“Yeah.”
“Yeah, you’re at the hotel, or yeah, it’s raining?”
Lane sighed. “Both.”
He was an anchor for a reason. He’d chosen that avocation on purpose. It allowed him to stay inside, read aloud into a microphone, smile, and work a relatively fixed schedule in exchange for a good paycheck. If he’d wanted to work for a living, he’d have been a reporter. He’d have chosen to be one of the poor schlubs standing knee-deep in floodwater, breathing in the ash of forest fires, or knocking on the doors of widows or criminal suspects.
The only time he wanted out of the building was to travel on high-profile assignments that offered hotel points, airline miles, and a generous per diem. That or the occasional appearance at community functions, where an adoring public fawned over him and thanked him for giving so generously of his time.
“You look so much taller in person,” they would say. “You’re so handsome.”
He would thank them when they’d tell him they’d watched him all of the time and wondered how long it would be before he left Los Angeles for the network. He would shake hands, take selfies, and sign autographs.
This wasn’t part of that. This was street reporting. This was being in the trenches.
“Lane?” the EP prompted. “You with me?”
He sighed audibly in an obvious attempt to be passive-aggressive. “I am.”
“Great. I’m leading with a string of juggings in the Valley, going to Tank with the latest on the Bruins. He’ll also hit some highlights from the Florida game and talk about Monday and whether or not the game will happen.”
“Okay,” said Lane.
“Then we’ll do a quick weather hit, and then have Monica Muldrow toss to you standing out in the middle of it.”
“How long you want me to go?”
“A minute? I’ll send you the latest stuff from the network’s breaking news DL. You can throw in some numbers. But really I just want you in the rain, telling us about what you’re seeing.”
“Got it. You told the crew yet?”
“Yes. They know.”
“Okay.”
“I need you to be active too,” added the EP. “Nothing static.”
“Active?”
“Show me things. Move. Have the camera off the shoulder. I need to feel like I’m there. It’ll give the hit some urgency.”
It was going from bad to worse. Lane knew better than to complain though. So he sucked it up and agreed to whatever the EP wanted. No point in fighting it. He’d have to do what was asked regardless, and arguing the point only served to chink his reputation among management. He was already aware of the perception that he was lazy, which he was, and that he was above real work, which he was. There was no need to bolster the reality any more than necessary. He resolved he could suck it up for an urgent minute out in the rain.
“That it?” he asked. “I need to get changed. We’ve got what, forty-five minutes until the hit?”
“About,” said the EP, then, as an afterthought, added, “Oh, one last thing. Could you head to somewhere where it’s actually flooding? Is that possible? I mean, don’t put yourself in danger, but if you have some floodwater behind you, that would be optimal. So would posting a couple of quick pics or videos to your social media accounts. We can link to that from our app.”
Lane stood up from his stool, motioning to the bartender for his check. He clenched his jaw, holding his breath for a moment before blurting out something sarcastic and unhelpful, choosing to draw in a deep breath through his nose and exhale. “Sure. No problem. Gotta go.”
“Great,” said the EP cheerfully. “I’ll drop you an email with the info. See you on TV.”
He placed the phone on the bar without saying anything or disconnecting the call. The bartender handed him the bill, and he signed for the two drinks he now wished had been four, thanked him, tipped him, then went to his room to get changed.
***
The rain was harder than it had been at the Superdome. It was colder too. Lane cinched the elastic drawstrings that tightened the hood on his waterproof jacket. He had the wrists Velcroed tight and the snaps buttoned all the way up to his chin. He was also wearing rain pants he’d brought just in case, and with a pair of fashionable duck shoes on his feet, he was set. Except, as he sloshed through the ankle-deep water, he wished he’d brought boots.
They walked a few blocks from the French Quarter and found the water pooling in the streets. It was closer than they’d expected. But the valet at the front door to the hotel had suggested they could find high water by walking and wouldn’t need their car.
