Page 43 of 12 Months of Mayhem

I shake my head, a mistake that sends my vision spinning again. Both the cop and Gamble reach out, steadying me before I pitch forward.

“I don’t feel so good,” I manage, the words slurring as they ease me down to the curb, guiding me to sit with my head between my knees.

“Put your head down,” the cop orders, his voice surprisingly gentle.

Nausea stirs, and I hold up a weak thumb to show I’m still with them, barely.

“We should call a bus, get him checked out,” the cop mutters to Gamble.

“The hospitals will be a mess tonight. He’ll be waiting for hours,” Gamble says, glancing back at me. “We’ve got a guy. We can take care of him.”

“Whiskey, you cool with that?” the cop asks, sounding a little reluctant.

With eyes squeezed shut, I raise my thumb again, giving him my answer. I hear his boots against the sidewalk as he walks away, his partner following. Once they’re gone, Gamble crouches beside me.

“You okay?” he asks, worry shading his voice.

“My head’s killing me,” I say, my voice weak and shaky. “And I feel like I’m gonna pass out or throw up. Maybe both.”

“You don’t look so good,” says Tracker.

“Think I need a doc.”

“On it,” replies Tracker.

Pain sears through my skull like a lightning bolt as I attempt to open my eyes. The world tilts, and I slam them shut with a guttural groan. Warm blood trickles down the back of my neck. The throbbing is relentless, a brutal drumbeat that pounds with every shallow breath I take. Bile creeps up my throat.

“Jesus, Prez, you’ve gone gray,” Tracker mutters, his voice low and tense. His hand clamps down on my shoulder, steadying me, though the pressure sends a fresh wave of pain radiating from the back of my skull.

“Doc’s on the way. How about we get you inside?” he says, but his words are muffled, distant, like he’s speaking through water.

“Inside?” I croak, my voice barely more than a rasp. “I can’t even stand.”

“You’re holding steady like a drunk on roller skates, and that’s saying something considering you’re sitting down,” Tracker shoots back, his humor forced, masking worry. I feel his grip tighten, and then another hand grabs under my arm. A grunt escapes me as they haul me to my feet.

Every movement is agony. Fire explodes behind my eyes, and the sharp sting of the cut on my scalp mixes with the dull, pounding ache. My boots scrape against the sidewalk as they drag me toward the bar door.

Blood oozes down my neck, pooling at my collarbone. The coppery scent fills my nose, mixing with the sharp bite of Tracker’s cologne. My vision blurs as I crack my eyes open again, just for a second. Bright light stabs through my skull like jagged glass.

“Fuck,” I hiss, my knees buckling.

Tracker catches me before I hit the ground.

“Hang on, Prez,” he says, his voice gruff but softer now. “Doc’ll patch you up. Just stay awake, yeah?”

Awake.

Sure.

Easy for him to say.

But with every passing second, the darkness clawing at the edges of my vision looks a hell of a lot more inviting.

***

The moment the sharp, stinging scent hits my nose, it’s like getting punched in the brain. My sinuses burn, my head jerks back, and I gasp as the chemical bite claws through the fog in my mind. The smell is electric and overpowering, sharp enough to make my eyes water. I don’t know what the hell it is, but it drags me out of the darkness, kicking and coughing like I’ve just been slapped awake by the air.

“Try to stay still. Do you know who I am?”

---