by J. Thorn
Isaac scoffed. “Idiot.”
The water hadn’t yet crested the higher curb bordering the parking lot. Chloe hopped over it and used her crutches to swing up to the door.
Doug had stepped into the building and through the darkness. Isaac had looked back to Chloe and taken a step forward just when a gunshot rang out from somewhere inside. The sound of the explosion sent Chloe stumbling backward, and Isaac instinctively held up his gun. He was about to take another step into the building when Chloe took hold of his arm.
“What are you doing?”
“Doug might be hurt.”
“We need to go.”
Isaac looked back at the door. He paused and ducked down, trying to see any movement inside. Chloe had climbed two steps and was already making her way across the raised parking lot. Isaac had turned to run when he heard the unmistakable click of a pump-action shotgun.
“Don’t turn around and don’t move.”
Chloe and Isaac stopped. They only looked at each other, then down to the AR-15 in Isaac’s hands.
“Don’t even think about it,” the voice said as heavy footsteps marched toward them from behind. “Get your hands in the air.”
They hesitated.
“I’ve got a shotgun aimed directly at Ms. Uno’s leg. So I suggest you two fucking listen to me.”
“I can’t raise my hands. I’ll fall over.”
“Do you have a gun on you?”
“No.”
“You better not be lying to me, or I’ll blow your other leg off. Either way, your boyfriend there needs to drop that gun and raise his hands. Then I want you both to turn around. Slowly.”
“Do it, Isaac.”
The teen partially kneeled and dropped the gun. Then he raised his hands, and they both rotated to face the man.
A white man with a goatee, wearing a camouflage hat and a black t-shirt, bent down and grabbed the assault rifle with one hand. He used his other to keep the shotgun on them.
“Was that your friend who went inside?”
“Did you kill him?” Chloe asked.
“Put a hole in his belly with this baby here, so you tell me,” he said, shaking his shotgun.
Chloe closed her eyes and shook her head.
The man looked back and forth between the two of them and smiled. “This here your girlfriend, bud?”
Isaac didn’t respond.
“No way,” the man said, taking another step toward Chloe. “She’s way too cute for you.”
The man raised his hand toward Chloe’s cheek.
“If you touch her, I’ll fucking kill you.”
The man looked at Isaac. He slung Isaac’s AR-15 over one shoulder before turning and pointing his shotgun at Isaac’s midsection.
Chloe’s eyes went wide, and she was about to scream when the man pulled the trigger.
Click.
The man pulled the trigger twice more before Isaac drove a shoulder into him, knocking the empty shotgun to the ground. Isaac punched him in the face twice, until his third blow was blocked and countered by the man’s own jab, knocking Isaac backward. The man reached down and drew a knife from a sheath on his hip.
The man lunged at the teenager, the tip of the knife aimed at Isaac’s chest. He caught the man’s wrists, though, and stopped the blade from slicing right through his heart.
Chloe saw Isaac’s rifle on the ground, and she bit her lip in determination. She hopped toward it as the man tried driving the knife into Isaac’s chest once again. She was almost past him when the man looked over his shoulder. He spun from Isaac and used his right leg to kick Chloe’s out from beneath her.
She let go of the crutches and fell to the ground. The man reached and grabbed at her ankle, giving Isaac a split second to make a move. He ran over and head-butted the man in the nose so that the man let out a muffled cry with the breaking of his nose against the teen’s forehead. He fell to his knees and put his hands up to his face, dropping both the knife and Chloe’s ankle.
Isaac grabbed the knife and, in one motion, drove it straight into the man’s stomach.
The man cried out, blood spilling from his nose and his torso both, his t-shirt turning dark with blood.
Isaac withdrew the knife and stabbed him again, this time jamming the weapon into the man’s heart. He then backed away, leaving the blade in the man’s chest.
