by Tom Abrahams
Doc took the man’s hand and squeezed. “Can you understand me?” he said, hoping the man could hear him above the rain and the ambient cacophony of pain. “I’m a doctor. You’re going to be okay.”
His eyes closed, smiling broadly through his pain, the man nodded. At least Doc thought it was a nod. He held the man’s hand, buoying himself in the water and trying to maintain his position at the edge of the chaos without floating too much one way or the other.
He inched as close to the man’s ear as he could, keeping his tone measured as he explained the man’s predicament.
He imagined the poor soul was in deepening shock, and if Doc couldn’t free him from the iron anchor feet below them, he would die. He didn’t express that last sentiment to the man, but he didn’t lie to him either.
“I cannot move you right now,” he said. “Your leg is stuck. I need to free it. When I do, we’ll be able to get you to the truck, and they’ll be able to take you to a hospital. Do you understand? If so, squeeze my hand.”
The man squeezed. It was trembling, like a weightlifter’s body out of juice at the end of a heavy set. The man was giving Doc every ounce of life force he had left in him to acknowledge his understanding.
Doc couldn’t actually free the man’s leg from the iron. It was likely embedded in or adjacent to bone. There was a web of blood vessels, and thick, sinewy muscle. Trying to wrestle or slide the bar free of the leg would not only risk irreparable damage but could lead to blood loss just short of exsanguination. He couldn’t risk either. And frankly, he didn’t have time to try even if it had been possible.
Instead he’d need to free the bar from the anchoring piece of railing at the bottom of the floodwater. It was his only chance to save the man’s life.
“I’m going to swim underneath you and try to free you. Please remain as calm as you can.” He let go of the man’s cold hand. He heard the sharp rattle in his weak wisps of breath that leaked through his teeth and bleeding nose. Then he dove.
The cold water swirled around him as he dunked himself headfirst the five feet to the street. He opened his eyes as wide as he could, but it did nothing to lighten the darkness. Even the red and white strobe was barely visible beyond the surface. Bodies and debris bumped against him as he groped blindly for the piece of balcony railing somehow stuck at the bottom. The only things that kept him from panicking were his medical training and the silence being underwater provided.
He found a mangled piece of iron railing that bent and twisted like an abandoned smokestack up and up until it reached the underside of the man’s thigh, where it disappeared into his puckered, wounded flesh.
When Doc accidentally touched the man’s leg, he felt the reactive jerk and recoil. It only proved to further move the iron stake deeper into the leg.
Doc couldn’t see it. He felt it as he wrapped his hand around the bar and slid it downward, tracing the bends and crooks until he found one with his fingers that seemed ready to break. He held the bend with one hand while drawing the other to it. He grabbed it and tried pulling, pushing, bending, snapping—none of it worked. He couldn’t get the right leverage to finish the job that the four-story crash had started, and the strain of attempting it had robbed him of air.
Using his good leg, he pushed himself back to the surface long enough to suck down another gulp of air. He descended again, fighting against his own buoyancy to dig his way back underwater. He found the same bend in the iron and tried again. This time, though, he placed a hand on either side of the extreme angle then gripped. He held his breath, feeling the pressure build in his ears, exerting his focused energy on the iron. As he relaxed and pushed in a second time, he grunted and forced the air from his lungs. He pushed, maintaining that pressure until he felt the sharp snap of the metal. He blindly reached around the thin pieces of the bar and worked them outward until the final threads of iron holding the two pieces together separated.
Certain he’d done enough to free the man, he propelled himself upward and treaded to the surface. He was breathing hard and his nostrils burned, his eyes blurry from the water and the rain. He took the man’s hand again and told him it had worked.
Then he realized the man wasn’t returning his grip at all. His hand was lifeless. Doc let go and wiped his eyes clear with the backs of his hands and looked at the man’s face.
The smile of pain, that wide grimace that stretched from cheek to cheek, was gone. His clenched jaw was slack. His eyes were closed, but there was no tension there anymore.
