by Tom Abrahams
“Good luck,” he said. “Maybe we’ll cross paths at Reagan someday.”
“Maybe,” said Keri. She was certain they already had. Not at the medical center, but somewhere.
Doc excused himself and treaded through the crowded hall and beyond a pair of swinging doors. Keri watched the doors slap back and forth until they stopped.
“Hey,” Dub said. He’d slipped next to Keri without her having noticed it. “Did that guy look familiar to you?”
Keri swung around to face Dub. She nodded, and she saw as their gazes met that he was as confused as she was. She wasn’t going crazy. It wasn’t déjà vu, at least not the kind of déjà vu she’d been experiencing more and more frequently. She hadn’t told Dub about it. Maybe she should.
“He did,” she said softly, leaving it at that for now. “Weird, right?”
Dub nodded, his eyes on the double doors now. “Very. But, hey, your dad’s going to be okay. That’s a relief. And we’re all good here. Everyone is safe.”
Keri couldn’t help but think it wasn’t true. They were dry now, true. They were out of the floodwater, check. But were they really safe? Something she couldn’t shake, an oppressive wave that felt as if it were hovering above her, threatening to crash, told her they weren’t. They were far from it. Very far from it.
CHAPTER 17
April 5, 2026
New Orleans, Louisiana
Doc Konkoly needed a minute to breathe. Since he’d arrived at the hospital, helping heave one injured patient after another through a broken window and into the second floor, he’d been on his feet.
He’d gone from assisting in one case to leading the charge in the next. He hadn’t done emergent care since his residency. It was at once gratifying, terrifying, and emotionally exhausting.
But what had really shaken him was the daughter of the heart attack patient. The Bruin. She’d looked at him as if she knew him, as had the two men sitting on the floor. They also appeared to be college students. All three of them might have burned a hole in his forehead had they stared at him any more intently than they had.
He leaned against a wall and drew his hands to his face. He exhaled, smelling his breath.
You’re imagining it, he told himself. It’s the stress.
Yet he wasn’t sure of it. Although he hoped saying it aloud might convince him, it didn’t. He reached out to a passing doctor, asking where he could find a restroom. The doctor paused, pointed, and told him where to find one the public couldn’t access.
Doc followed the directions and found a men’s restroom. He pushed the door open and stepped into the humid, dimly lit washroom. There was a row of three sinks on one wall, hung against the tile wall beneath a wide rectangular mirror. The mirror reflected the twin urinals and the pair of stalls on the opposite wall. One of the stalls was closed.
Doc moved to one of the sinks and ran his hand under the faucet sensor, activating the rush of water from the tap. He cupped his hands under the warm water, bent over, and splashed it onto his face. It was life-affirming, the idea of heated, clean water. He cupped another handful and splashed his face again, letting the water drip from his chin and down the sides of his neck.
His eyes were closed when the stall door clicked and creaked open. Footsteps echoed, squishing their way to the sink next to him. He blindly reached for a paper towel and patted his face dry.
He looked at the man next to him in the mirror and reflexively nodded hello. The other man did the same while washing his hands; then they both did a double take and looked at each other again. This was no déjà vu. These two men did know each other, at least in passing.
“You’re the reporter,” said Doc. “The one from LA.”
“Lane Turner,” said the reporter. “And you’re the guy from the bar at the hotel.”
“I am. Dr. Steve Konkoly. What are you doing here?”
“Came in with a rescue crew,” said Turner. “We’ve been hopping rides wherever we can get them. About to head back out to the hotel. There are some people needing rescue there now.”
“Our hotel?”
“Yeah,” Lane said. “My crew’s waiting in the boat outside. I had to go to the bathroom while we were here. Too much water everywhere, you know?”
Doc nodded. He reached for another paper towel and wiped the remnant water from his neck.
“You could go with us,” said Turner. “I’m sure the two guys on the boat could use the help dragging people out of the water. It’s tough work.”
Doc started to decline; he could do more good work here. “I don’t know,” he said. “They probably need me here. I’m about to go get another assignment.”
“You can help people out there too,” said the reporter, drying his hands. “We could have used you on the last one. One guy was bleeding pretty badly. You could have helped. Who knows what we’re going to find this time?”
Doc thought about the people falling from the balcony. He remembered Shonda, the desk clerk at the hotel, waiting for approval to leave her post as the water inundated the lobby.
“Let me tell them I’m leaving,” said Doc. “Wait here.”
Turner raised an eyebrow. “In the bathroom?”
Doc moved to the door and swung it open. “No, in the hallway, outside the bathroom.”
“I was kidding,” said Turner.
“I know,” said Doc. He needed to find someone of authority. He wanted to be sure that the patients he’d already treated would have good care once he was gone. He also wanted to assure the hospital he wasn’t jumping ship, even though he was.
Fifteen minutes later he was in the back of a sixteen-foot ski boat, watching the wake as the reporter and his crew recorded one short report after another, describing what they’d seen during the course of the long night.
Doc only tangentially paid attention to them, or to the three men on the boat who’d taken it upon themselves to search and rescue. It was a private boat. These were do-gooders who wanted to jump into the deep end and help with no compensation or expectation of anything.
