him. The storm hadpassed. He shook off the dream’s residue, grabbed the flashlight, and staggered to the bathroom, his head pounding. There was a box of BC headache powders in the cabinet, and Trinity fumbled a couple out of the box and poured the bitter powder onto his tongue. He spun the faucet and stuck his mouth under the tap. Nothing.
Then he remembered.
Right, of course. There wouldn’t be.
He reached for the jug he’d placed next to the sink and guzzled warm spring water.
The house was like a sauna. Out in the hallway, he aimed the flashlight down the stairs, expecting to see a little water. He saw a lot. The entrance hall was waist-deep and rising. He watched as a chair floated by the staircase.
Shit.
He moved back to the bedroom, opened the hurricane shutters, and stuck his head outside.
The sky was a solid sheet of blue, the sun white-hot on his face. The air was thick and heavy and smelled of salt and mud. Aside from the soft murmur of moving water, there was no sound. No barking dogs, no chirping birds, no human voices, and no machinery of human civilization. Nothing. Most of the trees on the street were down, and those that stood were stripped of their leaves, naked limbs hanging down like broken arms. There were no power lines, and the poles stood at odd angles, like drunken sentries guarding the abandoned neighborhood. The entire street was a lake, and the muddy water flowed so quickly he thought he could see the level rising as he watched.
So much water.
Trinity craned his head to the left. The water was about chest-high against the doors of his garage. Behind the doors, his tricked-out Cadillacs would be underwater, ruined.
He turned away from the window, switched on the shortwave radio. The radio told him that the worst had indeed happened.The Seventeenth Street Canal levee had given way, and Lake Pontchartrain was now fulfilling its destiny, annexing Lakeview and flooding on into Mid-City, Carrollton, Gentilly, City Park…
Fifty-two other levees were breached, over 80 percent of the city now flooded or flooding.
So much water. And it kept on coming.
A few hours later, Trinity’s entrance hall was completely submerged, the water halfway up the staircase. Outside was still silence, occasionally punctuated by the whirring blades of a Coast Guard helicopter and the patter of distant gunfire. A dead German shepherd floated down the street. A few minutes later, a ten-foot gator swam by.
“OK, joke’s over,” Trinity said aloud. “This shit ain’t funny no more.” He’d planned on camping out for a few days, was well provisioned, but now he just wanted the hell out. He could come back later.
Trinity set up on the balcony off the front guest room, and the next time he heard a helicopter nearby, he started shooting flares into the air.
No luck.
The pistol fire continued in the distance, more frequently now, and the radio said New Orleans had slipped into a state of anarchy. The radio said tens of thousands were stranded on rooftops, and no one was picking them up. Where the hell was the government?
It was a long night.
The next day passed like the first. Trinity ate canned food and drank warm bottled water and fired a flare whenever a helicopter came close. Then, as the sun settled on the horizon, another helicopter came near, and this time they spotted the flare, lowered a line, and raised him into the sky.
Below him, the city—
his
city—was drowning and burning at the same time. Trinity counted the buildings ablaze above the muddy water, until he couldn’t stand it anymore and had to close his eyes.
A young man in a Coast Guard uniform got Trinity strapped into the copter, and the side door slid shut, cutting off the din of the blades. He gave a thumbs-up to the pilot, and the bird veered west. The young man took a long look out the side window and yelled to the pilot, “Incredible, isn’t it?”
The pilot yelled back, “Incredible don’t come close. It’s
Then he remembered.
Right, of course. There wouldn’t be.
He reached for the jug he’d placed next to the sink and guzzled warm spring water.
The house was like a sauna. Out in the hallway, he aimed the flashlight down the stairs, expecting to see a little water. He saw a lot. The entrance hall was waist-deep and rising. He watched as a chair floated by the staircase.
Shit.
He moved back to the bedroom, opened the hurricane shutters, and stuck his head outside.
The sky was a solid sheet of blue, the sun white-hot on his face. The air was thick and heavy and smelled of salt and mud. Aside from the soft murmur of moving water, there was no sound. No barking dogs, no chirping birds, no human voices, and no machinery of human civilization. Nothing. Most of the trees on the street were down, and those that stood were stripped of their leaves, naked limbs hanging down like broken arms. There were no power lines, and the poles stood at odd angles, like drunken sentries guarding the abandoned neighborhood. The entire street was a lake, and the muddy water flowed so quickly he thought he could see the level rising as he watched.
So much water.
Trinity craned his head to the left. The water was about chest-high against the doors of his garage. Behind the doors, his tricked-out Cadillacs would be underwater, ruined.
He turned away from the window, switched on the shortwave radio. The radio told him that the worst had indeed happened.The Seventeenth Street Canal levee had given way, and Lake Pontchartrain was now fulfilling its destiny, annexing Lakeview and flooding on into Mid-City, Carrollton, Gentilly, City Park…
Fifty-two other levees were breached, over 80 percent of the city now flooded or flooding.
So much water. And it kept on coming.
A few hours later, Trinity’s entrance hall was completely submerged, the water halfway up the staircase. Outside was still silence, occasionally punctuated by the whirring blades of a Coast Guard helicopter and the patter of distant gunfire. A dead German shepherd floated down the street. A few minutes later, a ten-foot gator swam by.
“OK, joke’s over,” Trinity said aloud. “This shit ain’t funny no more.” He’d planned on camping out for a few days, was well provisioned, but now he just wanted the hell out. He could come back later.
Trinity set up on the balcony off the front guest room, and the next time he heard a helicopter nearby, he started shooting flares into the air.
No luck.
The pistol fire continued in the distance, more frequently now, and the radio said New Orleans had slipped into a state of anarchy. The radio said tens of thousands were stranded on rooftops, and no one was picking them up. Where the hell was the government?
It was a long night.
The next day passed like the first. Trinity ate canned food and drank warm bottled water and fired a flare whenever a helicopter came close. Then, as the sun settled on the horizon, another helicopter came near, and this time they spotted the flare, lowered a line, and raised him into the sky.
Below him, the city—
his
city—was drowning and burning at the same time. Trinity counted the buildings ablaze above the muddy water, until he couldn’t stand it anymore and had to close his eyes.
A young man in a Coast Guard uniform got Trinity strapped into the copter, and the side door slid shut, cutting off the din of the blades. He gave a thumbs-up to the pilot, and the bird veered west. The young man took a long look out the side window and yelled to the pilot, “Incredible, isn’t it?”
The pilot yelled back, “Incredible don’t come close. It’s
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