“Seriously, Dub,” she said. “Nothing to worry about. It’s not even a warning.”
“Yet,” said Barker.
The buzzer sounded and the players returned to the court. The crowd, which had lulled into a low chatter, roared as NC State inbounded the ball. A series of passes took the shot clock down to five seconds and then the Pack missed a short jumper.
Boxell rebounded the ball for the Bruins. The student section at the baseline erupted, and Boxell fired a rocket downcourt to Helms. Helms stopped at the three-point line, checked his feet, and drilled another basket. The Bruins were up by one with two and a half minutes to play.
Dub was jumping up and down. His throat was sore now from the loud cheering and chanting he’d employed throughout the course of the game.
A lifelong basketball fan, who’d been a good high school player, he’d never been to a Final Four. It was a dream and, when his Bruins had earned a spot in his girlfriend’s hometown, he made it his mission to go.
Now he was here, sitting near the court, his team winning its semifinal game with time running out. He was, as his west Texas grandfather would have said, happy as a pig in slop.
Dub pumped his fists as NC State missed its next shot badly and Boxell grabbed another rebound. He ran the court and passed it to the point guard, who in turn lobbed it back to Boxell, and he slammed it home. NC State took its final time-out with two minutes left.
The student section and the yellow and blue clad corner of the Superdome were thunderously loud. The team was up three and had all of the momentum.
“No complaints about the time-out?” Dub said to Keri, cupping his hand around his mouth so she could hear him.
She winked and adjusted her cap on her head. “Not now that we’re winning. This is fun.”
Music blared over the loudspeakers, and the oversized display over center court replayed the last several Bruin highlights, further inciting the raucous crowd there to see their team advance to the final.
They weren’t supposed to get this far. Despite their talent, they hadn’t played up to expectations. Throughout the tournament they’d been underdogs. They’d defied the odds. Round by round they’d survived and advanced.
That was what tournament basketball was about, Dub had explained to Keri during the long flight from LAX to MSY: survive and advance. He explained that UCLA didn’t have to be the best team in the country to win the tournament. They just had to be the better team on the court each time they played.
Keri was sandwiched between Dub and Barker on the plane. Though Dub had offered her his aisle seat, she’d declined. He was six feet three. Sitting in the middle wouldn’t be fair for him. But given the conversation during the length of the four-and-a-half-hour flight, which centered on tournament history, she’d confided in Dub that she should have taken the aisle.
“Survival,” Barker had echoed amidst chomps of mini pretzels, “is all that matters. As long as you’re alive, you have a chance.”
“Sounds easy enough,” Keri had said.
“Survival is never easy,” Dub had replied. “It’s the little things, the unexpected obstacles that are the most threatening. When you least expect it, things turn, the clock hits zero, and it’s over.”
Now Dub watched the seconds tick down in the semifinal and the slumping body language of the NC State players. He saw the dejection on the faces of the lip-biting fans. It was in sharp contrast to the elation of the Bruins and the energy of the players on the court. It was the difference between survival and its antithesis. It was a fine line.
The final buzzer sounded and UCLA won. For several minutes the students chanted and cheered. They high-fived the players as they moved toward the locker room. And then ushers came to escort the students out.
Their tickets were only good for UCLA’s game. They’d have to watch the second semifinal, the University of Houston versus the University of Florida, on television. They shuffled toward the exits.
Dub followed Keri, his hands gently on her shoulders as she guided them up the steps and out of the arena. Barker was close behind them.
When they reached the concourse and the thinning crowds, the smells of overpriced fried food and spilled beer filling the air, Barker lamented the absence of their friend Michael.
“I wish he’d been here,” he said. “He loves basketball every bit as much as we do.”
“He wouldn’t have liked the noise or the crowds,” said Dub as they inched their way to the large glass doors that opened to the outside.
“True,” said Barker. “But remind me to get him a T-shirt.”
