by Tom Abrahams
“How did you find us though?” Dub asked, moving past the uncomfortable, rain-draped silence.
Barker looked up and offered a thin smile, motioning to the woman sitting next to him. “Gem. It was her idea.”
Gem demurred. She shrugged. “It made sense. We knew you were coming to find your girlfriend. If you were okay, this is where you’d be. If you weren’t, at least we might find her.”
“How did you know where my parents live?” Keri asked.
“I remembered the street,” said Barker. “Louis and Frank knew where it was. We took a shot in the dark.”
Dub thanked them all again. So did Keri. Then Dub said to Louis, “I thought you weren’t good with street names.”
“I ain’t,” said Louis, working the stick to control the direction of the jon boat. “But every once in a while, I kinda know a street. Got lucky.”
That was an understatement. Dub shook his head and chuckled in disbelief.
“What now?” asked Louis. “Anybody else to save? We ain’t got nothing better to do.”
Keri didn’t hesitate. “My family,” she said. “They’re all together. My parents can’t swim.”
“You think you can guide us there?” asked Louis.
Keri nodded.
“Then let’s find a way there,” he said. “How many of them? Two?”
“Four,” said Keri. “My parents and my sisters.”
Louis exchanged glances with Frank. “It’s gonna get tight, but I think we’ll manage. Hold on, everybody. Rescue round two.”
“I hope they’re okay,” Keri said worriedly.
“They will be,” Dub said, not sure of it at all.
CHAPTER 14
April 5, 2026
New Orleans, Louisiana
Lane Turner adjusted the damp and mildewed life vest strap at his waist. It was digging into the underside of his ribs. Lane thought about unclipping it and taking it off, but his host aboard the rescue boat had insisted he, his field producer, and photographer wear them. He worked his neck from one side to the other then let go of the vest, focusing on the conversation the pilot was having with his producer.
The rescue boat had picked them up minutes after Lane’s attempted rescue of the drowning woman. They’d agreed to keep them aboard until there were too many people who needed rescuing. At that point, they’d have to catch another ride.
It was a risk, given the rapidly deteriorating conditions. The producer had hedged; Lane hadn’t. Now they were trolling for survivors north of the French Quarter in an area called Mid City. They’d gotten a call about a family of four needing help.
There were already six aboard a boat that could hold a dozen easily. Lane and his crew, the pilot and his crew. They worked for the city.
The captain, a man named Bellau, was telling the producer about their work as he navigated the boat from street to street. There were colored lights around the exterior of the boat’s hull that illuminated its footprint in the water.
“We’re part of the city’s Search and Rescue Marine Unit,” said Bellau in a briny-sounding voice. “New Orleans Police maintains a fleet of thirty-five boats. We’re tasked with searching, rescuing, and recovering people lost in any body of water located in Orleans Parish. Sometimes we work with the Coast Guard. Sometimes we’re on our own.”
A radio crackled, hailing the captain. He held up a finger to the producer and answered the call. The boat listed to one side and then leveled. The large motor on the back spat and chortled, blending the water behind it, propelling the heavy craft forward where the captain told it to go.
“Bellau,” he said. “SRMU 29. Go ahead.”
The call on the other end was garbled and riddled with static. The rain pounding on the deck made it hard for Lane to hear every word, but he caught the gist of it. Some of the pumps had failed, as had some of the newer, supposedly stronger walls built in the last twenty years, post-Katrina. The call was warning that rougher water might be coming. More pumps were on the verge of quitting under the increased load.
“Understood,” Bellau replied. “Update me when you have new information, SRMU 29 Over.” He ended the call.
The captain inched the throttle forward. The bow lurched upward. Lane grabbed the side to prevent himself from slipping backward.
“We need to speed it up,” said Bellau. “We’re running out of time.”
“The pumps?” asked Lane. “They failed?”
“Some,” said Bellau. “Others will soon.”