Doc called to him again, then tried moving his body closer to him. But the man, who was either dead or unconscious, didn’t move. He was still anchored to something.
Doc quickly moved to the man’s head and put his fingers at his neck, feeling for a pulse he couldn’t find. He floated to the other side of the man’s body; then he saw it.
The iron railing hadn’t just punctured the man’s leg. There was another piece that had speared through his back. The top of it, barely visible at the surface of the water, protruded through his midsection near his navel.
The man was dead. There was no saving him.
Still falling in sheets, the rain made it difficult to distinguish anything in the dim light. But Doc found a woman clinging to the side of the truck. Many of the dozen people who’d fallen were either floating away, sinking, or in the care of the few first responders on scene.
This one woman, however, was alone. She was sitting on the footwell on the side of the truck, holding most of her body out of the water. She was whimpering and holding one arm in the other, her elbow perched in the palm of the opposite hand. Finally, Doc thought, there was someone he could actually help.
His leg was throbbing and his chest burned from his dives beneath the surface. He was cold, his muscles were tightening, and his head was beginning to throb. What had been the faintest of jabs at his temples had spread across the top of his head like a bandanna of pain.
Yet he forged ahead and met the woman at the side of the truck. He ran his hands through his hair and adjusted his soaked jacket at his gut. He tried to smile at the woman, who appeared to recoil defensively as he approached.
Doc held up his hands. “I’m a doctor,” he said. “Can you understand me?”
The woman nodded. In broken English she said, “I understand.”
“What hurts?” he asked. The noise of crying and wailing had dissipated greatly, but the splash of the rain and the moaning of survivors above them in the truck’s bed made communicating a challenge.
She nodded at the crook of her arm, cradling her elbow. Her long black hair was matted to her face, her sharply cut bangs creating an odd frame for her pained expression.
Doc reached out for her arm slowly, locking eyes with her to gain her consent, and gently touched her at her wrist and at her bicep. The woman let go of her elbow. It was swollen, bloodied, and there was a shard of bone sticking out the side of her arm. It appeared to him as if the lower part of her humerus or the medial epicondyle were splintered.
“You have a fracture,” he told her. Then he thought of the moniker one of the paid escorts had given him. Captain Obvious. “You’ll be okay. They can fix you at the hospital.”
Her eyebrows furrowed and her expression tightened. “Help me?”
Doc understood her to mean she was asking why he couldn’t help her. Now. She was clearly in pain.
“Yes.” He reached into the hip pocket of his rain jacket and pulled out the first aid kit he’d brought with him from the hotel. He always traveled with one. It was basic—analgesics, sterilizers, bandages, hot and cold pressure packs—but it was enough to typically suit his needs for intermediate care.
He told the woman to hold her arm with her hand over her breast, demonstrating with his free hand the movement one makes to say the Pledge of Allegiance or sing the national anthem. She mimicked him, wincing with the movement.
Doc opened the kit, holding it against the truck for leverage. He fished through the smaller items, grabbing a
package of acetaminophen, to get to a plastic pouch in the bottom. He held the pouch between his teeth while he closed the kit, shoved it back into his wet pocket, then ripped open the pouch.
From inside it he pulled a roll of cotton fabric about two inches wide and six feet long. He wrapped it around her neck, created a sling, and tore the extra length of it with his teeth, knotting it at the nape of her neck. Then he unwound the rest of it and reminded the woman to keep her hand at her chest. Doc wrapped the fabric around her waist, upper arm, and her elbow above the exposed bone. He tore the fabric again and knotted it at the small of her back. He checked her pulse, making sure none of the arteries were trapped. There was a pulse. He sighed with relief and motioned toward the truck. They’d only moved a couple of feet, the woman holding onto the truck to stay above water, when the commander met them.
“C’mon,” he said. “We need you in the truck now. We’ve got to get these people to the hospital. We’ve done the triage; we’re ready to go.”
