Fix My Feet When They're Stumblin'

Chapter 12

The seldom-used conference room tucked away on the fifth floor of The Fontaine was packed with various officers and firefighters checking in from their searches and picking from the long buffet table of continental breakfast choices. Several members of The Killers' entourage huddled quietly in a corner of the room.

"...sent out notice of the cancelled shows this week about an hour ago, just said that they were cancelled due to unforeseen circumstances and fans could get refunds from the point of purchase...um...Olivia wanted to be the one to call Tana so she did that last night, and Ted and Jake went to pick them up at the airport a little while ago."

Robert, the band's general manager, had flown in from Las Vegas late in the night, and he drank deeply from his large coffee mug, rubbing his tired eyes. "...and, uh, nothing useful came from the taxi company. The sheriff says they've canvased a lot of that mountain range that the phone companies say was in the radius of their last known location and they haven't found anything yet, so..." He stared at the swirl of cream in his coffee. "I don't know," he sighed, and lapsed into silence.

No one else had anything to add to this, and they all sat quietly for a time, watching the activity of the emergency responders. The conference room door squeaked on its hinges and a small, morose group entered, led by Jake and Ted, with Brandon's petite, pixie-ish wife and three disheveled sons trailing behind. It was clear that all six of them had been crying and they made a beeline for the table that the sheriff sat behind, with papers, maps and various gadgets and radios spread haphazardly in front of him. Tana introduced herself and the others briefly, then pulled out a chair and sat across from the sheriff, speaking softly but urgently.

Jeremy watched them, grimacing in sympathy. "Well, they better find them, that's all I've got to say."

- - - - -

The cheerful chirruping of songbirds and bright sunlight streaming through his eyelids roused Ronnie. Still half-asleep, he smiled, dreaming of the gig they would play that evening. His back and neck, though, complained bitterly, and he made a mental note to ask Jeremy to book a hotel with better mattresses next time they came to this city. He opened his eyes and froze for a minute, confused, and then it all came rushing back to him, like a bucket of frigid water had been thrown over him. There would be no gig tonight.

Brandon still slept across his lap, and Ronnie smiled softly, noticing that he had curled his arm protectively around the younger man at some point in the night, but the smile quickly faded and his stomach dropped as he examined his friend.

In the daylight, his wounds were even more ghastly than they had been at first glance last night. The bruises on his face, under his eyes and behind his ears were dark and livid against his pallid, greyish skin. Ronnie wondered for a moment how he had acquired bruises in such odd places, and thought idly that it looked as though someone had beat him with a baseball bat.

Brandon was frowning slightly, his skin glistening with sweat, and Ronnie's heart twisted - he could clearly still feel the pain in his sleep. He missed the peaceful, innocent expression that usually graced his face while he slept. Something rusty red in Brandon's ear caught his attention and he looked closer, pulling back sharply with a sudden intake of breath. Congealed blood.

His fucking ears are bleeding...oh God, that can't be good...was that there last night? Is that normal with a concussion? Ronnie parted his dark hair gently with trembling fingers, remembering with an overwhelming, crushing surge of guilt how Brandon had flinched away from him last night when he tried this.

He didn't even want me to touch him, he thought I was going to fucking hurt him...I'm such a dick - did I even bother asking if he was okay? I...God, Brandon almost fucking died, but all he cared about was if I was okay and I just snapped and cussed at him...I never even thanked him for finding the fucking phone, did I?

The gash was sickly red in the daylight, wider than Ronnie had realized in the darkness the night before, and as he looked closer he caught a glimpse of white and a wave of nausea forced him to turn suddenly and vomit into the dirt, gasping. He leaned his head back against the rock. God, that's - that's his fucking skull.

"I'm sorry, Bran, this is all my fault," Ronnie whispered to the sky, rebellious tears slipping through his tightly closed eyelids. No matter what he tried to tell me last night...he never would have been in this mess if I hadn't been so clumsy...

Taking a deep breath, he returned to his examination, stomach churning unpleasantly. He'd been exposed to a fair amount of gore as a teenager volunteering in a lab, but it was so much worse when the victim was his best friend.

The sheer volume of blood he was covered in made Ronnie shiver - Brandon wasn't a large person by any means, and he had lost so much blood...the back of his shirt was scarlet brown now, the dried blood making the fabric stiff. Brandon's back faced away from him, but looking down, he could see what was definitely shattered bone protruding from his shoulder, tiny specks of grey thread from his ruined t-shirt still clinging to it.

Very gingerly, Ronnie pinched the fabric and peeled it slowly away from Brandon's back, peering through the ripped shirt at the skin beneath. It was raw, bright red and angry around the site with a thick, cracked trail of dried blood running down his back. He guessed that the broken bone was Brandon's shoulder blade - or else maybe a rib that had broken and pushed through the skin in his fall?

What a mess. It might have taken him several hours, but Brandon had still managed to climb up whatever cliff he had fallen down and hike all the way back to find him, despite such horrifying injuries...completely alone. I could barely handle that hike on my ankle with him carrying most of my weight, but he did it with all of this bullshit and no one to help him...

"Man...you don't look like it, but you're a tough bastard, little brother," Ronnie told Brandon quietly, a surge of affection filling his heart. He gently pushed a rogue lock of sweaty hair out of his friend's eyes, sighing. His skin felt warm to the touch, and Ronnie frowned and held his hand to his forehead. Definitely the beginning of a fever. God damn it, I wish I was a doctor.

He reached for his backpack and removed a water bottle, cracking the seal and unscrewing the lid. Ronnie hesitated, alternately screwing and unscrewing the bottle's lid while he pondered the wisdom of what he was considering.

Would attempting to wash the wounds even help, or would it just wake him up and needlessly cause Brandon more pain? He didn't have anything that might fight infection, not even salt water or a simple disinfectant wipe. He watched Brandon's pale, battered face carefully, taking comfort in every shallow rise and fall of his chest. It's gonna hurt him, I can't...I can't do that. Not again.

Ronnie shook his head, put the bottle away, and caressed Brandon's bruised cheek softly with a shaky sigh. "You need a doctor, B, not a useless one-legged drummer. What are we gonna do?"