by Tom Abrahams
“Hold on!” Frank called, one hand cupped at his mouth. “We see you. We’re coming.”
Barker glanced over his shoulder at Dub, his jaw slack. He was shivering, his teeth chattering, and he appeared as bewildered as Dub had ever seen him.
“I can’t believe this,” he said. “How deep the water is. You see we just passed overtop a car?”
Dub nodded. “We’ll be okay,” he told his friend, saying it to convince himself as much as anyone else on the boat. “We’ll be okay.”
Louis skillfully maneuvered the boat, working the tiller handle of the outboard, twisting the throttle as he tried to get the boat as close to the tree as possible. He was feet from it, so close Dub saw the wide-eyed fear in the face of the woman above him.
Frank was calling out to her, calming her, reassuring her. He directed her to keep hold of the branch, to wrap herself around it like she was riding a bull. “And don’t let go until I tell you.”
She nodded vigorously and whimpered while she adjusted her arms and tightened her elbows against the sides of the branch.
And then, if it were possible, the rain intensified. Without warning, the drops grew heavier and colder. The speed with which they fell from the milky-black sky accelerated. The sound of the barrage slapping the water became deafening, like the thunderous applause of a crowd too large for a small auditorium.
A gust of wind buffeted the port side of the skiff. Dub nearly lost hold of the flashlight as he tried to grip the bench with his free hand to keep himself from falling over. Another gust of wind blew past them.
The boat swung wildly to one side, and the stern slammed into the oak’s unforgiving trunk. The crash vibrated violently through the boat, shaking Dub’s body.
“Hold on!” Louis shouted as he tried to settle his course. But the water now was flowing differently, more angrily ferociously, like a dam was opened somewhere upstream.
The boat swung around again in a cyclonic pattern, slapping the side of the oak a second time. The woman above called out with an urgent voice. Dub couldn’t understand her words. He was focused on staying inside the boat as the water overpowered its small motor.
He dropped the flashlight and grabbed both sides of the boat as if to steady its hull himself, looking up in time to see the woman dangling from the branch, her arms stretched as far as her weight would extend them. He shot a look at Frank, who was trying to wave her off. She didn’t listen. She dropped what had to be eight feet to the boat. Her body caught the side of it and tipped it precariously to one side. Dub’s grip wasn’t enough to hold him, and the blast of momentum shot him from his seat, slamming him into the cold, black water. Somehow, he managed to steal a breath of air as he tumbled headfirst overboard, falling tumultuously into the black turbulence. The hull raked across his back as the jon boat somehow righted itself. He struggled underneath it, unable to surface. They were both carried together in the increasingly strong current.
His heart racing, Dub struggled not to suck in a deep breath. His chest burned. He was blind. And then the boat was gone.
Not again. Not again. Not again.
His memories surfaced and flooded his mind. Water everywhere, cold, relentless rain, the darkness of night.
He tumbled in the blackness, weightless, and powerless to find his bearings. He wasn’t sure which direction was toward the surface. Something sharp scraped against his leg. He grabbed for it and groaned, feeling the bubbles slide against his chin. The bubbles. They told him he was upside down.
He flipped himself over in the dark water. He couldn’t know whether it was three feet deep or ten. Still, he righted himself and extended his legs beneath him. They didn’t touch ground, but he kicked with both feet, fluttering as hard as he could, grabbing for the surface, reaching up with one arm and then the other, pulling himself toward breathable air.
His head dizzied; his vision blurred. Then he realized he wasn’t swimming upward after all. He couldn’t be. The water wasn’t that deep. He wasn’t swimming downward either. He’d have hit the ground. And then he did. His hands slid against the familiar muddy grass that had sucked in his bare feet an hour earlier. His fingers stuck into the muck, and cold mud filled the spaces underneath his fingernails.
He was out of air. His muscles quivered. The sensation of losing consciousness began to take hold, but having oriented himself, Dub found his footing and pushed against the muck with both feet, propelling himself upward at an angle toward the surface. He kicked, pulled, and shook his head, trying to fend off the pain as the final remnant of bubbles escaped from his mouth.