“How many?” asked Doc.
“How many what?” replied the commander, herding the woman toward the rear of the truck, holding her in a way that kept her exposed wound out of the water.
“Dead,” said Doc.
“A half dozen,” said the commander, heading to the truck’s open tailgate and ramp at its rear. “Five or six. Not sure. Too busy.”
Doc stopped at the back of the truck, the water lapping at his chest. “You’re headed to the hospital?”
“Yeah. We know of one that’s open, if we can get there. You coming?”
Doc searched the darkness around him. There was water everywhere. The rain was steady. He was exhausted. He was also certain that he couldn’t do anybody any good at a hospital. There were already doctors there.
“I’m coming with you for now,” he finally said. “But the second I see a rescue boat or another truck heading into the mess, I’m jumping out.”
The commander offered him a hand to climb onto the ramp. “Suit yourself. Everybody’s gotta do what he thinks is right.”
Doc limped up the ramp, the gravity-reducing buoyancy of water now gone and the full weight of his frame on his injured leg taking hold. He reached the top of the ramp and stepped into the crowded, high-walled truck bed. It looked like a MASH unit. Even in the darkness, the emergency crews were tending to the wounded. There were also the dead. They were kept to one side, not piled upon each other, but laid in such a way as to reduce the amount of space they absorbed in the crowded bed.
The ramp retracted behind him and stowed itself underneath the bed floor. The tailgate closed, clanging shut. The truck’s engine roared. Over a loudspeaker mounted to the top of the cab near the broken searchlight, the commander called out, “Hold on, people. We’re on the move.”
Doc grabbed hold of the side, and a moment later the truck lurched into gear and jerked forward in the water. He took turns eyeing the wounded, who were in good care, and the dead. There were equal parts of both.
He glanced around to locate the woman with the broken elbow. He found her sitting in the corner of the truck bed not far from him. She was still holding her arm despite the sling and the wrap that limited its mobility.
Using the bed wall to steady himself, he worked his way to her side. She smiled at him and thanked him for his help.
“You are very brave,” he said.
She shook her head and touched the side of his face with her hand.
CHAPTER 13
April 5, 2026
New Orleans, Louisiana
Dub couldn’t walk anymore. The water was too deep now. He was swimming, dog-paddling actually, to keep his head above the surface. He was close to Keri’s now, almost certain he’d made the correct series of turns to get back to her street. Now he had to try to identify the neighboring homes he’d seen only a couple of times to guide his path. The problem was twofold: it was dark, and the homes were flooded such that it was hard to know which was which.
He kept spitting as he swam, trying to keep from swallowing the nasty combination of floodwater and incessant rain. His neck and ear pulsed with the after sting of the ant bites. His mouth was bleeding after a floating stick caught him in the face. His body was battered. Still, Dub’s resolve was fueled by the urge to find his girlfriend. He couldn’t be sure she was still home. He hoped she wasn’t home. He wanted her safe and dry somewhere.
Yet as he kicked and pulled himself closer to her home, he sensed in his gut she was there and she was in trouble. He tried not to let his focus stray to the what-ifs and could-bes. He needed to deal in facts.
He pulled and kicked. Pulled and kicked. He was alone in an endless river bordered on either side by empty, flooded houses. Pull. Kick. Pull. Kick.
Not far from him he heard a splash. It wasn’t something falling into the water. It sounded like it was bubbling from underneath it.
Dub stopped swimming. He treaded water, his legs moving as if he were bicycling underwater. He moved his cupped hands under the surface repeatedly, scanning the water around him, searching. The only thing helping him see in the dark was the faint yellow light of a streetlamp that was somehow still lit.
He held his breath, hoping to hear the noise again. Just when he thought he’d imagined it, he heard it again.
Having nothing to lose, he swam toward the noise. As he approached, he realized the house in front of him, feet away, was Keri’s. The water was nearly up to the eaves, not much lower than its roof. He looked around him, and then, without thinking any more about it, he dove underwater.
