everywhere; the man didn’t even bother to close his eyes. His skin felt cold and clammy, and he felt as if his whole body was pulsing to the beat of his heart. His legs shook so violently that he wasn’t sure how much longer he could stay on his feet; he gripped the roof truss with all the strength he had left, terrified that his legs would give out and cause him to fall through the floor joists and into the watery crypt below.
The ax crashed down again and again.
The instant there was an opening as large as his body, the man threw himself into it—and then his strength failed him. He lay over the splintered edge of the roof vent like a doll on a handrail, unable to move any farther.
Then he felt two powerful hands seize him by the arms and drag him through the opening. He felt his legs hit the water and then he was hauled toward the boat, where the two hands hooked his arms over the sides of the boat and then released him.
The man lay clinging to the side of the boat, bobbing in the waiter, waiting for his strength to return to him. He lifted his head and looked up at the face of his rescuer, silhouetted against the raging sky.
“Thank you,” the man gasped. “I’ll never forget—”
“Are you Tommy Lee Batiste?” the voice demanded.
“Yes—I’m Tommy Lee Batiste.”
The figure in the boat lifted a thick section of tree branch over his head and brought it down hard on the center of the man’s forehead.
He saw a flash of light, and then his arms went limp.
Tommy Lee Batiste slipped silently away from the side of the boat and disappeared into the churning black water.
7
Tuesday, August 30
Nick and Jerry stood at the eastern end of the St. Claude Avenue Bridge, surveying the flooded neighborhood in front of them. Three blocks ahead, the four-lane highway dipped and disappeared beneath a greenish-brown cesspool of floating debris. As far as the eye could see, only rooftops remained above the water, like little black and brown and orange playing cards folded in half on a sheet of glass. Only the top halves of trees protruded, looking more like sprawling bushes than crepe myrtles or oaks; electrical wires hung tangled in their branches like strands of silken web. Objects drifted everywhere—sofas, refrigerators, mattresses, ovens, things that Nick would have sworn were too large or too heavy to ever float. There was even an entire trailer home that bobbed in the water like a giant slab of ice cream, buoyed by some air pocket still trapped inside.
Nick wondered what else might be trapped inside.
“So this is the neighborhood you volunteered us for,” Jerry said.
“This is it—the Lower Ninth Ward.”
“It’s underwater.”
“That’s sort of the point, Jerry.”
“How come this neighborhood?”
“Low income, substandard housing, single-floor dwellings, low-lying area—high crime rate too. Great place to look for bodies.”
“I thought we were here to rescue people.”
“Yeah, that too.”
Hurricane Katrina was now four hundred miles beyond the city, near the Tennessee border, downgraded to a tropical storm with winds of less than 50 miles per hour—just a blustery shadow of the destructive giant she had been less than twenty-four hours ago. The National Hurricane Center’s forecast had proven impressively accurate; the storm had made landfall at precisely 6:10 a.m., smashing into the Gulf Coast with winds exceeding 120 miles per hour—and pushing a massive storm surge ahead of it.
Nick had wanted to get into the city yesterday afternoon, before the storm had even passed—but Denny refused, unwilling to allow any of his team members to risk becoming casualties themselves. Nick and Jerry left the moment they had permission to do so, departing just after dawn to reach the Lower Ninth Ward as early as possible. A nine-passenger van from DMORT’s motor pool had shuttled them to the outskirts of New Orleans, but there they found every major artery into the city blocked by water.
The ax crashed down again and again.
The instant there was an opening as large as his body, the man threw himself into it—and then his strength failed him. He lay over the splintered edge of the roof vent like a doll on a handrail, unable to move any farther.
Then he felt two powerful hands seize him by the arms and drag him through the opening. He felt his legs hit the water and then he was hauled toward the boat, where the two hands hooked his arms over the sides of the boat and then released him.
The man lay clinging to the side of the boat, bobbing in the waiter, waiting for his strength to return to him. He lifted his head and looked up at the face of his rescuer, silhouetted against the raging sky.
“Thank you,” the man gasped. “I’ll never forget—”
“Are you Tommy Lee Batiste?” the voice demanded.
“Yes—I’m Tommy Lee Batiste.”
The figure in the boat lifted a thick section of tree branch over his head and brought it down hard on the center of the man’s forehead.
He saw a flash of light, and then his arms went limp.
Tommy Lee Batiste slipped silently away from the side of the boat and disappeared into the churning black water.
7
Tuesday, August 30
Nick and Jerry stood at the eastern end of the St. Claude Avenue Bridge, surveying the flooded neighborhood in front of them. Three blocks ahead, the four-lane highway dipped and disappeared beneath a greenish-brown cesspool of floating debris. As far as the eye could see, only rooftops remained above the water, like little black and brown and orange playing cards folded in half on a sheet of glass. Only the top halves of trees protruded, looking more like sprawling bushes than crepe myrtles or oaks; electrical wires hung tangled in their branches like strands of silken web. Objects drifted everywhere—sofas, refrigerators, mattresses, ovens, things that Nick would have sworn were too large or too heavy to ever float. There was even an entire trailer home that bobbed in the water like a giant slab of ice cream, buoyed by some air pocket still trapped inside.
Nick wondered what else might be trapped inside.
“So this is the neighborhood you volunteered us for,” Jerry said.
“This is it—the Lower Ninth Ward.”
“It’s underwater.”
“That’s sort of the point, Jerry.”
“How come this neighborhood?”
“Low income, substandard housing, single-floor dwellings, low-lying area—high crime rate too. Great place to look for bodies.”
“I thought we were here to rescue people.”
“Yeah, that too.”
Hurricane Katrina was now four hundred miles beyond the city, near the Tennessee border, downgraded to a tropical storm with winds of less than 50 miles per hour—just a blustery shadow of the destructive giant she had been less than twenty-four hours ago. The National Hurricane Center’s forecast had proven impressively accurate; the storm had made landfall at precisely 6:10 a.m., smashing into the Gulf Coast with winds exceeding 120 miles per hour—and pushing a massive storm surge ahead of it.
Nick had wanted to get into the city yesterday afternoon, before the storm had even passed—but Denny refused, unwilling to allow any of his team members to risk becoming casualties themselves. Nick and Jerry left the moment they had permission to do so, departing just after dawn to reach the Lower Ninth Ward as early as possible. A nine-passenger van from DMORT’s motor pool had shuttled them to the outskirts of New Orleans, but there they found every major artery into the city blocked by water.
Similar Books
