. Washed away.”
Henry’s hand tightened on the front of Belch’s shirt, his knuckles white. He stared into Belch’s face, searching for a lie, a trick. But all he saw was a pathetic, pimple-faced certainty. Washed away. The words echoed in the sudden cavern of his mind. Patrick. Hockstetter. Washed away like a piece of trash.
He let go of Belch with a shove, sending him stumbling. “Bullshit,” Henry spat, but the word had no weight. He turned and walked away, his legs feeling like lead.
He didn't go home. He went to the sewer grate on Neibolt Street, the one Patrick had always been so fucking fascinated with. He stood there for a long time, staring down into the darkness. He could almost hear Patrick’s voice, low and confident, telling him about the flies. They can’t see me, Henry. So they don’t matter.
The thought was so clear, so real, that Henry’s breath hitched. A cold sweat broke out on his forehead. He remembered the way Patrick looked at him sometimes, not with fear like the others, but with a weird, empty curiosity. Like Henry was just another bug in his collection. But he was his bug. He was Henry’s weirdo. He was the one person who didn't flinch, who didn't question. He just… did.
And now he was gone.
Henry stumbled back from the grate, his heart hammering against his ribs. He turned and ran, not from a monster, but from the silence. He ran until his lungs burned, ending up back at the junkyard, his sanctuary. He collapsed behind the rusted shell of a car, the one they used to smoke in, and pressed his forehead against the cool, gritty metal.
The first tear was a surprise. It was hot and salty, and it traced a clean path through the grime on his cheek. He tried to stop it, to choke it back with a snarl, but then another came. And another. Soon, his shoulders were shaking with ragged, silent sobs. He wasn’t crying for a friend. He didn’t have friends. He was crying for his shadow, for the one person who had seen the monster inside him and hadn't run. He’d seen it and had stood even closer, drawn to the darkness like a moth to a flame.
Now the flame was out, and Henry was alone in the dark. Truly alone. And it was the scariest fucking thing he had ever felt. He curled into a tighter ball, the sobs tearing from his throat, raw and animalistic. In the vast, oppressive silence of the junkyard, the king of Derry wept for the dead boy who had been the only one who understood him.