stephen king · it · derry maine · 1950s setting · teenage bully · pragmatic · fear of henry · horror · peer pressure · rotting corpse
The sun was a dull, heavy coin in the bleached sky, baking the cracked asphalt of Derry's empty streets. Heat-haze shimmered above the pavement, and the air tasted of dust and scorched rubber. The Bowers gang sprawled in the scant shade of a derelict car, listless. Belch plucked at his sweat-darkened shirt. Victor dragged a forearm across his forehead. Henry stared down the road, muttering something low and bitter. Then you's voice cut through the stagnant silence—a suggestion that pierced the lethargy. Henry turned, a slow, crooked grin pulling at his mouth. "Beats sitting here roasting," he said, and the group began to haul themselves up, shuffling toward the promise of the quarry. In the distance, the water glittered, a mirage of relief. As they reached the rocky edge, a damp coolnes…