Chapter 2:

Dethroned

Tiny beads of precipitation stung A.J.’s flesh repeatedly, insistent on dragging him away from the comfort of unconsciousness. Wet. He was wet. He could feel the dampness seeping through into his very bones, where it had no business being. He did not like being wet. He was wet. This concern was the only thing that his brain was capable of sustaining, and something deep inside told him that his life depended on holding on to that one thought, no matter what the cost. He did so, without question. Wet. He was wet.

As the minutes ticked by, (wet, he was wet) another realization struck him: he was cold. Surely the two were connected somehow. Making that connection however, was too large of a leap for him to make. Oh well. He’d worry about that later. There was something else, too. Another sensation was tugging somewhere in the back of his mind, but as of now it remained hidden from him.

Cautiously, A.J. opened his eyes. That simple movement was enough to uncover with terrifying clarity the mysterious sensation that was nagging at him. Icy hot pain ripped its way up and down his ravaged body; so intense that he was sure it was splitting him into a thousand pieces. He whimpered. Something had happened. What it was he did not know, but something had happened. Something bad. He had to find Howie. Howie would know what it was. He always knew. Summoning up his waning strength, he braved the pain as he cried out into the darkness.

“Howie!”

He was disappointed that his plea wasn’t louder, but Howie would hear. He had to. He was always there when A.J. needed him. There was no way that he wouldn’t be there now.

“Howie!” he cried, more desperate this time. Unfortunately, it was little more than a whisper. Why wasn’t he coming? A.J. had to find him. He attempted to sit up, but his body would not obey him. Strange. He called out again, but there was still no answer. In despair, he collapsed back down to the ground. As his mind clouded over, all he could think of was that he was terribly alone, and that his friend had not come when he needed him.

* * *

Awareness slammed cruelly into Howie, stealing him out of blessed emptiness and tossing him into a realm of what could only be described as pure agony. He longed for darkness to come and sweep him away again. At least then it didn’t hurt. God must been busy elsewhere at that moment though, because no such relief was awarded him. Frightened, he tried to take in his surroundings. He was wet. He was cold. Why was he cold? It was a warm night.

Howie focused on the surface underneath him, hoping it would give him a clue to his predicament. It was hard and slick. His wiggled his fingers experimentally and felt several strands seeking their way through his feeble grasp. Grass. Grass? Why was he there? He should have been in his bunk, asleep. Dazed, he looked around, trying to determine why he was in this position. He raised his hand up until it was in his line of vision, astonished to see that it was covered in blood.

Wow, he thought. Somebody needs a doctor. That is a lot of blood for someone to be losing.

A large weight seemed to have settled firmly and painfully over his chest. He couldn’t move without feeling like a knife was being driven through his ribcage, and that was the least of his worries. He still didn’t know where he was, or why he was there. It was most puzzling. He attempted to sit up, but nausea overtook him so fast it was all he could do to turn his head away to avoid vomiting on himself. He retched painfully into the muddy ground beside him and waited for several minutes to let the feeling pass. It had been a costly victory, but a victory nonetheless. He was upright (somewhat), and determined to stay that way. He looked around slowly, searching for any clue to his predicament. Not too far away, he was able to make out a lump that didn’t seem to belong.

“Hey!” he called out. The nausea returned full force, and he was forced to wait it out before he could call again. He tried to move towards the still form, but quickly decided that was not one of the better ideas he had had in his life. Instead he concentrated on it, watching for any sign of movement. Strangely enough, he heard it before he saw it move.

The voice spoke softly at first. “Nick…” The drilling rain tried to obscure the pitiful cry, but Howie identified the soft southern accent as Brian’s. “Nick!” His voice rose at the last syllable. “Nick!” .

“Brian!” Howie called back, trying to get his attention. Brian ignored him.

“Nick! Answer me!” came the choked cry again. “Nick!”

Howie tried again to call out to his friend to soothe his panic, but to no avail.

“Oh God, Nick, please!”

A terrifying reality, where subconscious and consciousness collided with devastating force enveloped Brian, holding him prisoner in a nightmare he was unable to wake up from. The trauma inflicted on his body caused him to shut down everything save one thought: Getting to Nick. Something was terribly wrong, and in his delirious state the only thing that mattered was making sure that his best friend was all right. Nick had to be all right, or it would be his fault. He had to find Nick. His pleas echoed off into the endless expanse of night, sucked away by the deep void that surrounded him. As each moment passed his desperation deepened, until his consciousness broke through with a tragic discovery. He couldn’t breathe.

“Oh God, oh God…” he gasped, frantically trying to suck in a breath of air. The panic tightened its death grip on him, which only made his battle that much more desperate, and even more vain. “Help me!” he screeched, terror in its purest form lacing his voice. “Oh please help me! I need air… I can’t breathe!”

Fear invaded Howie to the core at the radical change in Brian’s pleas. He too began cry for help.

“Help him! Somebody please! That is my friend and he needs help! Somebody!” His voice did not even sound like his own. It was ragged and hoarse, as if someone had ripped out his vocal chords and stomped on them.

