The Storm: August 29, 2005

To this day there are still 135 bodies officially missing from the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina.

“The LORD is slow to anger, abounding in love and forgiving sin and rebellion. Yet he does not leave the guilty unpunished; he punishes the children for the sin of the parents to the third and fourth generation.”

Numbers 12:18

For years the prophets and preachers had wailed in Jackson Square that soon, very soon, the wrath of the vengeful, loving, merciful Almighty would descend onto the city of New Orleans and wash away all that was unholy and forsaken. The prophesied doom grew in the Gulf, as meteorologists and mayors monitored with fearful anticipation. It gathered strength and set its sights on the Crescent City. But people only murmured of its power. No one paid heed. By the time the mandatory evacuations were declared on August 28th, it was too late.

The sun vanished, and the sky turned black. Trees along the beaches bent until their roots ripped from the earth. Wrath had come, and there was nowhere on earth to hide from its fury. For the souls trapped in the streets of the Seventh and Ninth Wards, it was as though the Great Flood had returned but this time there was no Ark. They had been judged, and Noah had deemed them unworthy.

The tides rose with swift fury, consuming history and homes, leaving nothing but molding studs and stained foundations in their wake. Down on Humanity Street, a casino barge crashed into an abandoned shotgun home. Shrimp boats drifted into yards. People clambered to rooftops and to hotel balconies. Category three winds split buildings in two. Waters opened above-ground tombs and crypts, then swept the soulless bodies away, leaving only open caskets that bobbed in the waves like enormous corks. Currents pulled women and children from the panicked grip of horrified husbands and fathers.

People tried to survive. They huddled together in fear and prayed for the end. They prayed to be rescued. They prayed for help. Then they waited in agony and silence for answers that did not come. The only sound that met them was the roar of winds and raging waters. Over fifty of the city hurricane surge protections were breached and failed. The levees broke. Salvation poured out as though the fire of Sodom and Gomorrah had been replaced by rain. Soon more than eighty percent of the great city was under water.

On the edge of Magazine Street, there was a house that no one tried to see. It was beautiful, very old, and very well maintained. But the family that it belonged to was not a family passersby spoke openly about. It was a house where people focused on the sidewalk as they passed. The older Dominicans would often say there was a dark spirit on the sprawling estate. That day, as the winds howled, the doors were heaved open, and into the rage of the storm burst two young men, both covered in blood. The two of them, not yet twenty years old, braced themselves against the gusting wind. One of them, a lean, hateful-looking boy, carried a small girl, maybe seven, in his arms.

She was tiny, with long, dark hair. She had earplugs in her ears and her eyes were closed. One of his hands was pressing her head against his chest to keep her safe. On that same hand of his were several streaks of blood. The other young man also had crimson stains on his face and shirt. They tensed for a brief moment to brace against the carnage and then stepped into the torrential downpour as the wind howled and the city collapsed on itself.

The two young men moved as fast as they could in the nightmare as their faces were burned and torn open by the sheer force of the rain. The other young man, strong, olive-skinned, with unkempt hair, grimaced in agony but stepped in front of his companions and pressed forward. The little girl screamed out their names in genuine terror, but it was almost unheard. The lean young man held her as tightly as he could and continued on. For one brief moment, he dared to turn around and look back at the house. When he turned, his eyes were wide with a wild look of uncertain terror and an unfathomable sadness. Still, they pressed on alone, further into the heart of the storm.

In time, the rainfall did stop. But the damage was done. Entire districts had been washed away. Buildings older than countries were gone. Water stood three stories high. Somewhere downtown, a car managed to survive underwater for a brief time. Its horn sounded and echoed out into the dark water like a lost whale. Bodies drifted in the streets, bloated and grotesque. People gathered on rooftops, spray-painting cries for help onto the shingles. Football stadiums filled with starving children and sweltering bodies. Infants cried for food and baths that never came. Bridges and shelters overflowed with desperate survivors. Church steeples fell into the water as hands lifted in desperate prayer. 

And somewhere on the edge of the madness, the young men escaped the calamity with the little girl still in their arms.