Читать книгу No Ordinary Heroes: - Demaree Inglese - Страница 19

Back on the first floor, Sergeant Patrice Ross, a short, thin black woman, was keeping watch over the civilians in the lobby. As Verret came back upstairs, he ordered her and some other deputies to keep the area mopped. He knew from previous storms that water would soon be blowing in under the front doors.

As he walked away, the lights flickered and went out.

“We just lost city power,” Ross said from the darkness.

Verret tensed—until the generators kicked in and emergency lights came back on.

“That’s it for the air-conditioning,” Skyles said.

Verret nodded and said a silent prayer that the barrier in the sallyport would hold.

“What are we doing about feed-up?” Skyles ran his hand over a damp buzz cut that was so short he looked bald. “You know what the inmates are like if they miss a meal.”

“Let’s get through the storm first,” Verret answered. “Then we’ll worry about it.”

Breakfast was still a couple of hours away, and Verret wasn’t ready to think about 800 hot, hungry inmates yelling, banging on bars, and probably stopping up toilets in protest, if their meal arrived late. They’d be fed, but not on time. Without elevators, the inmate workers would have to carry food up the stairs to the tiers, and that would take several hours in the ten-story building. And with so many kids running wild in the stairwell, it was dangerous to let the workers move about too freely. He’d have to clamp down on the kid problem—after the hurricane.

“If they miss breakfast, there’s going to be trouble,” Skyles kept at it.

“They’ll live,” Verret answered dryly. “With Katrina coming, we’ve got bigger worries than breakfast.”

At 5 a.m. Verret’s radio stopped working. The relay towers that bounced the radio signal throughout the city must have gone down, he guessed. That meant the New Orleans Police Department had lost radio contact, too. The police used the same system, and the loss would seriously impede their ability to evacuate the city, enforce the curfew, and respond to emergencies.

An hour later, the front lobby of the Correctional Center was swamped with water that rushed under the front doors with each gust of wind. Puddles had accumulated in front of the information desk, and people were tracking water up the stairwell. Sergeant Ross and two deputies worked feverishly with mops and towels, trying futilely to sop up the flood while some civilians attempted to push their belongings out of the way. Other people tried to sleep, but one or two curious souls had gotten up and were peering through the gaps in the plywood sheets over the doors to see what was happening outside.

“We’ve got to sandbag the outside of the doors,” Verret told Skyles. The captain’s skin felt cold and clammy under his wet work clothes, and he grimaced at the thought of going out onto the back porch, where the heavy bags were piled. He didn’t relish another drenching, but the job had to be done.

Skyles went for a flatbed cart, and as Verret started toward the rear of the building, a deputy slipped in the stairwell and almost fell. “Keep the stairs dry,” Verret called over to Ross. “We don’t want any accidents.”

Skyles met him at the back doors and held them open, while Verret pushed the plastic-bottom cart outside. He tried to keep a firm grip on the metal handle, but as he cleared the door, the wind almost yanked the cart from his grasp.

Skyles quickly picked up a sandbag and dropped it on the cart to weigh it down. “That’s one.” The deputy yelled to be heard. “How many more?”

“Twenty should do it,” Verret shouted back. The jet-engine roar of the wind pounded all other sound into oblivion.

The hurricane was much stronger than an hour before. Oaks along the street were bent in half, and with gusts whipping around the corners, the back porch was no longer shielded from the raging tempest. Both men fought to stay on their feet as they loaded sandbags onto the cart.

When they were done, Verret waved toward one side. “That way!”

The wind was at their backs as the two men pulled the weighted cart to the corner. After they turned onto the side porch, they had to walk bent over into the wind. The rain felt like needles piercing Verret’s skin.

“Get ready!” Skyles shouted as they neared the front porch. The full force of the storm hit them as they came around the building.

Verret clung to the cart, drenched and battered by Katrina’s power. He watched as the storm hurled shrubs, lawn furniture, and street signs down the road. The street and parking lot between the Correctional Center and the district attorney’s office were covered with water, but this was no placid lake. The ferocious gale churned the water into froth, creating white-capped waves that reminded Verret of the ocean. The water had already flooded the cars parked on the street. If it kept rising, the sheriff’s patrol cars parked on the higher ground of the DA’s lot would be lost, too.

“Let’s move!” Verret’s words were buried in the hurricane’s roar, but Skyles understood. Fighting the wind, they struggled to pull the loaded cart along the front of the building. Verret’s muscles screamed with each step.

Across the street, the top of a tall pine snapped off and careened into the darkness. The tall sweet olive trees that flanked the front steps of the Correctional Center had been ripped from the ground. Saplings and bushes inside a cement planter that skirted the building had been shredded.

The screech of tortured metal rose above the storm’s howl. Verret glanced back as the wind ripped tin roof panels off the police mechanic shop and spiraled them high into the air. Whole sections of the roof hovered for a moment before riding the next squall. On the corner, a utility pole snapped at the base and toppled into the water.

“My God!” Skyles exclaimed.

Verret suppressed the same fear he heard in his deputy’s voice.

Sheets of water washed across the porch, and Verret urged Skyles to keep going. When they reached the front doors, the captain grabbed a door handle to steady himself. Holding on to it with one hand, he pulled a sandbag off the cart with the other. Soaked by the rain, the two-foot-long bag was even heavier than normal. Like a soggy brick, Verret thought, pushing the sandbag against the door with his foot. Skyles used a similar method, dragging bags off the cart and shoving them into position.

They worked slowly but without breaking rhythm, until the last bag was jammed in place against the doors.

“That’s all we can do!” Skyles hollered.

I just hope it’s enough, Verret thought as they began retracing their steps, both of them holding on to the empty cart as they made their way toward the side of the building.

The wind slammed into their backs, pushing them relentlessly, forcing them to speed up. Without the sandbags, the cart was at the mercy of the hurricane. Halfway to the corner, a powerful gust viciously yanked it forward, dragging the men along. Verret lost his footing on the slippery porch and fell to his knees. Skyles, still holding the handle, was flung into the air. The cart and the deputy crashed down onto Verret, savagely twisting his arm. Trapped underneath, Verret swore, certain he had broken a bone. His arm hurt like hell, and the pain intensified as the wind swept the men and the cart into the Center’s wrought-iron railing.

When Skyles rolled off him, Verret pulled his arm free and crawled away from the cart. Grabbing the railing with his good arm, he tried to stand. Another brutal blast hammered him back to his knees.

Suddenly, hands gripped him from behind.

“Are you all right?” Mike Higgins shouted, pulling Verret to his feet.

Verret glanced at the psychiatrist and nodded as Brady Richard helped Skyles to stand. He didn’t know why the two men from Medical were outside, but they all risked being swept off the porch if they remained.

“Let’s get out of here!” Yelling, Verret stumbled to the back of the Correctional Center. No one spoke further until they were safely inside.

“Don’t think I’m not grateful,” Verret said, “but what the hell were you two doing out there?”

Brady shrugged. “Just taking a look.”

“Good thing for you,” Mike added.

Brady agreed with an exaggerated nod. “I thought for sure that railing was gonna give.”

I’m lucky it didn’t, Verret thought, rubbing his arm.

Mike frowned. “Is your arm okay?”

“I’ll be fine,” Verret grumbled. He hoped it wasn’t broken. Katrina had just made landfall. The worst was yet to come.