He thought he remembered a window on that side of the house, Keri’s parents’ bedroom. He dove, kicking and pulling toward where he thought it might be. Maybe he could open it and get inside the house. He could search it in the dark. His impromptu plan instantly changed when in front of him, beneath him, he saw a person struggling, thrashing against something that was keeping the swimmer underwater.
He approached carefully at first, wary of being held underwater by someone panicked, desperate, and on the verge of drowning. He widened his eyes, trying to focus. He could now tell the person was a woman, and her pant leg was caught on the window ledge. She was reaching behind her, her face turned away from Dub.
The current took hold of the woman and slammed her sideways against the house. She kept working to free herself. She struggled, wrestling with her pants at her waist. She unbuttoned her pants, yanked them down, and started kicking them from her body. She couldn’t do it. They were too tangled. Dub saw her face.
It was Keri.
Dub fought the current and used every bit of remaining energy to reach her. He slowed next to her, unsure if she knew he was there, and yanked her free of the pants. He grabbed her under her arms. He gripped tightly, pulling her upward as he kicked for both of them. They broke the surface, drifting from the house in the current toward a fence. Keri was gulping air now as she floated in his hands. She spat and coughed.
Dub was behind her now, holding her on his hip as he struggled to keep them both above water. His lungs burned and his arms and legs felt heavy.
Keri blew out water from her flapping lips. “Dub?” she said breathlessly. “Dub? Is that you?”
“Yeah,” said Dub, rank water spilling into his mouth when he opened it. “It’s me.”
He sputtered and gripped her more tightly. Keri was kicking now, helping him propel them. They were underneath the dim yellow streetlight. She laid her head back as if to stare into the light.
In the near distance he spotted their destination: a two-story house that might provide a break from the rising water until they could get help. If help was coming.
He swung her around onto his side when they reached the fence. It was flapping, straining under the force of water against it. Dub brought Keri’s hand around to grab the top of the lone fence post sitting firmly above the water.
She grabbed it and Dub worked himself to the other side of the post’s decorative top. He treaded water behind her and the section of fe
nce, which served as a sort of dam against the current.
Finally, he was able to look at her. He wanted to smile as much as he wanted to cry. He didn’t let either happen. Now wasn’t a time for emotion.
“You’re hurt,” Keri said, her eyes drifting across his face. “Are you okay?”
Dub didn’t know where to begin. He had questions for her too. How had she managed to escape the flooded house, only to get stuck at the windowsill? He noticed that the rain had stopped. It was eerily silent without the white noise of heavy drops on rushing water.
“Let’s talk about this when we get out of the water,” he said. “The house behind me is two stories. As fast as this water is rising, I think we can navigate our way there and we won’t have to climb much.”
She looked past him toward the house. “You think we can make it?”
They didn’t have a choice. He couldn’t keep swimming much longer. Of course, he didn’t tell her that. He nodded.
“Okay,” she said at the moment the wavering fence gave in to the current.
Dub reached for her, grabbing her again with a grip tighter than he intended. She winced.
“I’m sorry,” he said. Keri didn’t react. He couldn’t tell if she’d heard him.
They floated closer to the house and away from the broken fence. Then she kicked. Her feet brushed against his legs under the water before she grabbed at his shirt. He welcomed her into his body as a collection of sharp tree branches scraped their bodies and trapped them in a swirl of water that threatened to pull them under.
“We’re okay,” Dub said, spitting. “You okay? I’m okay.”
“I’m okay,” she said, and they somehow floated free of the swirling current and closer to the house.
The rain began again. It was somehow colder now, the drops heavier. They made more noise than before. Or maybe, Dub considered, they were the same but sounded louder because of their momentary absence. His love for Keri was certainly amplified by the moments they spent apart and then reconnected, this one more than any other. Her body, cold as it was against his, fit. It was comforting amidst the chaos, the rush of water, and the darkness that it brought with it.
