“This is Lane Turner here in New Orleans,” he began, looking into the lens. He was speaking in a deeply affected, hushed tone. “I know it’s hard to see me, friends. But we’re doing that intentionally. We’re currently on a search and rescue mission with NOPD. They’ve given us a spot on their boat as they search for a desperate family of four.”
He motioned toward Captain Bellau, and the photographer panned to reveal the captain piloting the boat. Bellau ignored the camera. He had one hand on the wheel and the other on the throttle.
“We understand the family called 9-1-1 and reported to dispatchers they were on the roof of their home. We’re on their street now, having come here from the French Quarter. No sign of them just yet.”
The camera panned toward one of the two men at the front of the boat, using the light from his spotlight to enhance the picture. The producer held up her hand in the shape of a C, indicating he’d spoken for thirty seconds. In the studio, the time cue was used as a countdown to reflect how much time was left in a segment. In the field, Lane liked to use it to know how long he’d been talking.
“We’ve learned that the flooding is aggravated by the failure of pumps that, when installed years ago, were intended to stop what’s happening now. That clearly didn’t work. And the water rises. The calls for help keep coming, if people have access to working phones, but it’s tough to get to them.”
He paused again and let the camera do the work, showing the men at the bow scanning the water with their lights. The sounds of the reptiles and insects grew louder as the rain softened now to a fine mist. The producer held up her index finger, indicating the hit was a minute in length.
“Maybe the stop in rainfall, however temporary, will help,” Lane said. “Stem the tide, so to speak, and give first responders like the men with whom we’re traveling the extra time they need to find those in danger. We’ll have another update for you soon. Be sure to check back here on our website and on the Southland news app every chance you get. Reporting for now from New Orleans, Louisiana, I’m Lane—”
“Help!” The call was sharp, desperate. It was a child’s voice.
The echo off the houses and its carry across the surface of the floodwater made it hard to pinpoint the direction. The camera was rolling, the photographer searching the edges of their lines of sight.
“Help!” the voice repeated. “I’m on my roof. I’m over here.”
The lights scanned the darkness, searching the trees, crisscrossing each other across the wide expanse of flowing water. Captain Bellau stopped the engine. He kept his hands on the wheel, moving the rudder to keep the boat away from debris.
The current carried the boat in the same direction and nearly straight down the center of the canal filling the distance between the equally spaced roofs on both sides. Occasionally, the searchlights would bounce off the windows of an exposed second story.
“This is Ken Bellau with New Orleans Police,” the captain called out, his salty voice echoing into the blackness beyond the scope of the lights. “We’re here to help you. Where are you?”
“On my roof.” The voice was so high pitched its owner couldn’t have been more than seven or eight years old. “I’m on my roof. I’m by myself.”
Bellau keyed the mic on his radio. It squawked and he spoke into it. “This is Bellau. SRMU 29. What’s the name on the call slip? We’re in Mid City.”
The radio crackled and dispatch responded, “Williams.”
“Thank you.” Bellau called out, “What’s your name?”
“Kendrick,” said the voice, through what sounded like chattering teeth.
Lane couldn’t tell where the boy’s voice originated. It sounded like it was everywhere and nowhere all at once.
“Kendrick Williams?”
“Yes!” cried the boy. “Kendrick Williams.”
“How old are you?”
“Six.”
“Where’s your daddy? How about your momma?”
There was a long pause. Bellau maneuvered past the canopy of a tree that was half sunken in floodwater. The camera was focused over Bellau’s shoulder now, trying to capture what the captain could see. It wasn’t much. Beams of light died in the surrounding darkness not more than fifty yards from the boat.
Then Kendrick answered, a whimper that hung in the air with the humidity and the mist. “I don’t know.”
“There,” said one of the men at the bow. “Over there. About ten o’clock. I think I see something through those trees.”
“Get your light on it,” said Bellau. “Focus on it. Both of you.”
Both beams trained on the cluster of trees. Bellau started the engine and moved the boat, pushing the throttle forward gently. The boat eased into gear and jumped against the current as he turned it nearly perpendicular to the rush of water.
“I can’t see it,” said Bellau, increasing the speed another notch. “I’ve got to get around those trees.”
Once he’d positioned the boat to the side of the cluster, he cut the engine again. The boat drifted backward, trying to find its way into the current; then he swung the wheel around to get a clear shot at what he thought the lights might show him.
At the edge of the beams’ reach was a tiny figure against the outline of a roof. It was all shades of gray, varying depths of darkness.
“Wave your hands,” he called out.
The figure waved his hands.
“Are the lights in your face, Kendrick? Can you see the lights?”
“Yes. I see them! I see them! Please help me, mister.”
“We’re coming, Kendrick. I’m going to crank the engine. I won’t be able to hear you. Just stay where you are.”
Lane motioned to his photographer. The field producer started her watch. The engine rumbled to life, churning the water, moving the boat toward the boy on the roof.
“We’ve found a survivor,” said Lane. “He’s six years old, and he’s stranded on the roof of his house alone. He told us he doesn’t know where his parents are. His name is Kendrick Williams.”
The camera moved from Lane toward the house. The spots provided enough light to give the picture a grainy glow. The producer held up a closed fist, the signal for fifteen seconds having elapsed.