The man spat blood as he put both his hands on the knife’s hilt. Chloe and Isaac watched as he slumped, tilting to one side and then collapsing on the road. Blood poured from his stomach and chest. The man’s leg twitched once before his entire body stopped moving.
Chloe watched the man’s upper body to see if he was breathing.
No movement.
Isaac stared at the body for a moment, breathing heavily. He shivered and began mumbling to himself.
“Isaac?”
The teen turned toward Chloe with wide eyes. He took one more look at the man, then shook his head and kneeled down next to Chloe.
“Are you all right?” Isaac placed his hands on her ankle. “Is it broken?”
“I don’t think so. He got me good, though. I think I’ll be able to make it back.”
Isaac stood up and grabbed the man’s shotgun. He slid the chamber open and saw nothing inside.
“Can you believe the guy used his last shell on Doug? In a way, that homeless guy saved my life.”
He tossed the shotgun onto the man’s body and walked over to grab his assault rifle. Isaac had rounds in his pockets, but the shotgun was useless without shells.
“Help me up.”
Isaac moved behind Chloe, lifting her up under her arms. She groaned as her weight fell onto her leg.
“I’m good,” she said before Isaac could ask.
Isaac bent down and grabbed the nearest crutch, handing it to her. She used it to balance, and then he handed her the other one.
“I need to check inside. He might have water or food in there.”
“I’m coming with you.”
“No. You stay here and tend to your leg. I’ll be in and out quick.”
“We’re not splitting up.”
She reached out and grabbed his hand. Isaac stared at her, a smile creeping across his face.
“All right. Let’s go.”
Isaac led her across the parking lot and into the building. As soon as they stepped into the main hallway, they saw a body lying near the wall. Isaac led his rifle up and the safety off. As they got closer, Chloe called out Doug’s name, but the man didn’t reply. They stood over him and looked down. His eyes remained open, his white t-shirt now soaked red with blood.
Isaac stepped in front of Chloe and turned her around toward the opposite wall where someone had left a desk turned into a makeshift bed with a few blankets and a single, flat pillow.
“Look,” Chloe said.
Next to the makeshift bed stood a stack of cans—green beans, two cans of soup and a twelve-pack of bottled water.
Isaac smiled as he squatted down to pick up the water and the cans.
“Let’s get back to camp before things get any worse out here.”
When they exited the building, Chloe noticed that the floodwater had passed over the curb and begun to creep into the elevated parking lot.
“We’ve gotta get back,” Chloe said. “Now.”
21
Dax saw more people—and more devastation—the deeper he traveled into the heart of New Orleans. The floodwaters rose faster in the French Quarter, and he wasn’t sure exactly why. The oily, black, foul-smelling water now hit the middle of his shins. Gabby’s house was near the Tremé neighborhood and was only about fifteen blocks from the Mississippi River. If the floodwaters surged or the levees broke, her house would be completely underwater in a matter of minutes.
As Dax stepped around a dead body floating in the middle of the street, he saw two men ganging up on a smaller man in front of a building. One of the assailants punched the man in the stomach and dunked his head under the water. The o
ther punk looked to Dax, lifting up his t-shirt and revealing a pistol in his waistband.
It’s not your fight.
“Aren’t you going to help him?” The question came from a woman standing on the balcony of a Creole townhouse.
Dax looked up but kept walking. She yelled an obscenity at him and then went back inside.
About time to get rid of this damn uniform.
He kept moving, sloughing through the rising water and around the garbage floating on the surface. Dax had always had a love/hate relationship with the French Quarter. It was usually full of drunken, obnoxious tourists looking for cheap t-shirts, yet the neighborhood represented the spirit of New Orleans—a rich and diverse blend of cultures revealed in some of the world’s best culinary treats and live music. Thoughts of the liveliness of New Orleans faded away, though, as Dax’s mind turned back to saving Gabby. Dax thought of her kids and hoped they had been staying with Darrell, their father who lived in Baton Rouge.
