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  The trouble began with more and more frequent “debriefings,” during which Dr. Woodbridge attempted to probe deeper and deeper into the machinations of Nick’s mind. At first, Nick resisted. “Have you ever witnessed the death of a family member?” she asked. No, but I can think of a couple I’d like to. “When did you first show an interest in insects?” It was in my baby crib—my mobile had blowflies instead of canaries. “Would you say you have fulfilling relationships with the opposite sex?” The living ones or the dead ones?

  But she wasn’t deterred, so Nick devised a different strategy: He thought that if he answered all her questions completely and forthrightly, it might satisfy her curiosity and get her off his back. Fool—he knew better now. During this phase he made some regrettable admissions: He told her that he liked insects more than people; he told her that he found the human species, as a whole, irrational and disappointing; worst of all, he told her that he preferred not to think of himself as a human being at all—that he preferred to think of himself as a bug. From that point on, Dr. Woodbridge welcomed Nick into her office with special eagerness—like a biologist receiving a specimen of bubonic plague.

  It was on their third deployment that Nick made his big mistake.

  The simple fact was that Dr. Woodbridge was a very attractive woman, and not all of Nick resented her special attention. They sat hour after hour in her little office, seated close and staring face-to-face, talking intimately and openly about feelings and families and stress. At one point Nick thought he detected something different in Dr. Woodbridge’s eyes; he wondered if her interest in him was becoming more than professional. But he had no way to be sure; he had proven himself thoroughly inept at reading signals from the opposite sex in the past, and he could think of no way to come right out and ask. So instead he improvised a simple experiment: Midway through a lengthy analysis of Nick’s attachment issues, he suddenly leaned forward and kissed her—and sure enough, she kissed him back.

  Hypothesis confirmed.

  At that point their relationship became something more. That’s when Dr. Woodbridge became Beth—and that’s when the trouble began.

  Nick began to have second thoughts almost immediately. They lived on opposite coasts, so their relationship would be relegated to DMORT deployments—an atmosphere hardly conducive to romance. To make matters worse, his significant other was also his psychiatrist. He had been required to expose the workings of his mind to her, and he regretted that already—was he now supposed to open his heart too? He found himself revisiting his basic motivations for involvement with DMORT, and romance simply wasn’t one of them—it would only make things more difficult.

  Nick decided that he’d better cut bait before things got any more complicated. He had no idea how to explain this to Beth—how to tell her that he wanted to end the relationship, even though he was the one who made the first move—so he didn’t tell her. He took a more traditional male approach instead—he just went back to work. After that, their debriefings became less frequent and more confrontational. Beth seemed to keep waiting for Nick to say something, but Nick had nothing to say. By their next deployment, Beth was once again nothing more than Nick’s psychiatrist—with a lot less compassion for his eccentricities and quirks.

  “Nick? Did you hear me? I asked you if you remember our last deployment.”

  Nick blinked. “How could I forget? The voices in my head keep reminding me.”

  “This is the report I wrote after our last exit interview. I brought you a copy.”

  “Thanks, but I’m waiting for the film version.”

  “I want you to read it. It contains some therapeutic terms—things like ‘hypervigilance’ and ‘depersonalization.’ If you need me to define any of them for you, let me know. You’re an amazing man, Nick; I’ve never met anybody like you. You’re right, you know—the whole world is crazy, but for most people their craziness is mostly harmless quirks and eccentricities. Yours is different; yours could destroy you. Read the report when you get a chance—sooner rather than later. These are things I saw in you during our last deployment. Think of it as a list of things you should be watching for. I know I will.”

  She left Nick staring at the cover of the report.

  A moment later, Jerry approached. “I’m telling you, buddy, the woman’s got a thing for you.”

  Nick looked at him. “‘The hottest babe in DMORT?’ Who talks like that? No wonder you’re still single.”

