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6: Losing Mind And Breath 10:20 PM, Thursday Heavy nasal breaths whistled through a ten by ten foot chamber underground. Flea smacked his lips together twice, rolled over, and sighed through his nose. His eyelids fluttered then rested shut. An arm flopped across his torso, the other stretched before him. Hands squeezed into fists. Fingers sporadically pulsing. The muscles in his face tensioned. "No," he whispered through clenched teeth. Flea rolled onto his back. Eyebrows furrowed. He winced. Pressure swept across his chest, and he gasped. Air caught in his throat. Difficult to draw it into his lungs, each breath more shallow than the last. He coughed himself awake. Panting, Flea sat up and glanced around the cellar. Chad sat with his back and tilted head against the wall, his mouth open. His arms hung at his sides, knuckles resting on the ground. Flea turned to John. Still holding his head in his hands. John's hypnotic rocking lulled Flea back to sleep. He gasped for every breath. His mouth fell open, sucking air into his lungs, but never enough. A scream ripped through the chamber. And, as Flea and Chad jolted awake, it continued to tear through John's throat. It raked across his vocal chords, scraping its depths. "John!" Flea exclaimed. He and Chad clamoured to their screaming friend. Flea draped an arm across John's back. Wrapping his fingers over his bandmate's shoulder, Flea drew in strained breath. "John!" he managed to cough out the name. Chad latched onto both of John's shoulders and shook them. "John!" he hollered at him, causing Flea to shudder. "John! Snap out of it!" He jerked his friend violently. John's head snapped back and thrust into his chest with every shake. Still screaming. Chad drew back a hand, his face stoic. He swung at John, slapping him across the face. John's head fell back into his hands. Silence. Then rocking. Sighing, Chad shook his head. He stared down at his hand, red and pulsing. He folded his fingers across his palm, and the splotch disappeared. Heartache remained. From the corner of his eye, Chad caught Flea staggering backward. The bass player flopped to a sitting position on the ground, gasping for air. "You okay?" Chad furrowed his eyebrows. He stepped toward his friend, who raised a hand. "I'm," he panted, "I'm fine." "Then why..." CLICK! WHOOSH! Chad and Flea turned to the door as Myra plodded down the stairs. "What's going on?" she asked, squinting at Chad. Her eyes were puffy, straggly strands of her braid loose and shooting out in every direction. "I don't know," Chad replied, pointing to John. "He just started screaming..." Myra glided to John's side and touched one of the hands across his face. "He's so cold! And his skin is clammy!" Her eyes gazed into Chad's. "I have to get y'all out of here!" She spoke in a low, even tone. "As soon as they get your friend out of the trunk, I'm going to sneak down here and let y'all free." "Is he okay?" Chad pressed his lips together before asking, "Is he going to be out soon?" "They're having dinner right now, but they said they think they're close now..." Myra's voice faded, and she bit her lower lip. "But your friend hasn't said anything for a while now." Chad sighed and rubbed his forehead. He glanced at Flea and found him clutching his chest, mouth wide and gasping. "Flea!" "I ca... I ca...," Flea swallowed. "Can't breath." Chad and Myra dropped to his side. Several hundred feet away from that ten by ten foot storm cellar lay a man crammed in the back of a crushed trunk. Within his confines, he felt no pain. At least he hadn't for several minutes now. His body numb, his mind racing, as his struggle for air intensified with every breath. The back of his neck tingled, his thoughts and vision fuzzy. He closed his eyes and yielded up consciousness. |