When Dax had initially gone to prison, Gabby had been one of the only people to visit. She’d often brought her three children, the four names the only ones ever on his visitor manifest. Dax loved his two nieces, Kim and Kanesha, and his nephew, Anthony, more than anything in the world. So when Gabby had stopped coming to see Dax five years into his sentence, he’d tried not to think about them.
Dax had told Gabby that she didn’t have to visit every week like she did in the first six months of his sentence, although some part of him hoped she’d ignore that and keep coming. But weekly visits had faded into monthly visits, and Dax could see her physical condition deteriorating.
Dax had felt responsible for his sister. He loved her despite her problems. Dax had spent enough time on the streets to spot an addict.
And then she stopped visiting altogether. He decided it wasn’t worth bothering her with a phone call. She knew where he was—and he wasn’t going anywhere.
Now, only blocks from her house, Dax wondered what he would say to his estranged sister who he hadn’t seen in years. Would he bring up the fact that she had stopped coming to see him, that she was strung out on heroin or meth? Or would they both pretend like it had never happened and continue as if Dax had never gone to prison?
Dax rounded another corner, and the end of Gabby’s street came into view. As was the norm in this part of town, people had gathered on their front porches. Most were older folks who had lived there for years, even decades. One of Gabby’s neighbors, a man named Donovan who lived in the house on the corner, squinted his eyes and stood up from his rocking chair.
“Jackson? Jackson Harper, is that you?”
Dax crossed the street, pushing through the water and into Donovan’s yard. The older man remained standing on his porch with two other older black men, both of whom Dax vaguely remembered.
“It is you,” Donovan said with a laugh. “What are you doing in that cop uniform, son?”
“Listen,” Dax said. “There’s no time. You guys need to leave.”
“What? Slow down.”
“Have you seen my sister?”
“Not in a few days. She’s been staying locked up in her house. Can’t blame her. Do you know something about all this flooding and why we got no power?”
“You have to trust me. You guys can’t stay here. This flooding is only going to get worse.”
One of the other men scoffed. “I ain’t leave here during Katrina, so what make you think I leavin’ now, son?”
Dax turned his attention toward Donovan. “Please, sir. Pack up and leave.”
Donovan waved Dax off and smiled. “You crazy, son. I heard you gone to prison. And now you a cop? What’s that about?”
“I’m sorry, but I have to get to my sister. If you want to live, you really should leave. Right now.”
One of the other men smiled as he held up a flask. “Yeah, we’ll consider it, Officer.”
All three men laughed.
You did what you could. It’s their decision, ultimately.
Dax rounded the corner, turning onto Johnson Street. A few houses down, he saw his sister’s place. It looked worse than he remembered it. Weeds had sprouted alongside the porch, and an old Chevy sat parked in the yard, the rusted hulk having long since had its windows busted out. Tiles were missing from the roof. A window on the side of the house had been boarded up.
Gabby had always taken pride in her home. She’d wake up every Sunday morning and cut the grass whether it needed it or not. The same window which was boarded up now had always had a row of flowers in front of it. But that had been sober Gabby.
What the hell has happened to her?
Dax trudged through the sopping front yard and approached the front door. He drew a deep breath.
People nearby shouted. Dax turned to see a man and a woman arguing on the front porch across the street. The woman had a duffel bag over her shoulder and appeared to be leaving. The man grabbed onto her arm and screamed at her.
Dax shook his head as he turned his attention back to his sister’s front door. He pulled on the handle, but the door was locked.
Dax stepped off the porch and went around the side of the house. He hopped over the chain-link fence and walked into the backyard. A mound in the corner had been built from a desk, broken rocking chairs, and piles of other junk. For a moment, Dax wondered if his sister had moved until he saw the children’s bikes, each with their names on fake license plates mounted beneath the seats.
Dax gripped the gun at his waist as he approached the back door. He didn’t bother knocking, immediately opening it. He stepped back and hovered on the threshold for a moment, unsure whether or not to enter. Still, Dax saw nobody and heard no voices coming from inside, so he entered.
