New Orleans
French Quarter
St. Phillip Street
August 31, 2005
LANE KNOCKED on the screen door to Sebastian’s cottage. He’d brought another gallon jug of water for the elderly man. They’d survived the storm—it hadn’t really been so bad—but the power had been off for days, and the water wasn’t safe to drink due to the flooding.
Because the city sat below sea level, all the floodwater stayed inside the levees. The pumps had failed when they’d flooded, and the city couldn’t push the water back over the levees into the river or the lake as more water poured through the breaches.
He’d gone out, checked on a few neighbors, and they’d told him rumors that twenty thousand survivors had crowded the Superdome and the numbers were growing. Word in the Quarter among those diehards who’d stayed was that the crowds were looting shops and stores, but most of them had been flooded and the food contaminated, including the water.
The people in the Quarter were frightened the looting would extend to them. Some talked about defending their property, no matter what it took. Lane had kept quiet and headed back to Sebastian’s, determined to avoid any such trouble.
He and Sebastian stayed locked in their quiet bungalow. Sebastian’s house, like nearly all the Quarter’s homes, had thick wooden shutters that closed the windows and doors off from the street. They’d made sure they’d been secured before the hurricane struck and now, after the storm had passed, they still didn’t open them.
Lane had padlocked the tall alley gate, and for the most part, he and Sebastian lived in the rear of the house and in the courtyard. At the end of August, with the temps hitting the upper nineties and no power for the small air-conditioning units, the inside of the little house and the slave quarters had become stifling.
Sebastian hadn’t been looking so good. Those two pink spots that usually sat on his high cheekbones were gone. The heat seemed to be taking a toll on him, and without water to bathe, they were both the worse for wear.
For now they had enough food, but water was in short supply. They’d been using the tub water to flush the toilets, and Lane had been rationing their supply of drinking water ever since he’d heard talk about how long it might take for New Orleans to dry out.
In the meantime there was no in or out of the city. Another neighbor mentioned buses lining up at the Superdome to take people away, but the crowds were out of control down there, and three feet of water surrounded the building.
They’d have to wade there.
Lane knew there was no way Sebastian could handle that. Besides, Lane had a car parked just outside the house on the street. He could drive them to Lafayette to stay with his parents, but there was no way to get out of the Quarter right now.
High water surrounded them. They were cut off on the island that the French Quarter and the Marigny had become, with no signs of rescue.
Sebastian came to the screen door and opened it. “Come on in, dear boy.” His voice sounded quite frail, but he could walk. “I see you’ve brought me some water. Tell me”—he motioned for Lane to sit down at the kitchen table—“how much water do you have left?” He sat down as Lane joined him.
Lane shrugged. “Enough.”
“I fear we’ve greatly misjudged our predicament, dear boy.”
“We’ll be fine,” Lane said. He didn’t want to admit how bad it really was to the old man for fear it would steal whatever fight he had left in him.
Sebastian shook his head. “Promise me, if anything happens to me, you’ll just put me on my bed, fold my arms across my chest, and close the door. And if you could see your way into dressing me in my burgundy smoking jacket, I’d appreciate it.”
Lane almost laughed at the air of melodrama Sebastian gave off. He must have been something in his heyday.
“Nothing’s going to happen to you. I won’t let it.” Lane patted his hand. The once-soft skin had become as dry as a dead leaf.
“My will is in the top drawer of my desk. Everything you’ll need is there also—my lawyer’s name, the accounts, and the keys to the house.” He leaned back and sighed deeply.
“Stop that, Sebastian. You’re going to live at least another twenty years. By then, I’ll be old enough for you.” Lane winked at him.
“Foolish lamb.” Sebastian shook his head but shot him an endearing look.
“Here.” Lane stuck out his pinky. “Pinky swear, Sebastian. Swear you’re going to get through this, that you won’t let that bitch Katrina get you in the end.”
Sebastian snorted. “These days, no one gets me in the end.” He posed with his nose in the air, as if highly affronted by the suggestion.
Lane groaned. “Not even your boy toy?”
The old gentleman laughed and slapped his leg. Then he hooked his pinky, the one with the huge opal ring on it, around Lane’s, and they pulled.
“One, two, three, four.” Lane could feel the old man’s strength giving out so he hurried. “Five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten.” They broke apart. “See, at least another ten years.”
“You rushed through that count, dear boy.”