“I thought they fixed all of that,” said the producer. “They rebuilt everything.”
“Twenty billion dollars.” Bellau had both of his hands on the helm now. “Three hundred and fifty miles of pumps, levees, flood walls, and gates. They circle the city. They’re supposed to make us an island, high and dry.”
“But they’re not,” said Lane.
Bellau shook his head. “They’re not.”
“Why?” asked the producer.
“They were supposed to be built to withstand a one-hundred-year flood, meaning that they would hold back the kind of flood that has a one percent chance of happening. Old Mayor Landrieu wanted ten-thousand-year protection. You know, like they have in the Netherlands. That’s what he wanted back then. Didn’t get it. Instead, we got stuff that Katrina would have eaten for lunch.”
“That’s it?” asked Lane. “That sounds ridiculous. Why?”
The captain shrugged. “We still on camera?”
“Yes,” the producer answered.
“Then I don’t have a comment,” he said. “Those decisions were made way above my pay grade. I just do what I’m told. Right now we’ve got to find some people and help them before we can’t.”
The producer signaled to the photographer to stop rolling, and all of them took their seats. They bounded against the chop of the water as Bellau motored closer to the address dispatch had given them at the outset of the mission.
Bellau eased the throttle back, and the boat slowed to a near float. The motor rumbled more softly, the water gurgling behind it. The boat floated past what Lane thought at first was a thick tree branch, but when it nearly bumped the hull, he saw it was a body. It was the seventh they’d seen. Seven bodies. If there were seven already they’d seen, he wondered how many more were under the surface. How many more wouldn’t reveal themselves until the water receded? His producer had mentioned to him that more than eighteen hundred people had died during Hurricane Katrina. More than one hundred had died during Hurricane Sandy. Harvey killed more than eighty in Texas. There was no telling what kind of havoc this flash flooding might cause. There was virtually no warning, no way to get out. The city’s efforts had clearly been too little, too late.
“We’re here,” he said, pointing at a street sign that was barely above eye level. “Keep your eyes out, fellas.”
The two other rescue workers took positions on either edge of the boat near the bow. They shone handheld spotlights out at the houses lining either side of the wide canal.
“We can’t see addresses,” one of them called back to Captain Bellau. “The water’s too high.”
The rain had slowed to a sprinkle now, and the sounds of swamp animals croaked and chirped. The air was chilled from the misty rain, but it was thick with humidity. The lights scanned the tops of houses on either side. They were empty.
“They’re gonna be on a roof,” said Bellau. “That’s what the call said. We’re on the right block.”
Lane motioned for the photographer to start rolling. He shouldered the camera and slid his right hand inside its protective weather gear. The red tally light atop the viewfinder illuminated, and Lane knew the photographer was recording.
He was holding a stick microphone, its wireless transmitter wrapped in a plastic baggie and duct tape. He spoke into it, the top of the mesh almost touching his lips.
“You hear me okay?” he asked.
The photographer nodded. “Good to go. Gimme a level.”
Lane lowered the mic a b
it, holding it at his chest. “Mic check,” he said. “Chickety check. Chickety check. Two, four, six, eight, ten. Sibilance. Give me a chance. Sibilance. Chickety check.”
“We’re good,” said the photographer.
Lane caught the field producer rolling her eyes. “You doing a stand-up for the morning show?”
“For whatever,” said Lane. “We could feed this back live and they could post to the web or the app. Doesn’t matter to me.”
“We don’t have a good enough signal right now,” said the producer. “We could send it with a delay. Let the system store it and then forward it. That might work.”
“Let’s do it,” said Lane. “Just follow me. Whatever I talk about, you try to find. Leave the light off and gain up. It’ll give it an…ethereal look.”
The photographer nodded. The producer protested. Lane assured her it would look good despite the lack of light and the grainy picture quality induced by adding gain, or extra pixels of white, to the lowly lit images. She relented and checked her watch so as to time the hit. Lane counted down from three.