Michael, Dub, and Barker were roommates. Michael was on the spectrum. He was high-functioning and did well in small groups with familiar people. He didn’t, however, warm to strangers quickly or remain calm in crowded, loud places.
“I bet he was watching,” said Keri.
Dub’s phone buzzed in his pocket and he pulled it out. He had three new text messages, all of them from Michael. He held up his device and shook it.
“He was,” said Dub. “He’s hyped. And he asked for a T-shirt.”
Keri and Barker laughed.
When they reached the door, it was then they saw it was raining outside. It was a heavy curtain of rain that made it difficult to see much beyond the immediate plaza outside the arena doors.
“Nothing to worry about, huh?” said Dub, pushing the door open and holding it for Keri.
She stepped out into the thickly humid evening, rain splashing off the concrete. Tucking her hair up underneath her hat, she tugged it lower on her head. Then she zipped up her white and yellow track suit jacket and motioned for Dub and Barker to join her.
“It’s just a little rain,” she offered. “You won’t melt.”
Dub flipped his hoodie over his head and tugged on the drawstrings. It was a useless exercise. The cotton would be soaked within seconds.
“It’s not melting I’m worried about,” he said and stepped into the pelting rain.
CHAPTER 4
April 4, 2026
New Orleans, Louisiana
Lane Turner adjusted his custom-molded earpiece and straightened his tie. Then he raised his phone, turned on the camera function so that the display showed a reflection of himself, and gauged his appearance.
He straightened a couple of hairs, checked his tie, then slipped the device into the breast pocket of his suit jacket. His mic was already clipped to the lapel.
“We have an umbrella lead?” he asked his newscast producer, who was in the production booth back in Los Angeles. He was referring to leading the newscast with two stories and not the downpour beating upon New Orleans. “We tease the plane crash latest and then get to the game here?”
The primary news anchor at LA’s number two television station stood under a cheap pop-up tent that kept him dry, for the most part. He was outside the Superdome, waiting for his newscast to begin. Turner was there with his own field producer and a photojournalist, along with the station’s sports director, Tank Melton, who was getting postgame reaction from the players and coaches. He also had a photographer with him and would join Turner on camera later in the newscast.
“Yes,” the newscast producer answered. “You’re off the top with video of the search for survivors. Then we wipe to highlights from the game, and then you’re on camera for the hello. We have your package ready to roll. We’ll hit a quick weather with an outlook for Monday, you’ll throw to our reporter in Florida for the latest on the plane, and then you’ll toss it back to the studio and Courtney Leigh for the rest of the day’s news.”
Turner acknowledged her and asked his field producer if she’d added the last couple of sound bites he’d gotten with UCLA fans before the game.
“I did,” she replied.
He smiled and adjusted his jacket.
“The crowd’s starting to file out pretty good now,” said the photojournalist, who was manning the tripod-mounted digital camera aimed at Turner’s mug. “If they get rowdy, I’ll
zoom in and frame you tight. That’ll keep them out of the shot.”
Over his shoulder, Turner saw the growing throngs of fans weathering the rain, figuring they wouldn’t be a problem. They’d be more concerned with getting out of the downpour and into an Uber to make their way to Bourbon Street or elsewhere in the French Quarter. That was where he’d be heading as soon as he had a chance. He’d started his day with beignets and chicory-enhanced coffee at Café Du Monde. Might as well end it with a hurricane and ogling at Pat O’Briens.
The producer spoke in his ear. “Thirty seconds.”
Turner repeated the countdown to his photographer. The field producer was on the phone, listening to the control room. She gave a thumbs-up to Lane and then motioned for him to adjust his tie knot. He obliged and she gave him another thumbs-up.
“Open is rolling,” said the producer. “Stand by.”
“Stand by,” repeated Turner. The timpani-heavy theme music crescendoed. He cleared his throat and the field producer pointed at him.