  Two hours later, Nick sat cross-legged in the open doorway of a refrigerated semi. Cool air poured over him from behind. It felt good, and he wished he could absorb the coolness and store it away; he wondered how long there would be air-conditioning anywhere in New Orleans. He arched his back and felt his shirt lift away from the skin; it was already dry. Behind him he could hear the low rumble of the diesel engine, which would idle all night to keep the refrigeration unit running. Inside the long trailer, six bodies of average height could be lined up end to end along each wall. A crude bench made from two-by-fours sat along each, adding a second level and doubling the sleeping capacity. Jerry lay in a sleeping bag under one of the benches; he had apparently thought it best not to test the construction with his considerable weight. Jerry was an easy sleeper, and he had dropped off in seconds; he lay on his back with his mouth open, snoring like a diesel himself.

  Nick couldn’t sleep. He felt the wind increasing, rocking the trailer with sporadic gusts. The rain came harder too; the drops no longer fell vertically but dashed in all directions like angry bees.

  Nick kept thinking how strange it was: In each of his other deployments, the disaster had already happened, and DMORT had been called in after the fact to help pick up the pieces. Here, they were waiting for the disaster to occur. The DPMUs were on-site and assembled, and twelve hundred DMORT volunteers from all over the United States were ready and waiting—and all they could do was sit and watch the disaster happen right before their eyes, like a bomb exploding in slow motion.

  The Big Easy, they called it. Nick had a feeling that, after tomorrow, nothing would be easy in New Orleans for a long, long time.

  6

  Monday, August 29

  The hurricane ripped into the Gulf Coast like a massive buzz saw, devastating everything in its path. It came ashore exactly where predicted, at the little town of Buras-Triumph about sixty-five miles southeast of New Orleans—and instantly removed it from the earth. The storm smashed into the shore as a Category 4 hurricane with winds of 140 miles per hour, enough force to strip the roof from a warehouse like aluminum foil or toss a mobile home through the air like an empty shoebox. Century-old oaks and chestnuts were downed in an instant, leaning over onto their sides like tired old men; power lines draped everywhere, crossing with a loud crack and sending showers of sparks sizzling into the sky; glass blasted from window frames, streaking through the air like shrapnel; corrugated sheeting ripped away from sheds and walls and sailed through the air like giant razor blades.

  The hurricane plowed inland, driving an eighteen-foot storm surge ahead of it, thundering up the Mississippi River-Gulf Outlet and into the narrow Industrial Canal, where it poured over the levees like an overflowing sink and into the streets of the Lower Ninth Ward. Manhole covers rocketed into the sky and came crashing down with a deafening clang; geysers of water gushed from the storm sewers and shot into the air; abandoned boats sat like houses on city streets, and severed houses floated like boats.

  And still the water kept coming.

  Inside one of the thousands of houses being slowly submerged, a man struggled frantically to reach a six-inch length of cord dangling from the hallway ceiling above him—but every time he went up on his tiptoes, the black water swirling around his legs knocked him off balance. Twice he had fallen headlong, and each time he struggled to his feet again the water was even deeper.

  He could feel his heart in his throat, pounding like a fist on a steel drum.

  Maybe Mandy was right, maybe he was a fool to stay. The storm wou
ld be a big one, everybody said so—but that’s what they always said, and he’d always come through it before. He had made it through Camille as a boy back in ’69—and Betsy four years before that, sitting right here in this very room. Why should this one be different? It was his house now, and a man doesn’t just up and leave his house in the middle of the night—not in this neighborhood. That’s what some folks wanted you to do—that’s what they were waiting for. If he headed off with Mandy to the Superdome, what would he find when he came back the next day? Nothing, that’s what—no TV, no liquor cabinet—and what about the stuff ? What if they found that too? The stuff was worth a lot more than any TV. No, sir, it would take more than a hurricane to make him leave.

  He was a fool. He knew it now—but now it was too late.