He’d said it with a tone that mixed surprise and worry. Water had never gotten that close, he’d admitted. Even Katrina hadn’t threatened the touristy center of the city the way this unnamed storm was in the midst of doing.
Lane, his photographer, and his producer slogged the short distance without much trouble. But it was as though they were swimming upstream, fighting the wind and driving rain that pushed into their faces as they marched. Their trek was lonely. Being nearly one o’clock in the morning, the crowd of drunkards and thrill-seekers was sparse. The occasional couple stumbled from a bar or late-night eatery but clung to the protection of the architecture’s decorative overhangs.
Lane’s photographer was carrying the rain-protected camera on his shoulder and had his tripod in his other hand. The producer had the portable live transmission unit over her shoulder. She had it wrapped in a rainproof bag but was careful to protect it as much as she could by keeping it close to her body and tucked under her arm.
Lane carried his attitude.
“This is ridiculous,” he said when they stopped at a spot the producer deemed worthy of meeting the EP’s expectations. “What’s the point of this?”
“It is a big story,” said the producer through the small circular opening of her own cinched rain hood. “And we’re here, Lane. It would be stupid not to be on the air.”
Lane bristled at the word stupid. It was a button for him. He frowned at her and then pulled out his cell phone. He fumbled with it in its waterproof case, then managed to swipe the screen that opened the camera function. He aimed the camera at the producer, zoomed in on the hood opening, and snapped a picture.
He opened his Twitter app and typed: Big story. Bundled up. Ready to go live. #Cameraready #SouthlandNewsLeader. Then he tagged the producer so she’d be sure to see his tweet, then posted it to his seventy-five thousand followers.
Almost instantly, her phone chimed. She was busy helping the photographer set up the shot. Lane chuckled to himself and flipped the camera around and tapped video. He began recording live, careful to show what he could behind him in the dim light.
“Hey, Southland,” he said. “It’s a few minutes before airtime and I’m here in New Orleans. The rain is coming down. It’s torrential. Flooding is beginning to inundate this cultural mecca.”
He flipped the camera around, switching the view to the producer and photographer. Struggling in the rain to make sure the gear was working properly and staying as dry as possible, they were oblivious to him. The photographer pulled a large white trash bag from his pocket, wrapping it around the live unit, then wrapped that with an exceedingly long strip of duct tape while the producer held it for him.
“This is my crew,” he said, “making sure we bring you the big story of the night. We’d be stupid to be sitting in our rooms, high and dry, instead of being out here in the dangerous elements, making sure you understand the urgency of the situation here in the Big Easy.”
He panned the phone around to show the depth of the water that would serve as the background for their live shot. All that was visible in the darkness was the thin ribbons of light from streetlamps reflecting on the thick ripples of deepening water and the countless dimples on its surface from the heavy raindrops.
“This is the floodwater, as it were,” he continued and stepped toward the edge of the creeping water. “It’s getting deeper. That�
�s apparent as we stand here in the cold rain. We’re a few blocks from our hotel, and when we left the warm confines of that fine establishment, the valet told us he’d never seen water get this close to the more highly elevated French Quarter. This is, after all, the lifeblood of the city. Even in Hurricane Katrina, some twenty years ago, the water never got this high in this part of the city.”
“We’re ready,” the producer cut in. “Two minutes until the top of the show.”
Lane tapped the screen to flip the camera back to selfie mode. He smiled through the condensation on the lens. “That’s my cue, folks,” he said cheerfully and in full anchor mode. “We’ll see you on television in a few. Don’t forget to check the app for the latest from here in New Orleans and across the Southland.”
He stopped the livestream and plugged his earpiece into the phone. Then he dialed into the station so he could hear the broadcast in his ear. He took the stick mic from his photographer and took a few steps back into the light the photographer provided with a camera-mounted LED panel.
“That’s good,” said the photographer. “Can you give me a white?”
