Untitled (for now)., chapter 3
As soon as Frankito had gone upstairs to bed, Mike had run over to the unconscious Tre.
"Wake up. Wake the hell up, Tre! What the fuck is wrong with him, Bill?"
"I don't know, Mike!" Billie put his ear to Tre's mouth. His face was screwed up, contorted.
"Damn. He's barely breathing. It sounds like there's something stuck in his throat, but there can't be, I was standing by him the whole time. We need to get him in to a hospital, or something. I think he drank more than we thought, Mike. Call an ambulance."
Mike took out his cell phone, and punched in the three numbers. Through tears, he managed to give the phone operator Tre's address, but broke down when he had to tell what was wrong. Billie took over the phone, describing the night's events, answering their relentless questions. After the last one had been asked, he hung up.
"Mike..." Billie began, laying a comforting hand on his friend's back. Mike was kneeling by Tre, holding him in a grip that resembled a headlock. His face was buried in Tre's sandy brown faux-hawk, tears wetting it down. Adrienne, whom Billie had called over to stay with Frankito, was rubbing Mike's back as well.
"Mikey. Please, Mikey, don't cry. It's not your fault," Billie told him.
"Fuck, Bill! I can't help it! I should've done something! I should've... I don't know, I should've made him come to the bathrooms with me," Mike said. Billie sighed; this was awkward. There was no way he could comfort Mike, he knew it. The only thing he could do was to continue the robotic rhythm of patting Mike's back.
A few minutes later, the ambulance's blaring sirens could be heard in the driveway. Mike opened the door, just as the EMT's were about to knock.
"Over there by the couch, " Billie explained softly. One EMT was already kneeling beside the limp Tre. He had his fingers pressed on the drummer's unusually pale wrist.
"I can't believe it. His pulse is getting slower every few seconds. This is very unusual," he said in a strictly business manner. He took out a stethoscope from his bag, and layed the cold metal on Tre's bare chest.
"Heart, too; it's slowing down. They're irregular beats. This is really serious, I'm afraid. We've gotta get this guy in right now, or he'll be gone for sure within the next couple hours." The remaining 3 EMT's had gone outside, and returned with a Gurney. Tre was promptly loaded onto it, and brought into the ambulance. It's siren droned it's high-pitched whine as one of the paramedics started up the engine.
"Mr. Dirnt, Mr. Armstrong, I'm assuming you'd like to come along?" a female paramedic motioned to the back of the ambulance, where two of the other EMT's were examining Tre. Mike and Billie got in, and the vehicle started to speed away.
Inside the ambulance, things weren't going too well.
"He's really low on fluids. Drew, get an IV in him now," one of them said. He appeared to be the one in charge, because the other of the two scurried around, collecting what he needed to carry out the order.
"Hold on one second, Drew. Never mind that. His heart just... Stopped
"Wake up. Wake the hell up, Tre! What the fuck is wrong with him, Bill?"
"I don't know, Mike!" Billie put his ear to Tre's mouth. His face was screwed up, contorted.
"Damn. He's barely breathing. It sounds like there's something stuck in his throat, but there can't be, I was standing by him the whole time. We need to get him in to a hospital, or something. I think he drank more than we thought, Mike. Call an ambulance."
Mike took out his cell phone, and punched in the three numbers. Through tears, he managed to give the phone operator Tre's address, but broke down when he had to tell what was wrong. Billie took over the phone, describing the night's events, answering their relentless questions. After the last one had been asked, he hung up.
"Mike..." Billie began, laying a comforting hand on his friend's back. Mike was kneeling by Tre, holding him in a grip that resembled a headlock. His face was buried in Tre's sandy brown faux-hawk, tears wetting it down. Adrienne, whom Billie had called over to stay with Frankito, was rubbing Mike's back as well.
"Mikey. Please, Mikey, don't cry. It's not your fault," Billie told him.
"Fuck, Bill! I can't help it! I should've done something! I should've... I don't know, I should've made him come to the bathrooms with me," Mike said. Billie sighed; this was awkward. There was no way he could comfort Mike, he knew it. The only thing he could do was to continue the robotic rhythm of patting Mike's back.
A few minutes later, the ambulance's blaring sirens could be heard in the driveway. Mike opened the door, just as the EMT's were about to knock.
"Over there by the couch, " Billie explained softly. One EMT was already kneeling beside the limp Tre. He had his fingers pressed on the drummer's unusually pale wrist.
"I can't believe it. His pulse is getting slower every few seconds. This is very unusual," he said in a strictly business manner. He took out a stethoscope from his bag, and layed the cold metal on Tre's bare chest.
"Heart, too; it's slowing down. They're irregular beats. This is really serious, I'm afraid. We've gotta get this guy in right now, or he'll be gone for sure within the next couple hours." The remaining 3 EMT's had gone outside, and returned with a Gurney. Tre was promptly loaded onto it, and brought into the ambulance. It's siren droned it's high-pitched whine as one of the paramedics started up the engine.
"Mr. Dirnt, Mr. Armstrong, I'm assuming you'd like to come along?" a female paramedic motioned to the back of the ambulance, where two of the other EMT's were examining Tre. Mike and Billie got in, and the vehicle started to speed away.
Inside the ambulance, things weren't going too well.
"He's really low on fluids. Drew, get an IV in him now," one of them said. He appeared to be the one in charge, because the other of the two scurried around, collecting what he needed to carry out the order.
"Hold on one second, Drew. Never mind that. His heart just... Stopped
