sight of Alex. He was just standing there, dumbly, as if attempting to figure out how his own blood could be flowing from his body. His face was stained red with blood from his
brow to his chin but he did not seem to be in any pain. No one else had seen this except Natalie and Jillian. Natalie was yelling something in her husband's ear—not words of anger this time, but urgent words of interrogation. Jillian could not hear the questions but she could imagine what she was saying, the kind of thing a doctor or a nurse might ask: How much have you had to drink, do you feel dizzy, nauseous, do you remember a blow to the head...?
Alex staggered a bit and Natalie threw her arms around his waist to hold him up, but he was too heavy for her. Suddenly he spasmed as if shot and pitched straight forward, headfirst, landing on a table covered with glasses and beer bottles. His weight brought the whole thing down, glass and plastic shattering under him.
Natalie screamed and Jillian ran for her. But still the music and the frenzy of the crowd overpowered the sickening sound of a man falling, a woman screaming.
Natalie sucked in another lungful of air and screamed again and this time her plaintive wail cut through the noise. It cut through the music and the laughter and the drunkenness. That unholy scream cut the cacophony, slicing It off, as if decapitating it. The music stopped. The dancing stopped.
There was nothing but stillness in that party except a screaming woman and the red blood pumping from the nose of a bleeding man.
All eyes were on Alex. He lay on the concrete floor, the broken glass and plastic spread under him
like a painful carpet. Alex twisted and writhed on the beer-soaked stone, his body going thorough a horrible sequence of paroxysms, muscle-wrenching contortions that looked from second to second as if his own body would tear itself apart. Not one sober person in that crowd—and there weren’t many— gave him too much longer to live.
The singing and dancing stopped. Karaoke continued to blast out of the speaker until the bartender got the brainstorm to stop it. Suddenly all was silence there in that tent behind a Florida honky tonk—silent save for the wailing of Natalie and the ghastly beating of Alex’s fists against the concrete floor. His clenched hands smashed into the hard floor, into the shattered glass. His hands were flayed, his fingers split, and his blood gushed.
No one tried to save him until Spencer acted. He broke through the crowd and dropped like a wrestler down on to Streck’s body. slamming him against the cement floor, grabbing his bloody hands and pinning them as if scoring a point. Blood spurted from a dozen wounds, from Streck’s nose, from his hands, from his torn cheek, the hot fresh blood spraying Spencer as if from a hose, soaking him.
It was as if Alex Streck was determined to bleed to death. He fought the help that had come to his aid. He battled against Alex, and Tom Sullivan (who had stopped singing and dropped down on Streck’s chest), and he fought against his wife who tried to hold his thrashing legs. Alex threw Natalie off him like a bronco bucking a green cowboy.
His real adversary was Spencer. He had Streck’s blood-slick hands clasped in his own and he was shouting something to the older man, looking into his eyes as if telegraphing a message that only the two of them could understand.
Then, without warning, Spencer lowered his mouth to Alex’s and began administering CPR, breathing for his mission commander, pinching off the nose of the older man and trying to push his own breath into his lungs. Spencer looked into Alex’s eyes as they were locked mouth-tomouth and Spencer shook his head from side to side:
“
“No,” he was saying. “No, no, no, no...
But Alex had ceased to understand. He summoned up the strength for one more deep, gutwrenching muscular spasm and he convulsed, throwing Alex and the others from his body. His blood-filled mouth pulled away from
brow to his chin but he did not seem to be in any pain. No one else had seen this except Natalie and Jillian. Natalie was yelling something in her husband's ear—not words of anger this time, but urgent words of interrogation. Jillian could not hear the questions but she could imagine what she was saying, the kind of thing a doctor or a nurse might ask: How much have you had to drink, do you feel dizzy, nauseous, do you remember a blow to the head...?
Alex staggered a bit and Natalie threw her arms around his waist to hold him up, but he was too heavy for her. Suddenly he spasmed as if shot and pitched straight forward, headfirst, landing on a table covered with glasses and beer bottles. His weight brought the whole thing down, glass and plastic shattering under him.
Natalie screamed and Jillian ran for her. But still the music and the frenzy of the crowd overpowered the sickening sound of a man falling, a woman screaming.
Natalie sucked in another lungful of air and screamed again and this time her plaintive wail cut through the noise. It cut through the music and the laughter and the drunkenness. That unholy scream cut the cacophony, slicing It off, as if decapitating it. The music stopped. The dancing stopped.
There was nothing but stillness in that party except a screaming woman and the red blood pumping from the nose of a bleeding man.
All eyes were on Alex. He lay on the concrete floor, the broken glass and plastic spread under him
like a painful carpet. Alex twisted and writhed on the beer-soaked stone, his body going thorough a horrible sequence of paroxysms, muscle-wrenching contortions that looked from second to second as if his own body would tear itself apart. Not one sober person in that crowd—and there weren’t many— gave him too much longer to live.
The singing and dancing stopped. Karaoke continued to blast out of the speaker until the bartender got the brainstorm to stop it. Suddenly all was silence there in that tent behind a Florida honky tonk—silent save for the wailing of Natalie and the ghastly beating of Alex’s fists against the concrete floor. His clenched hands smashed into the hard floor, into the shattered glass. His hands were flayed, his fingers split, and his blood gushed.
No one tried to save him until Spencer acted. He broke through the crowd and dropped like a wrestler down on to Streck’s body. slamming him against the cement floor, grabbing his bloody hands and pinning them as if scoring a point. Blood spurted from a dozen wounds, from Streck’s nose, from his hands, from his torn cheek, the hot fresh blood spraying Spencer as if from a hose, soaking him.
It was as if Alex Streck was determined to bleed to death. He fought the help that had come to his aid. He battled against Alex, and Tom Sullivan (who had stopped singing and dropped down on Streck’s chest), and he fought against his wife who tried to hold his thrashing legs. Alex threw Natalie off him like a bronco bucking a green cowboy.
His real adversary was Spencer. He had Streck’s blood-slick hands clasped in his own and he was shouting something to the older man, looking into his eyes as if telegraphing a message that only the two of them could understand.
Then, without warning, Spencer lowered his mouth to Alex’s and began administering CPR, breathing for his mission commander, pinching off the nose of the older man and trying to push his own breath into his lungs. Spencer looked into Alex’s eyes as they were locked mouth-tomouth and Spencer shook his head from side to side:
“
“No,” he was saying. “No, no, no, no...
But Alex had ceased to understand. He summoned up the strength for one more deep, gutwrenching muscular spasm and he convulsed, throwing Alex and the others from his body. His blood-filled mouth pulled away from
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