  It would be dawn soon, but he looked out the window and saw nothing but blackness; he could hear the wind shrieking and howling, stripping the house apart piece by piece. The rain was no longer liquid; it blasted the roof and walls like handfuls of nails. When the lightning flashed he could catch a fleeting glimpse of his living room—a room he no longer recognized, half submerged in debris-covered water.

  And it was rising fast.

  He needed a chair, a step stool, anything—but everything was underwater. He remembered the dresser at the end of the hall, not more than twenty feet away. He started toward it in the darkness, but his left leg bumped something large and heavy drifting just above the floor like a sunken log. He fell forward with both arms extended, crashing into the water and sending a wave splashing out ahead of him. He struggled to his feet, grabbed the top of the dresser, and tried to wrench it away from the wall—but the sheets and blankets that filled the drawers were sodden and heavy, and the piece was impossible to move.

  He turned and felt his way back down the hallway to the living room. There was another flash of lightning, and he saw the silhouette of an upholstered armchair bobbing like a slab of salt pork in a vat of beans. He grabbed the chair and pulled, but the waterlogged fabric ripped away in his hands; he grabbed the wooden frame instead and dragged the chair backward, positioning it under the dangling cord. He tried to climb onto the chair, but it threw him off, turning and sinking under his weight.

  He looked at the window—the lightning flashed again, but not as brightly as before. The water was just a foot from the top of the window now, and he knew that once the water covered the window, the room would go completely black. When the water reached the ceiling, the whole world would go black—forever.

  The room grew quieter. His breathing sounded tinny and thin.

  He shoved the heavy chair aside. He took a deep breath and squatted in the water, gathering all his strength; he could feel bits of debris tapping and touching him everywhere like little strands of seaweed. He shot up again, using the water’s buoyancy to propel him toward the ceiling. It worked—he could touch the ceiling with the palms of both hands, and he used the split second to grope furiously for the nylon cord. He did not find it, but he could feel the wooden frame that surrounded the door. He dropped back into the water and tried again; he found the frame again, and this time he tried to quickly wedge his fingertips into the narrow opening.

  He couldn’t do it.

  He stood in the darkness, panting; the water was up to his chin now. He wiped his face; he tasted salt. The water was hot, wrapping around him like a rubber raincoat, sucking out the last of his strength.

  Behind him, he could hear the water lapping at the top of the window frame. He stared up into the darkness, praying for one last chance—and then the lightning came again. In the sliver of blue-white light that flashed across the water, he saw the position of the cord—then the room went black, sealing the door to his tomb.

  He continued to stare at the ceiling, searing into his mind the position of the cord—then he took a breath, squatted down into the water, and jumped for the last time.

  He felt the cord brush the back of his left wrist; he twisted and grabbed it with both hands, allowing his weight to pull the attic door down and open. He heard the creak of the spring-loaded hinges and he felt the door begin to descend—but then it slapped against the surface of the water and stopped.

  Even in normal circumstances the attic door took a hefty tug to open; but he had nothing to pull against now, and the water took away his weight. He worked his way around to the narrow opening and thrust his arms and head inside; he grabbed a rung of the ladder and pulled himself up, forcing the door open with his body until the springs began to moan and the door swung down into the water.

  At the top of the ladder he shoved aside some boxes and rolled over onto his back, exhausted. Up here the storm was deafening; he could feel the entire attic groan under the powerful gusts of wind. He heard sections of shingles slapping against the roof, then suddenly grow quiet as they ripped off and flew away. He felt water drizzling onto his face, telling him that the tar paper was gone, too, and all that remained of his roof was a three-quarter-inch sheath of flimsy fir plywood.

  He tried to catch his breath but couldn’t. The attic was like an oven, and he found himself sucking at the air like a baby with an empty bottle. His lungs were on fire, and he felt a searing pain in the center of his chest.

  Then, he felt water lapping at his back.

  He sat up in the darkness and felt the floor; the water had already covered the plywood subflooring—and it was still rising fast.