“Terror in the sky turns into the search for survivors in the sea. We’ll have the latest information on the Los Angeles-bound Pacific East Flight 2929 that crashed into the Gulf,” said Turner. He was looking at an iPad slowly rolling his script from bottom to top, a portable teleprompter that helped him stay on track. “Also tonight, we’re live from New Orleans, where the UCLA men’s basketball team has taken another step closer to a national championship.”
He could hear the audio from the game in his ear as he glanced at the prompter one last time and then eyed the camera lens with his trademark “concerned and credible, yet approachable and affable” gaze.
“And that is where we begin our newscast on this Saturday evening. Hello, Southland, I’m Lane Turner, reporting tonight from the Big Easy, New Orleans, Louisiana, where the semifinal matchup for the UCLA Bruins was anything but easy. They went down to the wire against the heavily favored North Carolina State Wolfpack.”
Turner shot a quick glance at the advancing teleprompter, pausing for a breath. He then mentioned the many fans that had traveled east for the big game then introduced a taped piece, called a package, he’d spent much of the day putting together with the help of his photographer and producer. When the piece ended, a minute and fifteen seconds later, he was again on camera.
“For many of those fans, they are leaving happy but drenched. As you can see behind me right now, the skies have opened and we are under a flash flood watch here. Let’s check in now with meteorologist Monica Muldrow for how the weather might impact travel here and Monday night’s championship game.”
Turner stared into the camera, and Monica Muldrow began her forecast. “It doesn’t look good,” she said. “That flash flood watch is likely to become a warning, Lane. Of course, here in Los Angeles, the weather is sunny and a temperate seventy-four degrees with no chance of precipitation. But as we move the map and zero in on Texas and Louisiana, we can see this upper level low-pressure system is intensifying. This is the same low that created the violent storm that brought down Flight 2929. And what we have here is a system that isn’t moving. It’s just regenerating line after line of intense storms with heavy rainfall. They are moving east to west, as all systems do this time of year.”
Lane half-listened to the forecast while he checked the paper scripts he held in his hands. His field producer had paused the iPad at the beginning of the next story. He pressed his earpiece more snugly into his ear as Muldrow finished her forecast.
“Be careful out there, Lane, and stay dry,” she concluded.
“Thanks, Monica,” said Lane with a smile that quickly evaporated as he transitioned to a more serious story. “You heard Monica mention the rain falling in New Orleans is part of the same low-pressure system that took a Pacific East crew by surprise late yesterday. The aircraft, carrying two hundred and ten people aboard, lost communication and then altitude before crashing into the Gulf some seventy-five miles off the Florida coast. Joining us now from Miami is Southland reporter Damion Smith. Damion, we understand federal investigators are there, as are some family members of those on board the plane.”
There was a brief pause and then Smith began the live portion of his report. Turner could hear it in his earpiece.
“It’s too early to know an exact cause of the crash,” said Smith, “but we do know that what was an active search and rescue mission has, within the last few minutes, become a recovery mission. That means authorities believe all two hundred ten passengers and crew aboard Flight 2929 are dead.”
There was another brief pause. Then the taped portion of Smith’s report began. In his ear, Turner heard a woman’s wail. It sent shivers along his spine. “It is unmistakable,” said Smith, “the sound of a mother learning her child is gone, killed in a senseless plane crash for which there are no answers. At least not yet.”
Next came the voice of the spokesperson for Pacific East Air. “We extend our deepest condolences to the families and loved ones of those aboard Flight 2929,” he said, clearly reading from a prepared statement. “We too have lost people close to us, and we grieve with you.”
“The plane, a Boeing 737-300, was en route to Los Angeles International Airport from Miami,” came the reporter’s voice again. “The twenty-three-hundred-mile journey began normally, we’re told. There was no cause for alarm as it reached its cruising altitude.”
A spokesperson for the National Transportation Safety Board was next. She was answering a question from a news conference held earlier in the day.
“At some point,” she said, “we know the pilots communicated an issue with weather. They were instructed to alter their flight plan to accommodate the sudden change in conditions off Florida’s southwestern Gulf Coast. Shortly after those initial adjustments, air traffic control noted significant anomalies with respect to the aircraft’s altitude and speed.”