Howie was dimly aware of the flashing lights that had pulled up nearby. The world was slipping away again, but he fought to maintain his steady cries for help until the blackness was total. Brian’s life depended on it.

Brian didn’t even feel the touch of the hands that were suddenly there to help him. He continued screaming for air, unaware of the furious barbs of pain that stabbed his entire body, sparring him nothing. All at once oxygen burst its way into his nose, though at the same time he was sure that he was being smothered. He sucked in the air greedily, but still couldn’t get enough. His lungs simply refused to breathe. In a last ditch effort to save himself, his battered and weary mind retreated safely inside of itself, leaving his tortured body to fend for itself. Around him, voices overlapped into one another as they struggled to keep that body alive.

“He’s going into shock!”

“I can’t find a central line…”

“Come on people, keep it together, we’re losing him…”

* * *

Almost an hour had passed since the collision, and paramedics swarmed the area like a plague of frantic locusts. The roads had been so deserted at that hour of the night in such weather that the next vehicle to pass through had been the first in a line of the Backstreet Boy’s tour buses. They had left roughly a half an hour after the Boys, once they had packed up from the show.

They had seen the wreck from a little ways off, though the rain made it difficult to see at all. Upon approaching it, it had taken a few moments to realize that it was one of their own buses, and in fact, the one carrying the singers. The discovery of A.J. lying in the street a few yards away from the tangled remains of the two vehicles had confirmed it. The emergency call was made, and within fifteen minutes the scene was crawling with emergency vehicles. Shortly after finding A.J., Brian and Howie were located several yards apart in a vacant field on the side of the road.

The paramedics working on A.J. put in a call to have him airlifted. Brian was soon given the same orders. His delirium continued, reaching dangerous levels. The oxygen mask provided a brief respite from his immediate source of panic, however it didn’t last long. He quickly resumed his wrenching cries for Nick, accompanied by violent thrashing and struggling, which only served to further endanger himself.

Howie managed to reclaim his consciousness with the aid of the paramedics trying to help him. His eyes flashed about wildly as he heard Brian but was unable to see him. He drew in several rapid shallow breaths as his body trembled uncontrollably. Frightened at first by strange voices that tried to comfort him, he was finally able to clear his mind enough to determine they were there to help.

“You have to help Brian, he’s my friend and he can’t breathe,” he said desperately once he found his voice. He stumbled over the words, having difficulty forming them.

“It’s ok,” a soothing voice assured him. “Your friend is going to be fine. Our best people are working on him.”

“Promise?” Howie begged, not caring who the person was or whether or not he could keep the promise. “Please don’t let him die.”

“We’re doing the absolute best we can, just relax,” a young man told him. “Everything will be all right. Can you tell me your name?”

That question required intense thought. “Howie,” he said carefully. “My name is Howie Dorough.”

“Ok Howie, my name is Daniel. You have been in an accident. We’re going to do the best we can to help you and your friends, but I need you to help me too, ok? Can you do that?”

Howie nodded shakily. Car accident? he thought incredulously. What? “Yes. Yes I can help you.”

“We were told there were five of you and two drivers. Is that right? Were those the only people in the bus?”

Howie thought for a few moments. It was a simple question, really. Were they the only ones on the bus? (And why weren’t they still on the bus again?) Where were they? Had they just done a show? If so, where? He sifted through his questions one by one. Those he could not easily answer he set aside for later. He knew the tour was almost over. None of their families were with them. A light bulb clicked in his foggy brain as he arrived at an answer. “That’s all. Just seven,” he said finally.

“Ok. Good. Thank you.” Daniel paused for a moment, allowing a woman to take Howie’s vitals as they prepped him for transport.

“Do you remember anything about the accident?” he asked a little hesitantly.

Howie looked confused for a moment. “Accident?” He thought hard. It was maddening, every single thought he had he needed to manually connect to a related thought. His head didn’t seem to be working properly, and that concerned him. “That’s right, you said I was in an accident. I don’t remember anything.”

“Ok, that’s all right.”

The trembling that had started earlier increased all of the sudden. He felt so cold. Surely all of this was a dream. Aside from the crippling pain that constricted his every thought, nothing seemed real.

The woman spoke up, and began asking him questions about where he hurt.

“I hurt everywhere,” Howie moaned. “Aarrgh!” He gasped as she prodded gently around his ribs. Stars exploded in front of his eyes. “My chest… my chest is killing me.” The woman exchanged glances with Daniel. “He’s stable. We need to load him.”

Daniel turned over his shoulder and signaled one of the several ambulances waiting nearby. As Howie was placed on the stretcher, he heard one of the paramedics asking questions.

“Did they find the other two?”

“Just did. They are still inside the bus.”

“How do they look?”

Daniel then noticed Howie struggling to focus on them, and shook his head at her slightly to signal an end to the conversation.

As they hopped in and closed the doors, the ambulance pulled away and rushed off down the road.

“Can you believe this?” the driver whispered to his companion in the passenger seat. “Do you know who these people are?”

“Who?” The man asked, keeping an eye on the activity in the back.

“These are the Backstreet Boys. Do you have any idea how big this is going to be?”

***

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