He covered his face with a hand as he entered the kitchen. Dax looked over to the kitchen sink where dishes had been piled up, spilling over onto the floor. A mix of leftover slop had settled into the linoleum tile. He scanned the laundry nook, which was overflowing with piles of dirty clothes, before darting into the living room.
The smell of rotten food wasn’t quite as strong in this room, but the condition of the space was equally deplorable. The faded carpet looked like it hadn’t been vacuumed in months. Magazines covered the coffee table along with open beer bottles, soda cans—and a spoon and lighter. He looked at the pictures of Gabby’s children on the wall, including one with his sister hugging all three of her children. Dax smiled at the photograph for a moment before refocusing on the task at hand.
“Gabby?”
No reply.
He headed down the narrow hallway. The bathroom door stood ajar, and he opened it before slamming it shut. Dax coughed, barely able to keep from vomiting.
Kim and Kanesha shared a room across the hall. Dax opened the door. Their beds were made, and the room was clean—too clean for a kid’s room, let alone two children.
He walked across the hall into Anthony’s room. Dax saw a made bed and nothing lying on the floor.
Dax walked from Anthony’s room and stood before the last door at the end of the hallway—Gabby’s bedroom.
He called his sister’s name once more, again garnering no reply before he turned the handle and slowly pushed on the door. It swung open with a loud, long creak. The bed was empty. Blankets had been tossed aside and onto the floor.
A stench permeated the room—this one a different odor than the one in the kitchen created by spoiled food. This air smelled rotten, like when a mouse dies inside a wall.
Dax walked around the bed and past the open closet door. He stopped there, his eyes wide and his lips parting as he opened his mouth but couldn’t speak. The pale, desiccated face of his sister stared back, the tips of her toes off the ground and a noose around her neck, this having been tied to the attic’s trap door hinge in the closet’s ceiling.
He tried to breathe, but his lungs felt like they had been filled with gauze. A cramp lodged itself in his stomach, and Dax turned to the side and retched onto the carpet. Dax cried, kneeling down,
bringing both of his fists to his chin as tears clouded his vision.
“Oh, Gabby. What happened?”
When he lifted his head again, Dax glanced around the room, and his eyes stopped at the nightstand. He stood up and grabbed a prescription bottle that sat upon a single piece of paper. Dax recognized Gabby’s elegant handwriting.
It’s all too much. Everyone will be better off without me. I couldn’t protect you. I’m a failure as a mother and as a person.
Dax tossed the suicide note on the bed. He wiped his eyes and massaged his temples with the first two fingers on each hand before he reached down and grabbed the pill bottle, holding it up to get a better look at the label.
Sertraline - Zoloft
He closed his large hand over the bottle, nearly crushing it before he threw the bottle against the wall.
“Why the fuck would you do this? You had kids. How could you be so selfish? How could you—”
Dax’s knees gave out, and he dropped to the floor.
“Why, Gabby? Why?”
22
Chloe was right. The drugs had taken Gabby’s life, although not in the way she’d expected.
Dax sat on the sagging couch, staring into the empty face of the television. His hands trembled, and he couldn’t stop shaking his foot. He had set the note on the coffee table, and Gabby’s handwriting stared back at him.
None of this would have happened if I hadn’t gone to prison.
Their dad had split shortly after Gabby had been born, leaving Dax’s mom with two kids, a mortgage and a shitty future. And so when their mother had died, Dax had become Gabby’s parents, more or less. And then he had gone to prison, leaving her without any support. It was his fault that she’d turned to drugs. It was his fault her dead body was swinging from a noose in the other room.
Dax yelled out, grabbed the gun and withdrew the weapon from its holster. He opened his mouth and closed his lips around the barrel, his hand trembling as he held the gun.
Fucking end it. Do it. Everyone you ever cared about is gone.
Dax closed his eyes and began to squeeze the trigger.
