Secession: The Storm (3 page)

“Maybe. And he can go upstairs to escape the rising flood. But he’s not going to last long up there without food and water. We better get packing.”

Charlie was on his feet and moving for the back door. “We’re going to need extra gas, flashlights, some emergency food, and water. I can do all that if you can pack the guns and bring along some cash.”

“Cash?”

“We might need to bribe our way in, or buy something along the way. Hell, I don’t know…. Isn’t cash always king?”

Abe nodded, shooing his brother out the door. “I guess. I’ll pull together some supplies while you get the truck ready. Then I’ll come over in a bit and help you hook up the boat.”

Abe flipped off the television, his own personal hurricane of thought whirling through his brain. In his mind-storm, the logistics of the rescue was like the wind, changing direction and speed at a moment’s notice. The risk associated with entering an area already experiencing violence was as steady as the rain. He snickered when he realized that the storm surge, always the most dangerous part, was going to be explaining the plan to his wife.

He found Kara in the living room, calculator, bank statements, and the checkbook scattered across her lap and the coffee table. “Any word on your father?” she asked, peering up with concerned eyes.

“No, not specifically. But things have deteriorated badly. The levees have breached, and the city is flooding. Charlie and I are going to drive down and pull dad out.”

“You’re what? No, you’re not…,” Kara stopped mid-sentence, desperately not wanting to come across like the stereotypical nagging, demanding mate. Perhaps a more tempered response would be met with less resistance. “What I mean is… Abe, that sounds like a dangerous idea,” she continued, more carefully choosing her words. “Besides, aren’t the authorities already responding? Won’t the police and fire departments be better equipped to rescue people?”

My beautiful, sweet Kara
, Abe thought.
Your vision of the world is so naïve… so orderly and proper. I dread the day when reality strikes close to home.

“The squall has caused more damage than was expected, and it looks like the emergency responders are completely overwhelmed. The streets are choked with rushing floodwaters; one report claiming it was over 10 feet deep in spots. Electrical power is out all over the city, no fresh drinking water and no working phone system either.”

“When was the last time you talked to Edward? Is his cell working at all? How do you know that you can get to him anyway?” Kara fired the questions in rapid succession as her mind grasped the apparent seriousness of the situation, the escalating apprehension apparent in her voice.

“We haven’t been able to get dad on the phone all day. Charlie and I are just going to drive as far as the road will take us safely, then launch his little boat and go get dad. We’ll be back in a day or two, three at the outside.”

Kara stood, concern etched across her face. “You know how the media is. Maybe the news crews are making more of this storm than it really is. And even if the reports are accurate, surely the federal government is sending in massive amounts of assistance,” she stated. “Those TV crews are always out for the ratings instead of the truth. And if the situation truly is catastrophic, I doubt Uncle Sam needs your help. What makes you think this risk is necessary?” his mate queried, hoping more than believing that the situation had been blown out of proportion.

“You have had your nose in those bank statements for way too long, sweetie. Why don’t you put your work aside and watch cable news for a few minutes while I gather my things? Just five minutes ago, the screen was inundated with footage of families scampering onto their rooftops to evade the storm waters. It was surreal… as if the ocean were reclaiming the city. Check it out, honey. If you still feel like Charlie and I are misreading the situation, then we can talk about it some more, but from what I saw, he and I need to get to New Orleans right away.”

Kara nodded, rising from the couch and padding toward the den.

Abe watched her go, shaking his head after she’d rounded the corner. They’d had this conversation so many times; he should have anticipated her reaction.

The first time had been just over a year after they had been married. Their household income had finally reached a level that enabled the purchase of a modest first home.

Unshackled by the space constraints associated with their initial tiny apartment, Abe had arrived at the new hacienda with a pickup bed full of personal effects he’d kept stored in his parents’ basement. A stuffed and mounted shark, three hunting rifles, and a .45 caliber pistol were among the treasures retrieved.

“I didn’t realize you owned a handgun,” Kara had commented. “I knew you liked to hunt now and then, but why do you need a pistol?”

“Home protection,” came the response. “Dad always had one in the nightstand drawer, just in case. I kind of like being able to defend my castle.”

The young Mrs. Hendricks reacted with crossed arms and a tilted head. “Doesn’t our tax money pay for police protection? We don’t exactly live on the brink of civilization here in suburbia, ya know?” she continued, barely pausing to take a breath in the middle of her outburst. “I am sure we have 9-1-1 services in our neighborhood. I do
not
see the need for a gun.”

And her position had never shifted.

Their marriage endured because of love, mutual respect, and great sex. They preferred the same food, wine, vacations, and music – but political bliss was never a resident in the Hendricks’s household. Kara was on the left; Abe on the right, and it was never going to change. Both realized the subject was best left unmentioned and almost always kept their opinions private. Almost.

Both of them soon realized that domestic happiness far outweighed political perspective. Love conquered all as the Hendricks’s marriage matured.

