Secession: The Storm (8 page)

It was the wee hours of the morning before the Hendricks men had settled down. Each had a story to tell, adrenaline to burn off. At one point, after hearing his father’s recounting of the looting he’d witnessed locally, Charlie determined it would be wise for Abe and him to retrieve their boat. “It might be our only way out of here,” he commented.

Significant time and effort were required to carry the 18-footer to the backyard.

Sleep didn’t come, even after the exhaustive physical outlay and the inevitable emotional valley that followed the reunion’s high. Distant gunfire and the occasional drift of human shouting led to a nearly sleepless night.

Mr. Hendricks didn’t want to leave his home, regardless of how passionately his sons argued their case. “I’ve watched gangs of young men break into every empty house on this block,” he stated. “They only plunder the empty homes. If I leave, they’ll ransack this place in a heartbeat.”

“How long will it be before they start coming into occupied homes, Dad?” Abe asked.

“They’ll find their ass full of buckshot,” came the bravado response.

“You’ve got to sleep sometime. You’ll be outnumbered… and probably outgunned. There’s nothing here worth dying for,” Charlie reasoned.

“That’s easy for you to say, son. It’s not your house and your memories. I’ll be fine. You two head on back to your families.”

And so it went. Both of the younger men knew their father well – it would take a little time to reason him out of his entrenched position, but eventually he would heed. Abe, after the ruckus of the previous night, prayed it wouldn’t take too long.

The following morning passed without incident, Charlie mixing bottled water with instant coffee to greet the day. He made sure to point out the dwindling java supply. “We might need directions to that new Starbucks, Dad,” Charlie needled, driving his point home. Abe reiterated their lack of rations, noting the few eggs left in the carton and the startling absence of pepper bacon. Mr. Hendricks pretended to ignore both of them.

Early in the afternoon, Charlie snapped to attention at the sound of a commotion coming from the neighbor’s house. Broken glass, loud voices, and light banter drew the younger Hendricks to the front porch. The five young men who exited the unoccupied homestead collectively hefted four stuffed pillowcases, a gaming console, and laptop. At first, they didn’t notice the two Hendricks brothers. The band of thugs hopped the picket fence and strolled across the yard.

It was Charlie’s chambering a round in the 12-gauge that stopped them short. “What are you boys up to?” Abe questioned, standing next to his brother.

The young men didn’t respond, instead choosing to back away several steps before turning calmly and sauntering down the street. Abe watched their retreat with a wary eye, their casual attitude as troubling as the occasional bout of laughter rising from the gang.

After that incident, all three of the Hendricks men decided that vigilance deserved a higher priority in their lives. The two sons took advantage of the escalation of security as well, making sure to point this out to their father at every opportunity. They even started a fake argument over who would lose sleep while keeping the late night watch.

“I’m really worried about dad,” Charlie whispered when his father was out of earshot. “He is not taking the hint. We may have to hogtie and carry him out of here.”

“I’m worried about all of us being carried out of here… in body bags,” grunted Abe.

There were eight of them: three NOPD officers, three National Guardsmen, Sergeant Ford, and Zach. With the exception of the visitor from Texas, all the others were armed with long guns, body armor, and tactical vests.

They drove several blocks toward a neighborhood that, according to Ford, hadn’t flooded. “Everyone knows this area is dry, so this is a prime target for looters.”

On the way, their convoy of patrol cars and Humvees pulled into the parking lot of a national sporting goods chain store. Not wanting to be the aggravating new guy, Zach watched in silence as Ford approached the front door, pulled a key from his pocket, and unlocked a heavy chain. “I’m going to get you a shotgun,” he turned and announced to the Texan. “The last thing I need is an ass-full of paperwork if you get shot. Pump or semi-auto?”

The ranger’s foul expression was evident, clear enough for Ford to read. The local cop smiled and explained, “We have permission from the store’s owner to take what we need. I’m not a looter, Mr. Texas Ranger; I’m keeping a record of everything the department takes. We’ll reimburse them for every penny.”

“Pump is fine with me,” Zach responded, slightly embarrassed over his presumption.

Ford reappeared from the dark interior a few minutes later, a brand new 12-gauge pump and four boxes of shells in his hands. As he handed the weapon to Zach, one of the National Guardsmen asked, “Hey, what are those guys doing over there?”

All eyes traveled to a van idling a block away, the logo of a cable news network boldly painted on the side. Two men stood next to the vehicle, one of the onlookers hoisting an oversized camera on his shoulder.

“Hey!” shouted Ford, taking a step toward the camera crew and waving his arm. “You’re not supposed to be down here!”