  He scrambled to his feet, banging his head on a slanted rafter. He shoved hard against the plywood roofing, but it wouldn’t give way. He felt around among the boxes for anything hard or sharp—a tool, a saw, anything that might be able to penetrate the wood—but all he could find was a foot-long scrap of two-by-four left over from construction decades ago. He hammered it against the plywood again and again, but it had no effect. He began to feel light-headed and he stopped.

  When he did, he heard a voice calling from somewhere outside.

  “Tommy Lee Batiste!” the voice shouted. It was barely audible over the wind.

  He held his breath and listened. There it was again.

  “Tommy Lee Batiste!”

  “In here!” he shouted back. “Hey! I’m in here!” He took the two-by-four and pounded it against the roof again, screaming at the top of his lungs.

  A minute later, he saw the beam of a flashlight streaming through the slats of the roof vent at the far end of the attic, and he heard the sound of metal rubbing up and down against the side of the house.

  “Tommy Lee Batiste!” the voice shouted through the slats.

  “Yes! I’m here! I’m coming!” He started toward the roof vent but forgot that the plywood flooring extended only a few feet beyond the attic door. He stepped off the plywood and into the space between the floor joists. The insulation and drywall instantly gave way beneath him, causing one leg to sink into the saturated mass as if it were a cypress swamp.

  “Wait!” he pleaded. “Don’t go! I’m coming!”

  He sucked his foot out of the muck and struggled to his feet again, steadying himself with the roof trusses and feeling his way over the floor one joist at a time. He finally reached the roof vent and collapsed against it, pounding his fist against the wood.

  “Step back!” the voice commanded.

  The man moved back onto the nearest joist and waited. Seconds later, an ax head crashed through the thin wooden slats, sending splinters flying everywhere; the man didn’t even bother to close his eyes. His skin felt cold and clammy, and he felt as if his whole body was pulsing to the beat of his heart. His legs shook so violently that he wasn’t sure how much longer he could stay on his feet; he gripped the roof truss with all the strength he had left, terrified that his legs would give out and cause him to fall through the floor joists and into the watery crypt below.

  The ax crashed down again and again.

  The instant there was an opening as large as his body, the man threw himself into it—and then his strength failed him. He lay over the splintered edge of the roof
vent like a doll on a handrail, unable to move any farther.

  Then he felt two powerful hands seize him by the arms and drag him through the opening. He felt his legs hit the water and then he was hauled toward the boat, where the two hands hooked his arms over the sides of the boat and then released him.

  The man lay clinging to the side of the boat, bobbing in the waiter, waiting for his strength to return to him. He lifted his head and looked up at the face of his rescuer, silhouetted against the raging sky.

  “Thank you,” the man gasped. “I’ll never forget—”

  “Are you Tommy Lee Batiste?” the voice demanded.

  “Yes—I’m Tommy Lee Batiste.”

  The figure in the boat lifted a thick section of tree branch over his head and brought it down hard on the center of the man’s forehead.

  He saw a flash of light, and then his arms went limp.

  Tommy Lee Batiste slipped silently away from the side of the boat and disappeared into the churning black water.

  7

  Tuesday, August 30

  Nick and Jerry stood at the eastern end of the St. Claude Avenue Bridge, surveying the flooded neighborhood in front of them. Three blocks ahead, the four-lane highway dipped and disappeared beneath a greenish-brown cesspool of floating debris. As far as the eye could see, only rooftops remained above the water, like little black and brown and orange playing cards folded in half on a sheet of glass. Only the top halves of trees protruded, looking more like sprawling bushes than crepe myrtles or oaks; electrical wires hung tangled in their branches like strands of silken web. Objects drifted everywhere—sofas, refrigerators, mattresses, ovens, things that Nick would have sworn were too large or too heavy to ever float. There was even an entire trailer home that bobbed in the water like a giant slab of ice cream, buoyed by some air pocket still trapped inside.