by Tom Abrahams
“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?
Maybe, if he were honest with himself, it was a little bit of all of that. But right now, as he waded into waist-deep water and approached what he now knew was a body, none of that mattered.
The body was moving toward him, bobbing in the water, carried by the slow current, which contained other flotsam: branches, empty cups, food wrappers, and beer cans.
At first, when he touched the body’s cold skin, he didn’t know if it was a woman or a man. It was too dark here. Everything was in varying shades of gray.
He dropped down onto one knee, the water hitting him at his chin now, pulled the body toward him, and flipped it over, supporting its buoyed weight on his knee.
Forgetting he was on camera now, streaming live to the world, he brushed the mop of hair away from the figure’s face. In the panic of the moment, he wasn’t sure of anything more about the person than that they were unconscious and not breathing.
It wasn’t until he laid his head on the chest, checking for a pulse, that he sensed the softness of a woman’s breasts. There was no pulse.
His own heart now racing, pulsing worriedly, and his breathing accelerated and short, he resolved to try CPR. He’d never done it. He’d never tried mouth-to-mouth either. But he had seen countless sweeps reports on the Southland’s News Leader about how to save an injured person. He believed he had no choice but to try.
He tilted the woman’s head back, pushing her hair back from her face, and opened her mouth. He fished around in it to make sure there was nothing blocking her airway. So far, so good. Then he pinched her nose, tilted her chin some more, took a breath, and blew into her mouth.
Her lips tasted foul. There was the distinct mixture of floodwater, rum, and vomit. Lane pulled away and gagged. He swallowed hard and tried again. No luck.
He shifted his weight and tried leveraging her body against his knee again, providing some support to her back. Her head tilted back, her hair splaying in the water like tentacles, and she bobbed lifelessly on the surface.
Another round of mouth-to-mouth and chest compressions accomplished nothing. Lane was trembling now. The water was rising. He stood and turned around, forgetting about the camera, the live audience, and called out, “We need help!” His voice broke and an aching knot swelled in his throat. He swallowed hard against it and was reminded of the taste of vomit-spiked floodwater in his mouth. He called out again, his words swallowed by the percussion of the rain on the water, on the roofs of the aging buildings, on the sopping clothing of the woman who floated before him.
He reached down and picked up her body. She was heavier than he imagined a person of her relatively slight size could be. He heaved her onto his shoulder and started trudging toward the camera, unaware or ambivalent to the fact his photographer was still rolling.
He struggled despite the depth of the water mitigating some of her weight, but he pushed forward. He was breathing heavily now. There was a tightness in his chest and a stitch forming in his side. He winced against it, stopping for a moment to stretch his side.
As he drew closer to the camera and his field producer, who had backed away as the flooding encroached, he was startled by a loud roar exploding to his right, accompanied by a blindingly bright flash of lightning.
It wasn’t a roar; it was a rumble. And the light wasn’t from the sky. Both were from a large city garbage truck rolling through the intersection he was unknowingly crossing.
He stopped short and pivoted toward the truck, the woman’s body swinging. It carried too much momentum, combined with his sudden stop, and Lane was knocked off balance. He splashed face first into the knee-deep water, awkwardly twisting his legs. Her limp body flung from his shoulder with a splash and slid forward in the shallows of the black water.
Lane swallowed a mouthful of the rancid water and coughed it out as he worked to regain his balance. Then there were strong hands on both of his arms.
Two men, one on either side, were helping him toward the truck. They were dressed for the weather and wore jackets that announced they were with the city’s emergency operations team.
Lane took a couple of weak steps with them and then resisted. He yanked his arms from their grasp and shook his head.
“No,” he said breathlessly, his chest heaving. “I don’t need help. Thanks. The woman needs help. Where is the woman?”
He pivoted and scanned the surface of the water. Then he swung back to face the two rescuers. No sign of her.