Realizing they’d been spotted, both of the newshounds rushed for their ride and jumped inside. The van barked rubber as it sped off.

Frustrated, Ford turned to Zach and bellowed, “Shit! I’m sure there’ll be a video of the dirty New Orleans cops looting a sporting goods store. They’ll splash it all over the 6 o’clock news. And of course, my captain’s explanation of our agreement will be ignored. Some days, this job sucks.”

“Just curious, why aren’t they allowed in this area?” Zach asked.

“Because this region was a battlefield. One of the crews came under fire from a gang of looters, and we don’t have the manpower to escort them everywhere they want to explore. There’s supposed to be a procedure in place where they can get permission to tour the city, you know, so that local law enforcement is aware of their presence. But with all that is going on right now, I don’t think it’s a priority for the guys downtown.”

Zach shook his head, “Damned if you do, damned if you don’t.”

The NOPD patrol was unlike anything Zach had ever experienced. With four men on each side of the street, they moved like a rifle company through the mostly unpopulated neighborhood.

Only occasionally did they spot anyone outside, and when they did, Sergeant Ford was aggressive, in-their-face pushy, leaving no room for doubt that the authorities wanted everyone to get out of New Orleans. Everyone.

Their first stop was to chat with an elderly couple fanning themselves on their front porch.

Zach was shocked when the members of his group pointed their weapons at the clearly harmless senior citizens. Ford was barking like a junkyard dog, growling orders like the residents didn’t have any choice in the matter.

Still, despite the pressure, the old fella stood his ground. “We ain’t leaving. We got no place to go.”

Acting as if he was pissed, Ford then started grilling the couple about firearms. Both the woman and her husband denied having any weapons on the premises.

Again, Zach was stunned when Ford turned and ordered two of the guardsmen to search the house. No warrant, no probable cause, no hesitation. The troopers found nothing.

The sergeant was a perceptive individual, quickly noting Zach’s discomfort. “A state of emergency has been declared,” he reminded Zach. “The mayor has ordered all weapons be confiscated, and so has the chief. That’s good enough for me.”

“What about the Constitution?” Zach asked, unable to shake off the unsettling feeling in his core. “I don’t think a declaration of emergency overrides any of the amendments.”

Ford was clearly puzzled by Zach’s reaction. “It’s better for these people to get out of here,” he reasoned. “They are risking their lives if they stay. Who the hell knows how long it will be before things get back to normal? I’m only trying to make sure they are fed and safe.”

“It’s your town, Sergeant. I’m only here to observe.”

Soon, the entourage encountered a man sprinting down the street toward them. After finally getting the fellow to settle down enough to talk, he explained that the wall of an apartment building had collapsed just a few blocks away. The witness claimed he’d heard a voice yelling for help. He wasn’t sure, but he thought he heard children crying, as well. He had run to find someone to help mount a rescue.

They joined the runner immediately, the man leading them through a neighborhood marked by deep but narrow, rectangular clapboard homes, modest in detail and a prevalent style of the area. Constructed early in the 20
th
century and seemingly of identical design, they lined both sides of the avenues in a very orderly fashion, only occasionally interrupted by commerce. Three blocks from their original position, the men reached a 1950ish, two-story apartment building, surrounded on two sides by the rising floodwaters. Sure enough, the ground had substantially eroded underneath part of the foundation. Ford motioned for everyone to be still.

A faint voice drifted from underneath the mound of concrete, wood framing and drywall. “Can anybody hear me? We need help! My children and I are trapped in here! Help, oh please God, someone help.”

Zach couldn’t pinpoint the exact source of the plea, the surrounding infrastructure and urban concrete making it almost impossible to judge the distance and direction of the sound. Sergeant Ford got on his radio, asking for backup and giving the street names of the nearest intersection.

“Let’s see if we can get them out ourselves,” he commanded. “Who knows how long it will be before someone responds?”

The entire team wasted no time digging in, pitching aside concrete blocks and large sections of plasterboard. Zach and one of the troopers put their backs into prying a support beam aside. Other men were using a long section of pipe to leverage debris on the opposite side of the mound.

One of the guardsmen pointed to the far side of the building, “Sergeant, I think we’d have a better angle if we went over there. That water doesn’t look very deep.”

Ford didn’t want anyone wading out into the water, a warning of toxic pollution and unprocessed human waste being passed around to all rescuers just that morning. The team leader glanced at his own hands, already lined with small scratches and cuts from moving the hefty chunks of concrete, realizing the wastewater was a recipe for disaster. “I don’t think risking the water would buy us much,” the big cop said, wiping the sweat from his forehead. “I want everyone staying high and dry.”