“Did not. Just got excited about being your boy toy.” Lane winked.
“Good Lord, lamb, I haven’t had the need for a boy toy in, oh, five years.” Sebastian winked back.
Lane laughed. “Five years?”
“Stamina, dear boy. I’m known for my stamina.” He leaned close. “It’s the raw oysters,” he whispered.
MATT SURVEYED the parking lot on the edge of the city where the National Guard had set up a staging area on the far west end of Kenner. With army tents, vehicles, and uniformed men, it looked like he’d landed in the middle of a war.
These soldiers carried guns.
Wasn’t this supposed to be a rescue operation?
He pulled out his camera and started taking pictures. Did a few interviews with the men, asking where they were from and what their jobs would be on this mission of mercy.
He spotted what looked like the headquarters and hurried over to it. He needed transport to the city, and for now the only ones going in were the Guard, local police, and the press, but only with permission.
“I need to speak to whoever’s in charge.” He held out his press badge.
The soldier checked him out and told him to wait. After a few minutes, he returned and invited Matt inside. They introduced themselves.
“Another member of the press, huh?” An older officer looked up from the desk he sat behind. He offered Matt a chair.
Matt sat, placing his camera on his lap. “Yes, sir. I’m shooting photos for my paper on the West Coast. Rescue efforts, survivors, that sort of stuff.”
“And you need what from me?”
“I need to get into the city, sir. The French Quarter. I understand it’s dry.”
“That’s right.” The man sat back and appraised Matt. “I’m not sure we can spare anyone to take you. Right now we’re overwhelmed with rescues, both air and water.”
“I understand. How close can you get me?”
He shrugged, his gaze still boring into Matt. “Perhaps to the Superdome. We have some supplies to deliver there.” He ran his hand over his jaw, and Matt noticed several days’ growth covering it.
“That’s close enough. I’ll walk the rest of the way.”
“You’ll swim is more like it. There’s three feet of water all through the business district. Canal Street has water, not much, but some.”
“I don’t care. I have to get there.”
“Friends?”
Matt swallowed. He wondered if the “Don’t ask, don’t tell” policy carried any weight for civilians dealing with the military.
“Yes, sir. My brother.” Lane was like a brother to him in some ways, so it wasn’t really a lie, but right then, he’d have said anything to get to Lane.
The officer thought that over. “You have your press badge?”
“Yes, sir.” Matt prayed.
“Do you think you’ll need supplies?”
“I might. How bad is it?”
“Well, on a normal day, the city only holds about three to four days of bottled water and food. We’re on day three, and most of the stores in this town are under water.”
Matt nodded. “Then I guess I need supplies.”
“I’ll arrange it. You’ll leave in the morning. Corporal!” he called. A young man entered and stood at attention. “Take this man to the press tent and get him signed in. He’s going out in the morning. Make sure he has a case of supplies.”
The soldier saluted. “Yessir!”
Matt stood and extended his hand. “Thank you, sir.”
“All part of the job.”
Matt followed the corporal out and across the parking lot, dodging Jeeps, Hummers and tents, until they’d reached a large tent with a Press sign on the side of it.
Matt ducked inside and looked around. Rows of cots against one wall. A row of tables with chairs, and a neat nest of cables for their computers, with a few reporters typing away.
“You have to sign in over here,” a woman called to him from behind a table.
He went over to her and filled in the forms she gave him.
“There’s a mess tent at the other end of the parking lot.” She took his picture, ran it through some little machine that spit out a plastic badge. After attaching a clip to it, she handed it to him.
“Great.” Matt took it and clipped it on.
“Wear that at all times.”
“Will do.” He moved off toward the tables.
“How’s the Internet access?” he asked one of the men typing on a laptop.
“Spotty at best. Forget uploading,” he replied with a shake of his head. “Cell phone lines are still jammed too.”
“Right.” Spotting an unoccupied cot, Matt went to it, dropped his duffle bag and camera, and sat. The weight of his situation hit him. He’d rushed here to find Lane, not thinking Lane had gotten on with his life. He had someone he wouldn’t leave behind, even in the face of a hurricane.
That shouldn’t surprise him. Lane had always been the strong one. Steady, sure, and competent. He’d been the screw-up. Seems like he’d screwed up again.
Well, tomorrow he’d find Lane and his Sebastian. Deliver the supplies. Do his report and then get the hell out of here.