“Where is she?” he said, somewhat dazed. “Where is the woman? She’s not breathing.”
One of the men put his hand on Lane’s shoulder. “It’s okay,” he said, holding on with a tight grip. “We’ve got her. There’s an ambulance trailing us. Our guys already have her.”
Lane glanced past the man in front of him and saw two others hurrying through the water with the woman in their arms. They were carrying her like a wounded soldier; each man had one of her arms draped over his shoulder. Her legs dragged behind, leaving a wake.
“Y’all shouldn’t be out here,” said the man with his hand on Lane’s shoulder. “The mayor just enacted a curfew. She wants everyone—”
“I’m a journalist,” said Lane. That last word felt strong coming from his mouth. It was the first time he’d referred to himself using the j-word in years. He’d resolved to call himself a news anchor long ago.
“You’re not with the woman?”
Lane shook his head. The ambulance lights strobed off the buildings down the street and reflected on the surface of the water.
“So you—”
“I saw her while I was doing a live shot. I ran over to her. I tried to help her. I swear I did.” The knot thickened again and Lane’s chest warbled with the threat of tears. He held them back.
“You don’t know her, then?” said the man. “Don’t have a name? No next of kin? Nothin’?”
“No.”
“Well, you did a good thing,” said the man. His partner concurred, speaking for the first time by echoing the sentiment.
“You think she’ll make it?” asked Lane. “She wasn’t breathing. I couldn’t find a heartbeat.”
The man glanced past him toward the direction of the camera and Lane’s field producer. He let go of his shoulder, but he didn’t answer the question. He didn’t really have to. They all knew the woman’s chances were slim. There was no telling how long she’d been facedown in the water, unconscious. The man motioned with his chin in the direction of his gaze.
“You belong to them?” he asked, his New Orleans drawl becoming apparent as he spoke. “That cameraman over there and the lady with him?”
Lane nodded without looking at them. “Yeah. My photographer and field producer.”
“He’s aiming that thing at us right now,” said the man. “Is he putting us on the television?”
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sp; Lane bent over, put his hands on his knees, and gagged. Then he nodded. “Probably.”
“Yeah.” The man shook his head, contradicting his verbal acquiescence. “I don’t want to be on television. No, sir, nohow. You be good now, ya hear? And get inside. It isn’t safe, even if you’re a journalist.”
“Thanks,” said Lane. “We’ll be careful.”
The men turned around and high-stepped their way back to the idling garbage truck. The beast of a high-water vehicle cranked as the driver pushed it into gear. It began its slow rumble up the street toward Lane. He stepped out of its path and watched it turn left, down the street where he’d found the woman and where the water was getting deeper more quickly.
It was then Lane saw the large bed of the truck. It was loaded, but not with trash or debris. It was full of people. From the back of the cab to the rear edge of the bed, it was packed with men and women. Some of them held small children in their arms. They stared at Lane as the truck turned and rolled toward the black. A couple of them waved. Lane waved back. But none of them, not a one of the two or three dozen people in the back of that garbage truck, people who clearly had been rescued from the floodwaters, said a word. They were as quiet as if there had been nothing in the truck at all.
Lightning flickered in the distance. Lane was transfixed. This was one truck on one street at the onset of what was going to be two or three days of rain. What more was to come? How many more dozens, hundreds, thousands of people would be facedown in the water or forced to leave everything behind for the crowded, dank confines of a garbage truck on their way to safety?
Lane trudged back to his team. He tried to avoid looking either of them in the eyes. He couldn’t do it. Instead he searched the water for his duck shoes.
“That was…” began his producer in a trembling, tentative voice, “incredible. Amazing.”
“Freaking A, man,” said the photographer. “You were amazing. I didn’t think you had that in you. No offense. But…freaking A, man.”
The camera was on his shoulder, but the red tally light in the front of the viewfinder was off. He wasn’t live and he wasn’t recording anything. He was grinning from ear to ear.