“I got it,” said the producer. She produced a white card from her jacket pocket and held it out in front of the lens near Lane’s face.
The photographer zoomed in, then toggled a switch to set the color balance on the camera. “Thanks,” he said. “We’re good.”
The producer stepped back and checked her phone. She tapped the screen a couple of times then raised her head to Lane. Even through the small opening that revealed the center of her face, it was obvious she was scowling.
“You’re a child,” she said, adding an expletive descriptor in front of the word child. “Absolute child.”
“Careful,” Lane said and tapped the head of the microphone in his hand. “There’s a hot mic. Don’t say anything that could get you in trouble.”
She balled her hands into fists, gripping the phone as if she meant to crush it. Then she shook her head, a spray of water spinning from her body like a wet dog’s. She dialed the control room and brought the phone to her ear, her eyes never leaving Lane’s.
“We have thirty seconds until the show,” she said flatly. “Then we have about five minutes until they come to you. Can you give them a mic check?”
“Sure thing.” He grinned. “Mic check. Chickety check. Chickety check. Two, four, six, eight, ten. Sibilance. Give me a chance. Sibilance. Chickety check.”
“That’s good,” said the producer. “More than enough, Lane. Thanks.”
Lane tugged at the bottom of his jacket and adjusted his hood so more of an opening showed on camera. He checked over his shoulder, noticing the water was closer than it had been a minute ago. He motioned to it with the mic. “That water looks like it’s rising?”
“That’s what happens in a flood,” said the producer. “Water rises.”
Lane narrowed his eyes and snarled, “I’m not stupid. I’m saying it’s rising more rapidly. As in dangerously fast.”
The producer huffed and left her post next to the camera. “We’re in the show,” she said as she approached Lane. “The lead package is rolling.”
Lane motioned to the water again when she reached him. “I’m not kidding here,” he said, “it’s filling like a bathtub. Watch. You can see it inching up the street toward us.”
She bit her lip and glanced back at the photographer, holding the phone to her ear. “Hey, could you please shine the light over here for a sec?”
She pointed past Lane toward a white and black street sign twenty yards behind him. The light shifted and revealed the water at about six inches up the sign’s pole. Above the water there was a scuff and missing paint.
“Watch that mark for a second,” she said. Then her tone changed. “Tank is live. We’ve got three minutes.”
The three of them stood there, the sound of rain slapping against the water the only thing interrupting the silence. A stiff breeze blew across the water, rippling its surface and sending a chill through Lane’s body. The shudder, however, came from the mark on the street sign. It was already gone, having slipped beneath the water.
He looked down at his duck shoes. He was standing in water now. The producer was looking at his feet too, then at her own, back at his, and then to the not-so-distant street sign.
“Two minutes,” she said.
“Do we have two minutes?” asked the photographer as he adjusted the light back toward Lane. “Should I move back?”
“Give me the live unit,” she said. “I’ll hold it on my shoulder. You stay where you are. A little water at your feet is no biggie.”
He handed her the strap of the bagged live transmission unit. “It’s heavy,” he said. “The batteries are attached.”
The producer took the awkwardly weighted package and, cradling the phone in her neck, slung the package over her shoulder. She stepped back out of the water. “Ninety seconds. Tank is wrapping. Weather is next.”
Lane could hear all of this in his ear, as well as the newscast producer as she gave the time cues to his field producer. It was just as well they were being repeated. He was busy configuring the first few seconds of his live shot, thinking about how he’d begin.
“Hey,” he said to the photographer, “can you start on me? And when I point over here to the street sign, pan over that way. I’ll be moving around. Just kinda go with the flow. I’ll find my way back to your shot when I’m ready for it. Other than that, just find what I’m describing and shoot it. Cool?”
The photographer nodded from behind his viewfinder. He was standing with his feet shoulder width apart, his hands on the lens and the grip at the side of the camera.