At last he surfaced. He thrashed against the water and gasped, sucking in both air and water. He coughed and spat the foul water from his mouth. He treaded water, breathing in and out with effort, until he’d regained control and left the panic behind.
Then he spun around, kicking his legs. His vision was blurred, by the torment of oxygen deprivation or from the water in his eyes. His breathing slowed to something closer to normal. He drew a hand from the water and wiped his eyes. As soon as he began to take stock of where he was, he felt a pinch on the back of his neck. And then another. Before he could slap at it, there was one on his ear. And on the back of his head.
He slapped at his neck, trying to tread water with one hand, and felt the bite on his hand. Then another. And another. Now the bites were hot. They stung. And there were more of them. All over his neck, the back of his hand, his jaw. The pain was spreading, deepening.
Fire ants!
Dub sucked in a quick breath and dunked himself under the water. He ran his hands across his neck and head and face frantically, washing his hair free of the ants. The poison bites swelled into a range of bumps across his neck and ears. He winced at the burning sensation throbbing across his raw skin, blowing out the water he’d stored in his lungs.
He flattened himself underwater and then swam deeper a couple of strokes before he resurfaced away from the ants. He pulled himself back to the surface, emerged, and shook the water from his face. He touched the back of his neck. The swelling had spread to the sides of his neck and across the tops of his ears. He scanned the water around him. Several feet away, where he’d been, he saw a floating ant pile, undulating but keeping its shape in the rain as it cruised the floodwaters. The top of the pile was swarming with angry, confused ants. Dub leaned back in the water and kicked himself farther away from the threat.
He cursed the pain and tried to refocus on the task at hand.
“Barker?” he yelled. His voice sounded flat, as if the pouring rain sucked it into a vacuum. “Barker!”
There was no answer. He listened for the sound of the skiff’s motor, praying for the familiar rumble of its twenty horsepower. He heard nothing.
He sighed, exasperated and exhausted, treading water. There was no use searching for Barker or the jon boat. He needed to get to Keri. If the water was this deep so close to her street, there was no telling the conditions at her home.
He swam slowly, bobbing in the water and occasionally spitting the rainwater from his face, until he found a street sign only a foot or two above his head. It was an intersection a block from Keri’s street. He took a deep breath, his chest stinging, and resolved to move faster. He leaned forward and began kicking. He kept his head above the water, except for his chin, swimming with effort.
His arms churned like a lifeguard hurrying out to a rescue. He cupped his hands and pulled them through the water at his sides, propelling himself forward. He was getting closer. Every stroke, every kick, every throb of the pain on his neck and ears brought him closer to Keri.
Hero.
That word stuck in his mind as he churned through the flood, hoping he would find his girlfriend high and dry, though he knew the idea of anything being high or dry right now was unlikely.
CHAPTER 9
April 5, 2026
New Orleans, Louisiana
Lane Turner was sitting at the bar, watching the weather report and nursing his second drink, whe
n his phone buzzed, rattling against the mahogany bar. He cursed when he saw the number on the screen and slapped back the remnants of melted ice and liquor.
“Lane Turner,” he answered, knowing it was the executive producer of the eleven o’clock newscast.
“Lane?” asked the voice on the other end of the line. “How’s it going?”
“Fine,” said Lane, resenting the false pleasantry. He knew they wanted something from him. He glanced at the flashing bright colors on the weather map that filled the television on the wall behind the bar, awaiting confirmation.
“Good. So here’s the deal. We’re going to need you to give us a live shot tonight. Nothing big, just a straight live.”
“Standing out in the rain?”
“Exactly,” said the EP. “This storm is looking bad. The network says there’s flooding. People are being evacuated already.”
“Uh-huh.”
“We were thinking if you could give us a scene setter, tell us what’s going on around you. It’s raining where you are, right? Where are you? The hotel?”
“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.