“This is Lane Turner here in New Orleans,” he began, looking into the lens. He was speaking in a deeply affected, hushed tone. “I know it’s hard to see me, friends. But we’re doing that intentionally. We’re currently on a search and rescue mission with NOPD. They’ve given us a spot on their boat as they search for a desperate family of four.”
He motioned toward Captain Bellau, and the photographer panned to reveal the captain piloting the boat. Bellau ignored the camera. He had one hand on the wheel and the other on the throttle.
“We understand the family called 9-1-1 and reported to dispatchers they were on the roof of their home. We’re on their street now, having come here from the French Quarter. No sign of them just yet.”
The camera panned toward one of the two men at the front of the boat, using the light from his spotlight to enhance the picture. The producer held up her hand in the shape of a C, indicating he’d spoken for thirty seconds. In the studio, the time cue was used as a countdown to reflect how much time was left in a segment. In the field, Lane liked to use it to know how long he’d been talking.
“We’ve learned that the flooding is aggravated by the failure of pumps that, when installed years ago, were intended to stop what’s happening now. That clearly didn’t work. And the water rises. The calls for help keep coming, if people have access to working phones, but it’s tough to get to them.”
He paused again and let the camera do the work, showing the men at the bow scanning the water with their lights. The sounds of the reptiles and insects grew louder as the rain softened now to a fine mist. The producer held up her index finger, indicating the hit was a minute in length.
“Maybe the stop in rainfall, however temporary, will help,” Lane said. “Stem the tide, so to speak, and give first responders like the men with whom we’re traveling the extra time they need to find those in danger. We’ll have another update for you soon. Be sure to check back here on our website and on the Southland news app every chance you get. Reporting for now from New Orleans, Louisiana, I’m Lane—”
“Help!” The call was sharp, desperate. It was a child’s voice.
The echo off the houses and its carry across the surface of the floodwater made it hard to pinpoint the direction. The camera was rolling, the photographer searching the edges of their lines of sight.
“Help!” the voice repeated. “I’m on my roof. I’m over here.”
The lights scanned the darkness, searching the trees, crisscrossing each other across the wide expanse of flowing water. Captain Bellau stopped the engine. He kept his hands on the wheel, moving the rudder to keep the boat away from debris.
The current carried the boat in the same direction and nearly straight down the center of the canal filling the distance between the equally spaced roofs on both sides. Occasionally, the searchlights would bounce off the windows of an exposed second story.
“This is Ken Bellau with New Orleans Police,” the captain called out, his salty voice echoing into the blackness beyond the scope of the lights. “We’re here to help you. Where are you?”
“On my roof.” The voice was so high pitched its owner couldn’t have been more than seven or eight years old. “I’m on my roof. I’m by myself.”
Bellau keyed the mic on his radio. It squawked and he spoke into it. “This is Bellau. SRMU 29. What’s the name on the call slip? We’re in Mid City.”
The radio crackled and dispatch responded, “Williams.”
“Thank you.” Bellau called out, “What’s your name?”
“Kendrick,” said the voice, through what sounded like chattering teeth.
Lane couldn’t tell where the boy’s voice originated. It sounded like it was everywhere and nowhere all at once.
“Kendrick Williams?”
“Yes!” cried the boy. “Kendrick Williams.”
“How old are you?”
“Six.”
“Where’s your daddy? How about your momma?”
There was a long pause. Bellau maneuvered past the canopy of a tree that was half sunken in floodwater. The camera was focused over Bellau’s shoulder now, trying to capture what the captain could see. It wasn’t much. Beams of light died in the surrounding darkness not more than fifty yards from the boat.
Then Kendrick answered, a whimper that hung in the air with the humidity and the mist. “I don’t know.”
“There,” said one of the men at the bow. “Over there. About ten o’clock. I think I see something through those trees.”
“Get your light on it,” said Bellau. “Focus on it. Both of you.”
