Vince couldn’t feel his body, but he stumbled into the middle of the clubhouse bar, falling on his side and laughing, as a wave of nausea threatened to drown him. His lungs heaved for air, but he was underwater, and his head spun viciously. “What the fuck is going on?” Pound’s voice cut through the fog, increasing the speed and weight of the jackhammer pounding into the part of his brain that seemed to control coordination—since his arms and legs flapped uselessly as he tried to sit up.
“Christ Almighty.” Smack, smack. Vince tried to smile, but his cheeks wouldn’t move. In fact, he felt force against them, but the sensation didn’t match the sound of Pound’s hand on them. “Hey!” Pound boomed, and Vince tried to focus on his friends face, looming above him like some threatening predator. He was staring somewhere Vince couldn’t see, rage clear on his face even with the blurry haze coating Vince’s eyes.
“You, and you! What did he take?” It was a demand, and Vince dry-heaved, his stomach twisting.
“Nothing. He was stone cold drunk is all.”
“Passed out before we got anywhere.”
Both voices were whiny and scared. Vince didn’t recognize them, but the high pitch rang in his ears and brought his nausea to a head. Someone grabbed his arm and yanked him forward, as he ralphed, the vomit burning as it exploded up his chest and through his mouth.
“Aw, Vince, for the love of God.” Pound was complaining about something, but Vince couldn’t listen as his chest heaved again. This time, his lungs, his liver, and a couple of toes came with the force of it.
“Jude! Get the truck ready! We gotta get Larson to the hospital.”
Vince waved a hand. He was fine and didn’t need to go to the hospital. However, his hand didn’t move, only his gag reflex. Out came the hair and skin from his left leg. The fuse had been lit, and the fire was climbing its way to his neck—where his head was sure to burst when the dynamite struck.
“Don’t even try to argue,” Pound grunted, and Vince realized he’d been lifted off the floor—though his skin still tingled as if his whole body was asleep and trying to wake up. He had the distinct impression he didn’t want it to wake up and that the severe pain would only make him sicker. “I can’t believe I’m carrying your ass to the truck, you suicidal son-of-a-bitch. How the hell much did you drink last night anyway?”
Pound’s complaints fell on not deaf but certainly uncaring ears, as Vince’s stomach revolted at the jerky movements and swift turns of his body. “Pound.” The name came out as little more than a groan with drool, and Vince’s stomach clenched again.
“Don’t you dare,” Pound warned.
“Man, don’t put that in my truck. I’ll never get the stench of spoilt whiskey out of the seats!”
Was that Jude?
“Shut up and drive. We’re riding in the back, so I can hang his head over the side if he goes to hurl again.” Pound must’ve shoved him onto a hard surface because Vince felt a drop and heard a thump before the surface beneath him bounced and then rumbled. He moaned, rolling to his side, and Pound’s arms were around him again, lifting and shoving. Then, Vince felt cold air on his face and something digging into his chest.
“Don’t you dare heave on me again. It’s not laundry day for another week, and I’m running out of shirts, dammit.”
Vince tried to nod his compliance, but there wasn’t an ounce of energy in his entire body. In fact, he wasn’t sure there was any blood, either. Now that the air blew past him, he smelled the stench of liquor on him, and he was sure that was the only thing pumping through his veins. And, of course, pooling in his stomach—where it insisted on seeking exit in the wrong direction.
He lost track of time, the world fading in and out and from black to a swirling, nauseating mix of colors. He fought the urge to just fall into complete oblivion. He was shuffled around again, and there were voices he didn’t recognize surrounding him, and the sound of machines beeping. He groaned internally. He was in the damn hospital.
“Prep for a stomach pump,” a disembodied voice commanded.
“I doubt he needs that,” Pound’s voice called above the chaos that threatened Vince’s sanity. “Can you see the fruits of his own procedure?”
Vince had no idea what he was talking about, but after a long silence, the disembodied voice said, “Fine. Let’s get the IV going quickly, people. Set up a sonogram. I want to know if we need to move forward, and I want fluids flowing into this guy like Niagara Falls.”
Vince wanted to curse at them, arguing over his treatment and what he needed. As far as he was concerned, he needed to spend the next week in bed, sleeping off the whiskey, and he’d be just fine. Screw IVs and stomach pumps and everything else. Let him suffer the consequences of his own stupidity, and then he’d get on with his life.
However, he couldn’t speak, and moments later, after he felt the jab in his arm, his mind faltered, and he couldn’t think anymore.