Smith again. “Investigators have not clarified what those anomalies were, and they have not yet released an official manifest containing the names of the ill-fated passengers and crew. Families here are awaiting those answers, as are we. Reporting live from Miami, Florida, I’m Damion Smith. Lane?”
“Thanks for that troubling update, Damion,” said Turner. “We’ll return here to New Orleans with game highlights and the latest postgame reaction from the Bruins’ players and coaches later in the newscast when Tank Melton joins me with sports. For now, let’s head back to the Southland and my colleague Courtney Leigh. Courtney?”
“Thank you, Lane,” said Courtney. “Tensions are mounting—”
Turner pulled out his earpiece and disconnected the thin cable that attached to his cell phone. He hung up the phone, which had provided the audio of the newscast, stuffing it into his jacket pocket. Then he pinched the small alligator clip at his lapel and handed the lavalier microphone to his producer. He turned around to face the arena and the falling rain.
“Whew,” he said, exhaling, “that’s some rain there. Not sure how we’re going to get out of here without getting wet.”
“Uh, Lane,” the producer said, the lilt of a question in her inflection, “we have another segment. It’s…” She asked the newscast producer how long they had until the next segment. “It’s fourteen minutes from now. You might want to keep your mic on and be listening to the newscast.”
He waved her off and checked his watch. “I’m good. Plenty of time. I want to soak in the environment. I don’t often get this chance, you know, being cooped up inside the station.”
The producer, a woman whose name escaped Turner, crinkled her nose and narrowed her eyes. “Okay,” she said, drawing out the second half of the word. “I guess that’s fine. But control may need to talk with you and—”
Turner turned his whole body toward her, flashing her his billboard smile. “That’s why you’re here. You can talk with the control room and let me know what they need. Good?”
She pressed her lips into a flat smile, blinking back her frustration. “Sure.”
T
urner could taste the chicory on his own breath. He hadn’t had anything to eat since his breakfast overlooking Jackson Square from his undersized chair and table at the edge of Decatur Street. He tugged on his belt, pulling up his suit pants to his navel.
“What are you thinking for dinner?” he asked. “Po’boys? Jambalaya? Crawfish?”
“You’re just listing every stereotypical New Orleans dish you can think of, aren’t you?” asked the photographer.
“Rice and red beans?” Turner added without answering the question. “I’m thinking Brennan’s for breakfast tomorrow. A little bananas Foster? I hear they do it tableside.”
The producer sighed. “I hadn’t given it much thought. I’m kinda focused on the newscast right now. Maybe you should be doing that too, Lane?”
“Maybe.” He shrugged. “But I did a lot of research on the food scene here. Spent a fair amount of time on Google looking up where to eat. There are many good options.”
“I was just going to eat at the hotel,” said the photographer. “I’m exhausted. We were up at seven this morning. That’s five o’clock on the West Coast.”
“I’ll probably grab something at the hotel too,” said the producer. “They’ve got twenty-four-hour room service.”
Turner raised his hands, waving them off. “Suit yourself. I’m getting something that sticks to my ribs. Then maybe I’ll hit Bourbon Street. I’ve never had a Hurricane.”
“We’ve got seven minutes,” said the producer. “Tank is on his way out right now. Apparently the second game is getting ready to tip off.”
Turner sighed and dialed the most recent number on his cell phone. He plugged in the cord that connected to his earpiece and slid the molded plastic back into his ear. Then he motioned for the mic, which the producer took from the photographer and handed to him.
The newscast was in the middle of the main weather segment. Weather in southern California was a joke. Unless they were in wildfire season or mudslide season, there was virtually no difference in the forecast from one week to the next. Lane Turner was convinced he could be the chief forecaster if they’d let him. He was convinced a five-year-old could be the chief forecaster if they’d let one try.
The Alt Apocalypse {Book 3): Torrent Page 3