Abe unlocked his gun safe, choosing his lightest Remington 700 hunting rifle as well as a Mossberg 12-gauge pump. He grabbed a few boxes of shells for each and stuffed the weapons and ammo into a couple of cases.

He then selected two handguns from the safe’s upper compartment, choosing a bullnose .357 Magnum revolver and a 1911 model .45 ACP. Two boxes of shells for each weapon were stashed into the small range bag lying nearby.

He located the flashlights in the kitchen drawer, quickly replacing the batteries in each – just to be safe.

Ten minutes later, he’d pulled $1,000 in cash from his underwear drawer, tossed three days’ worth of clothes into a gym bag, and laced up his best hunting boots.

Kara met him at their bedroom door, a look of dread on her face, the manifestation of fear apparent in her voice. She pulled him close in a tight embrace, an attempt to refocus his attention and consider her verbal appeal. “I know it’s not my father over there… but I really, really don’t want you to go. I don’t mean to sound cruel… I just think this is a crazy idea. It looks like a warzone from what I saw on the news.”

“That’s why I want to get my father out of there,” he replied sternly. “Charlie and I know every inch of that town. We grew up fishing and hunting on those bayous and channels. We’ll be fine.”

“Please let the authorities handle this. I can’t shake this terrible feeling about your going on this trip.”

“I have to go, Kara. I can’t leave my father alone in that mess. I’d feel the same way if it were your parents. It’s part of why I am who I am…. Family means everything to me.”

She didn’t mount any additional protest, choosing instead to withdraw from an argument she had no hope of winning. “Be careful. Call me as soon as you can, and remember that I love you,” her only parting words as she spun away from him in an attempt to conceal the single, hot tear streaming down her cheek.

Abe watched her return to the living room, wishing he could make her understand. Moments later, he was out the door, lugging his gear and wondering how they would make peace when he returned.

Zach hastily secured a bath towel around his waist, pat-dried his hair and headed toward the bedroom. In a single motion, he tossed some clothes into the open backpack on his bed and turned toward the kitchen.
Better grab a bite here. Probably no jambalaya or red beans and rice on this trip,
he mused. As he pulled open the refrigerator door, he scooted the tub of furry strawberries out of the way and examined the remnants of the leftover cold cuts. Quickly sniffing the meat to verify its lack of toxicity, he assembled a sandwich and swallowed it while he cleaned his sidearm. Packing a little emergency cash out of the gun safe rounded out his pre-travel preparations. He was on the road to Houston less than two hours after receiving the new assignment.

Seven hours later, he reported into the local ranger company’s headquarters. Road tired and truck-stiff, his attitude was further depleted by discovering what could only be described as absolute bedlam.

Officers, civilian employees, federal agents, and even the cleaning crew were running around as if their heads were on fire, and their asses were catching. The receptionist couldn’t find the local major or either of his subordinate captains. Sensing her overwhelming anxiety, Zach leaned over the counter and flashed a charming smile that the older woman could not resist. Double-checking her records, she informed the Texan that she had no advance notice of his arrival or orders for him to execute. No temporary housing was available, hurricane evacuees occupying every available hotel room for over 200 miles. It seemed Zach would never advance past the gatekeeper.

After an hour of waiting, asking, calling, and generally building a mountain of internal frustration, Zach finally recognized a familiar face.

Ranger Putnam had visited West Texas not a month before, enlisting the native company’s help to run down a suspected real estate scam artist who was hiding in a remote cabin in the Davis Mountains. The criminal had brought along two AK47s and 5,000 rounds of ammo for companionship.

Putnam looked up as he scrambled past, pausing for just a moment to shake Zach’s hand. “What brings you out to our neck of the woods, Ranger?”

When Zach explained his predicament, Putnam waved him past the reception area and into the inner workings of the Houston-based Company.

“Everybody’s down at the Astrodome,” Putnam explained. “One of the local Houston detectives recognized a convicted pedophile he’d put away just last year. The guy had been extradited to New Orleans and was standing trial in Louisiana for a molestation charge. All of a sudden, this pervert is sauntering off an evacuation bus – right here in our peaceful city. It set off the alarm bells.”

“Was it an isolated incident?”

“No, unfortunately not,” Putnam replied, shaking his head in disgust. “From what we’re hearing, most of the city and parish lock-ups over there were either intentionally emptied out or opened automatically when the power went down and the backups failed. We started running background checks on the new arrivals, and so far, we’ve found hundreds of people who should be guests of the state. The problem is we can only check the incoming that still possess identification. There’s a horde of those refugees who barely got out with the shirts on their backs - no ID, no papers, just their names and addresses. I don’t mean to sound cynical, but we both know how easy it would be to tell the smiling volunteer at the registration desk a story of lost ID. Even the dumbest crooks could lie their way through that checkpoint and onto our streets.”