All three were from the area, all family men and churchgoers, who were forgoing Easter sunrise services, assuming they’d even be held, to be here.
Easter Sunday. Doc hadn’t remembered it was Sunday, let alone Easter. It wasn’t much of a holiday, that was certain.
The sky changed from a milky black to a purplish color before the first hints of deep reds and orange smudged their way above the horizon. With the sun coming up and dawn approaching, the night’s devastation was at once easier and harder to comprehend.
In the dark of the night, it was difficult to know much more than the presence of water everywhere and in places it should not have been. There was something frightening about not seeing more than that, the reflection of lights on the water, the gray and blue hues of buildings’ shadows dipping beneath the rising flood.
In the daylight, though, it was more breathtaking. The water was receding. The debris-painted lines on the sides of now-muted buildings was evidence the worst was over, but worse was yet to come. The tops of trucks poked through the surface of it. Birds drank from it while perched on street signs tilted from their proper place. Bugs danced on it, leaving tiny ripples like those from raindrops. Fish flicked their tails in it, visible life both out of its element but still in it.
Doc saw a couple on a balcony as they passed by. They were in T-shirts and shorts. The clothing looked stained with the drama of the weekend. Their bodies touched, her hip against his thigh. They surveyed the damage with resignation and surprise. She pointed at something in the distance; he squinted. She took his chin in her hand and moved his line of sight. His eyes widened and he nodded. Then he shook his head. She wrapped her arms around him. He put his arm around her and kissed the top of her head.
A lone man paddled past them in a kayak. He plunged one side of the double-bladed paddle into the water, pulled it through, then worked the other side. With each stroke, the point bow of the bright yellow kayak shifted lik
e a compass searching for true north.
The sky was clear and edging toward pink now, the darker watercolors lightening as the sun brushed away the night. The clouds were gone and the air wasn’t as thick. The dampness was at the surface now. Thin wisps of vapor rose from the water toward the cooler, drier air.
Doc soaked in all of it, thinking about how this place wouldn’t be the same for months. It could be years until these deep, wet scars faded. They might never heal. Not fully. There would always be marks, reminders, stories of the night the city sank.
“It’s horrible,” said the reporter. He’d maneuvered to the stern of the vessel and inched up near Doc. “I’ve seen a lot. Never seen anything like this.”
Doc sucked in a deep breath of the surprisingly chilled air and nodded in agreement. He turned his attention to Turner and motioned toward the crew. “They go with you everywhere?” he asked. “Same team on every story?”
Doc had no interest in the television news business, but he didn’t want to talk about the flood. He needed a beat to think about something else before he dove in again. He sensed they were getting closer to the hotel. They’d already been on the water, maneuvering through canals, for what felt like miles.
Turner checked over his shoulder and shook his head. “Them? No. I’m not typically on the streets. I’m usually in the comfortable confines of a newsroom and studio. I have a desk job, essentially.”
“You don’t report on the stories you read?” asked Doc. “The stories from the studio?”
Turner pulled his shoulders back and appeared taller all of a sudden. “No,” he said. “Not typically. I don’t even write what I read. I rewrite it. I tweak what other people write for me, so it sounds like it’s something I would say. But most of the stories come from reporters in the field.”
Doc lifted his chin toward the field producer and photographer. “What about them?” he asked. “What do they normally do?”
“They’re always running around telling stories,” said Turner. “They work with all of our reporters. Those two are really good at what they do. They get better assignments than some of the less motivated crews.”
“This is a better assignment?”
“It was supposed to be,” said Turner. “This was a few easy sidebars to the Final Four. It was free food, nice hotel room, Economy Plus on the plane.”
“Didn’t end up that way,” said Doc. “People died. People don’t typically die at the Final Four.”
“No,” agreed Turner, his expression flattening. “They don’t.”
He shrank again, Doc noticed. The reporter’s shoulders narrowed, as did his glare. He wasn’t looking at Doc anymore. He was looking through him, past him. His brow furrowed. The hint of a confident smile was gone.
“We’re here,” said the man piloting the boat. “We’re on the street. Looks like there are emergency workers here already.”
Doc shifted his weight and looked beyond the boat’s bow. There were a half-dozen boats up ahead, and two or three high-water trucks. There was water halfway up their wheel wells. The water was the color of cafe au lait, and it was receding.
The pilot propelled the boat closer to the collection of boats and trucks. There were people there. Some waded in the chest-deep water, their elbows out like wings working to move them through the depths. Some were in the boats. Some stood, huddled close together, in the backs of the trucks. A shiver ran along Doc’s spine.
He wondered if he’d made a mistake by not staying at the hospital. The situation here appeared under control. Even those in the back of the trucks didn’t seem frightened or concerned. It was eerily calm here as rescue workers evacuated hotel guests in singles and pairs.
By the time his boat had joined the others, Doc was already hopping out into the water. The familiar creep of it on his legs and through his clothing was uncomfortable. A brief well of nausea crept up from his gut. His body shuddered, but he fought the urge to climb back into the boat pushing ahead.
