His life didn't flash before his eyes as he died, and he was grateful for the reprieve. Instead, the immortality trick reared its head in reverse as he regained consciousness, and the concrete moments of the events leading up to his death slammed into him, like a sledgehammer into an old, rotten watermelon.
"Check the pulse: I got nuthin'."
A taste of blood lingered in his mouth that had nothing to do with Misaki Ross' knife-handling skills. He coughed, expelling his blood, mixed with something black and tar-like. Someday he might even ask John what that substance was...
It wouldn't have been so bad if he were alone, but with two EMTs hovering over him, rightly concerned about his tattered and blood-soaked clothing, Chas stifled a scream and groaned instead. With their help, he sat up. He wasn't all there yet; his body was in the dank alley, but his mind was still reeling from the exertion of the journey.
Shit, I feel like I've been running for hours.
The muscles in his legs felt taut, almost to snapping. He pulled one knee in, relieving some of the strain. He slowly stretched his neck, tilting his head one way and then the next.
"Sir, are you ok?"
"I think I just hit my head; I'll be fine," he told them. Even in that befuddled moment after rushing back into his body, he had the presence of mind to croak out one of the pre-packaged excuses he learned were necessary for moments like these. There was blood, lots of it and a head wound could explain it all away.
"You don't happen to have a spare shirt in that ambulance?"
The EMTs had insisted on checking him over. A blue-white light blinded him one eye at a time and in the black spots that formed in the afterglow, he saw glimpses of the fiery red landscape he'd come to know too well.
"No," he said. "I'm not sure what happened. I think I was mugged." As always on a job, his wallet was locked in the cab's glove box, so his empty pockets matched the story.
A whiff of cigar smoke wafted from the street where gawkers vied for a better view of the tall man balanced on the back fender of the ambulance. He put his head down, out of the view of cell phone cameras, and rubbed a dirty hand across his forehead as he tried not to think about the fresh memory the stench had brought to the front of his forebrain... the bouquet of sulfur... of singed hair... of melting flesh... On top of the bone-weary fatigue and irritation, he felt a wave of bile rise in his throat.
You'll have time to be a pansy once you've stopped Ross, he heard Constantine taunt from that special part in his mind that bolstered his flagging resolve at moments like these.
John had asked him only once, what it, the time and space between, was like. Neither of them called it what it was – an express, round trip ticket to hell – but John had understood just by looking deep into his eyes that it was an experience that could not be adequately describe with a human tongue.
Chas shivered despite the oppressive heat of New Orleans and as the wind danced through the alley, he felt ghostly talons draw down his back. Someone in the crowd cackled and from behind his left ear, Chas heard a whisper and felt humid breath ruffle his hair.
"I'm not done with you yet, Frank William Chandler. We have miles to go before I let you sleep."
"Are we done here?" He asked the EMT.
"Sir, I really do think you should let us take you to the hospital."
"I decline treatment, religious reasons," Chas replied and started humming the bridge of Bohemian Rhapsody as he walked away from the stunned men.
Returning to the cab, he switched his damaged shirt for a new one and then checked his cell. All in all, he'd wasted too much time, and he still had to deal with Ross.