Both beams trained on the cluster of trees. Bellau started the engine and moved the boat, pushing the throttle forward gently. The boat eased into gear and jumped against the current as he turned it nearly perpendicular to the rush of water.
“I can’t see it,” said Bellau, increasing the speed another notch. “I’ve got to get around those trees.”
Once he’d positioned the boat to the side of the cluster, he cut the engine again. The boat drifted backward, trying to find its way into the current; then he swung the wheel around to get a clear shot at what he thought the lights might show him.
At the edge of the beams’ reach was a tiny figure against the outline of a roof. It was all shades of gray, varying depths of darkness.
“Wave your hands,” he called out.
The figure waved his hands.
“Are the lights in your face, Kendrick? Can you see the lights?”
“Yes. I see them! I see them! Please help me, mister.”
“We’re coming, Kendrick. I’m going to crank the engine. I won’t be able to hear you. Just stay where you are.”
Lane motioned to his photographer. The field producer started her watch. The engine rumbled to life, churning the water, moving the boat toward the boy on the roof.
“We’ve found a survivor,” said Lane. “He’s six years old, and he’s stranded on the roof of his house alone. He told us he doesn’t know where his parents are. His name is Kendrick Williams.”
The camera moved from Lane toward the house. The spots provided enough light to give the picture a grainy glow. The producer held up a closed fist, the signal for fifteen seconds having elapsed.
“We’re getting close,” said Lane. “The rain isn’t more than a fine mist now. The current here is incredibly strong, however. At times it’s as if we’re on one of the raging rapids rides at a theme park.”
The camera shifted to show the wash of water off the boat’s starboard side. The red and white lights underwater gave the wash a bloody appearance in person but more pinkish on digital video. The producer held up her hand cupped in the shape of a C.
“We’re getting close to the child now,” said Lane. “Captain Ken Bellau and his crew are intent on rescuing him. The call came in more than an hour ago. It’s taken us that long to navigate the rough waters to this point.”
The cam
era focused on the roof. The dark shapes drew into focus under the glare of the handheld spotlight. One of the lights was off, as a first responder readied himself to pull Kendrick to safety. He was balanced on the bow, crouching, held in place by a hook and line that kept him attached to the boat should something go wrong.
The line was taut as the officer held out his hands, wiggling his fingers to welcome Kendrick aboard. He was coaxing the child to move from his safe perch inches above the rising water that lapped at his feet on the gently sloping roof.
Kendrick squinted against the bright spotlight that kept him in view. He wore the broad smile of someone too close to an open oven. He was dressed in cotton pajamas that clung to his thin body. He sat cross-legged on the roof, rocking gently. But Kendrick wasn’t getting up. He wasn’t warming to the rescuer’s outstretched arms.
“You’re going to have to go get him,” said Bellau. The camera moved to put him in frame as he called out to the child, “Kendrick, buddy, I need you to stand up and walk toward the boat.”
“I’m scared,” said Kendrick, shielding his eyes from the light. “It’s hard to see. I don’t want to fall in the water like my daddy and momma.”
“Turn off the light,” instructed Bellau.
The officer holding the light flipped a switch, and they were again bathed in darkness. Lane widened his eyes, trying to adjust. He spoke softly into the microphone, as much out of respect for the work of the first responders as for the heightened sense of urgency it gave his report.
“We’re close to Kendrick now,” he said. “The poor child—alone, cold, and frightened—is too scared to move from his place atop the roof of his family home. Water is everywhere. It’s dark, it’s dangerous, and it very well may have taken the lives of his mother and father. I’ll be silent now as we watch this unfold together.”
The producer gave him a thumbs-up, and then all eyes were on Kendrick. The boy had risen to his feet. His tiny body trembled, his pajamas tracing his soft belly and spindly arms. He took one hesitant step toward the officer, who had one foot out of the boat and the other ankle-deep on the roof.