At one of the smaller boats, a Zodiac with two inflatable pontoons that flanked an oversized outboard motor, he found someone who appeared to be in charge.
“I’m a doctor,” he said, the water lapping at his chest. “I’d like to help. Anybody in the hotel in need of medical attention?”
“A few hypothermia cases,” she replied. “Some people in shock. A couple of psych patients. Nothing major, though some we can’t move yet. Feel free to check. Things keep changing by the minute. There’s a lot of water in there.”
“Thank you.” Doc gingerly spun around in the water and trudged through it, his mouth pressed closed as he splashed along. He mimicked those using their wing-elbows for propulsion.
He felt like a salmon swimming upstream. Not because of the water, though it was pushing at him sideways and keeping him off balance with each step, but because everyone else seemed to be moving in the opposite direction, all coming out of the hotel. There were dozens emptying out of a neighboring hotel too.
“Where are they taking you?” Doc asked one of the people struggling to move past him. The man was wiry, bald, and wore a drenched hoodie that stretched beyond his fingertips.
He looked at Doc with wide eyes. “Out of here,” he said. “Somewhere dry.”
The man kept moving. Doc stopped the next person who exchanged glances with him, an athletic woman in a sports bra. The water was at her shoulders and she half bounced, half swam toward the boats and trucks.
“They said Baton Rouge,” she said. “There are shelters in Baton Rouge.”
“I heard Houston,” said a third person. “Or Beaumont. I just know it’s Texas.”
Doc pushed closer to the hotel, deciding it didn’t matter where people were going. They were leaving. They were getting out. They were finding somewhere safe to be, somewhere with power and food and clean, potable water.
He reached the double glass doors at the front entrance of the hotel. They were pushed farther open than they had been when he’d left the night before. He waited for a group to move past him, buoyed by one another as they chattered their way through the cold water. At the side of the hotel, a small whirlpool of water was draining into the sewers. That was good.
Doc moved into the lobby, which was much as he remembered it. The water was higher than it had been, but lower than it must have gotten. There was a thick line of silt about seven feet from the floor. The water in the lobby was at least four and a half feet. It could have been higher and was certainly at a level that covered the reception desk.
Despite what the woman in the Zodiac had told him, he didn’t see anyone. There wasn’t anyone to help, there were only clusters of drenched guests carrying bags over their heads or helping each other dog-paddle through the lobby from the stairwell to the exit.
Coming here was a mistake. He decided he needed to find a way back to the hospital. He’d left a post he should have kept. An image of the college students from California flashed in his mind. He should have stayed and helped that coed’s father, the one recovering from a heart attack.
Why had he come back here?
Behind the reception desk there were open doors leading to what he figured were the administrative offices. He waded toward where he remembered the desk being and found the base of it with his feet before hitting it with his knees.
He stood there, his hands underwater, and pressed against the top of the counter, his attention on the open door behind it. He swore he heard a noise coming from the office. It was soft, but it was something. A voice. Definitely a voice.
“Is anybody there?” he called out. “Anybody behind the counter?”
Although there was no response, he swore he could hear something. He checked over both shoulders. Nobody, at least none of the preoccupied few making their way out of the hotel, was paying attention to him.
He groped his way around the desk, finding the space between the side of it and the wall, and paddled toward the open door. The dim light shining through the glass entrance faded, and he saw th
e cast of a faint bluish-white glow. He also heard a sweet voice melodically skipping across the lyrics of a song he didn’t recognize.
“Hello?” he called again, moving into the darker space of the office. “Anybody here? Anyone need help?”
He inched forward and jumped when something brushed against his leg. His pulse quickened and he considered turning around. Yet something drove him forward, deeper into the office. He was drawn to that faint, ambient glow of what he imagined was an electronic device: a phone, a tablet, or a computer screen. And it had to be portable, since all of the other electronics were off.
The singing was louder now, the voice clear. It was hopeful sounding, something sweet that faintly carried across the waterlogged office space, winding its way around the low-slung cubicle walls that kept him from seeing anything other than a vague shadow swaying. Why couldn’t the singer hear him?
Half swimming, half walking, he maneuvered until he arrived within a few feet of the singer and the accompanying light. It was a phone. And it was Shonda, sitting on a chair on top of a desk. She was wearing headphones.
He moved into her field of view and noticed her eyes, visible in the light from her device, were closed. She was singing, her shoulders and head moving rhythmically to whatever beat was drumming in her ears.
She was humming now, and she opened her eyes. Doc smiled at her and she screamed. Startled, she toppled back, and Doc caught her before she spilled into the water or hit her head on the office furniture hidden beneath the surface.
“You scared me!” she shrieked, pulling out one of the earbuds. Her narrowed eyes darted around the room, then fixed on him warily. “What are you doing?” she demanded.
Doc stepped back, raising his hands. “I heard your singing,” he said. “I tried calling out to you. You didn’t answer.”
She waggled the earbud in between her fingers. “I couldn’t hear you.”
“I’m a doctor,” he said. “I’m here to make sure people are okay. I was a guest here. Are you okay? Do you need help?”