“You rolling on this too?” Lane asked. “That way we can send it back for the web.”
“I always record live shots,” the photographer answered. “Habit.”
“Cool.”
“Thirty seconds,” said the newscast producer in his ear. The field producer, who’d taken another step away from the water, echoed the warning.
Lane looked at his feet. He couldn’t see his shoes now. They were underwater. But his ankles were dry, as were his socks, so the water hadn’t risen above the tops of his low-top duck shoes.
Monica wrapped up the weather, teasing the ten-day forecast later in the newscast, and Courtney Leigh, the news anchor, introduced him. Lane steadied himself, cleared his throat, and eyed the camera. He stared deep in the lens, and when Courtney had finished her introduction, known as a toss, he began.
“The rain here is relentless, Courtney,” he said. “It’s cold, it’s constant, and it’s creating havoc here in New Orleans. We’re at the edge of the famed French Quarter, and the water is quickly rising.”
He looked off camera and guided the photographer toward the street sign with a subtle move of his head. He pointed at the sign. “See that street sign there?” he asked the audience. “It may be somewhat difficult in the low light. It’s one o’clock in the morning here. But if you see that street sign, the water that now creeps up its pole is evidence of how fast the flooding is happening here. When we arrived at this spot a few minutes ago, the water was nearly six inches lower than it is now.”
He guided the camera back toward him and moved into the frame. He spoke confidently, slowly, but maintained the urgency he knew his executive producer was craving. He pointed at his feet. “We were standing on dry land as this newscast began. But as you listened to our reporters and learned the weather forecast for the Gulf Coast, this part of the street is now underwater.”
The camera lifted back onto his face and he motioned toward a row of two-story buildings to one side of the street. He stepped back off camera and stood close to the photographer. He described aloud what he wanted the audience to see so the photographer could follow.
“These buildings are occupied by restaurants and bars, retail stores, and art galleries. On a typical Saturday night, the lights might still be on,” he said, his eyes drifting from one side of the street
to the other, “but not tonight. Everything there is dark because of the dire situation unfolding in—”
He stopped cold, leaving dead air. Only the sound of the rain hitting the top of his microphone transmitted the distance from New Orleans to the Southland. His back was to the producer or he might have seen the squeezed look of confusion on her face.
The anchor, whose mic had been left open during Lane’s live shot, interjected. She sounded concerned. “You okay Lane? Can you hear us?”
Lane didn’t respond. He was focused on something barely visible in the darkness on the far side of the street. There wasn’t enough light to make it out, but it was about a hundred yards beyond the street sign and the reach of the camera-mounted light.
Then he touched his photographer’s shoulder. “Can you zoom in over there?” he asked softly, less confidently than he’d been when presenting the urgent, developing story a moment ago. “I think I see something.”
The camera panned and zoomed. The photographer adjusted his focus. Then his head pulled back from the viewfinder.
“What do you see?” asked Lane. He was asking the photographer, but Courtney Leigh answered him.
“It…looks…like…a…body?” she half stated, half questioned.
Lane reached over and clipped the mic onto the clamp atop the camera. Then he unhooked his phone and earpiece and ran into the water.
The photographer refocused on the near distance, following Lane as he sloshed and stumbled into deeper water. The anchor was nearly invisible through the curtain of rain and the splash of water around his awkward, frantic movements in the dark of the night.
Lane couldn’t know what the viewers were seeing. He couldn’t hear Courtney Leigh narrating his efforts live on television, providing more real urgency than anyone had planned.
Working his way through the water, each step taking him into the deeper flooding, he couldn’t be sure why he was doing it. Why was he risking himself?
Was it because he was conscious of the camera rolling? Was it because he knew he’d go viral online? Or was it that, despite the perceived vapidity of a new anchor who liked to sit, read aloud, and collect airline miles, he was genuinely concerned for a person in trouble?
The Alt Apocalypse {Book 3): Torrent Page 9