“We’re getting close,” said Lane. “The rain isn’t more than a fine mist now. The current here is incredibly strong, however. At times it’s as if we’re on one of the raging rapids rides at a theme park.”
The camera shifted to show the wash of water off the boat’s starboard side. The red and white lights underwater gave the wash a bloody appearance in person but more pinkish on digital video. The producer held up her hand cupped in the shape of a C.
“We’re getting close to the child now,” said Lane. “Captain Ken Bellau and his crew are intent on rescuing him. The call came in more than an hour ago. It’s taken us that long to navigate the rough waters to this point.”
The camera focused on the roof. The dark shapes drew into focus under the glare of the handheld spotlight. One of the lights was off, as a first responder readied himself to pull Kendrick to safety. He was balanced on the bow, crouching, held in place by a hook and line that kept him attached to the boat should something go wrong.
The line was taut as the officer held out his hands, wiggling his fingers to welcome Kendrick aboard. He was coaxing the child to move from his safe perch inches above the rising water that lapped at his feet on the gently sloping roof.
Kendrick squinted against the bright spotlight that kept him in view. He wore the broad smile of someone too close to an open oven. He was dressed in cotton pajamas that clung to his thin body. He sat cross-legged on the roof, rocking gently. But Kendrick wasn’t getting up. He wasn’t warming to the rescuer’s outstretched arms.
“You’re going to have to go get him,” said Bellau. The camera moved to put him in frame as he called out to the child, “Kendrick, buddy, I need you to stand up and walk toward the boat.”
“I’m scared,” said Kendrick
, shielding his eyes from the light. “It’s hard to see. I don’t want to fall in the water like my daddy and momma.”
“Turn off the light,” instructed Bellau.
The officer holding the light flipped a switch, and they were again bathed in darkness. Lane widened his eyes, trying to adjust. He spoke softly into the microphone, as much out of respect for the work of the first responders as for the heightened sense of urgency it gave his report.
“We’re close to Kendrick now,” he said. “The poor child—alone, cold, and frightened—is too scared to move from his place atop the roof of his family home. Water is everywhere. It’s dark, it’s dangerous, and it very well may have taken the lives of his mother and father. I’ll be silent now as we watch this unfold together.”
The producer gave him a thumbs-up, and then all eyes were on Kendrick. The boy had risen to his feet. His tiny body trembled, his pajamas tracing his soft belly and spindly arms. He took one hesitant step toward the officer, who had one foot out of the boat and the other ankle-deep on the roof.
Kendrick took a second step. And a third. By the fourth, he had his tiny hands outstretched, grabbing for the officer, who swept him up in his arms and then quickly slid back into the boat.
The man kept his arms around Kendrick’s shivering body. Kendrick buried his head in the man’s chest. Lane couldn’t tell if the child was sobbing or trembling. It was likely both.
“Is there anyone else here, Kendrick?” asked Bellau. “Is anyone else with you?”
Lane recalled the captain saying the call slip indicated four survivors on the roof. He glanced back at the empty roof serving as little more than a shrinking island perch for an orphaned boy.
“No,” Kendrick said meekly. Lane wouldn’t have understood him if not for the adamant shake of his head. “They’re gone. They fell in the water.”
Bellau had the boat in reverse, backing the boat away from the roof and back toward the main current.
“Who is they?” he asked with his hands on the wheel. “Who fell in?”
“My brother first,” said Kendrick, his teeth chattering. “He slipped. My momma dove in to get him. Then my daddy tried to get them both.”
Nobody, not even the captain, knew what to say. The camera was still rolling. This private, emotional moment for a child who’d just lost everything he’d ever known was being recorded for transmission to televisions, smartphones, tablets, websites, and apps all over the world. Lane had no doubt it would go viral.
This is what happens in disasters, he thought to himself for the first time in his long career.
This was what really happened. The cameras were rolling when people experienced the worst moments of their lives. They were recording history, sure. But sometimes that history was incredibly personal. A wave of nausea crept into Lane’s gut.
He nudged his photographer, who had the camera pointed at the boy, and whispered, “Turn it off.”
The producer whipped her head toward him, her eyebrows angled down with confused anger. “What?” she asked under her breath.
“Stop rolling,” said Lane, making a “cut” sign by whipping his hand back and forth in front of his neck. “Cut it off.”
The photographer hesitated and offered the same, albeit less aggressive, glare as the field producer. He kept rolling.
“Why?” mouthed the producer.
“This is too much,” said Lane. “It’s too much.”
The field producer searched his eyes. Her glare softened and she motioned for the photographer to turn off the camera. It was then, unprompted, that Kendrick started talking again.
“I cried,” he said. “I cried a lot. I asked them where they went. I said their names. I yelled. I’m not supposed to yell, but I did. I asked them to come back.”
Nobody else in the boat spoke. Nobody interrupted him or consoled him. They let him talk. It was like the spigot was turned and the words came freely now.
“I asked them to come back,” he said, his eyes dancing from person to person. “I was by myself. I don’t like being by myself. I don’t like the dark. I have a nightlight in my room. It’s blue. It helps me sleep.”
Lane had never had an affinity for children. He wasn’t married and had no plans for a family. His life was his work. He was his job; his job was him. But in this moment, in this profound and raw moment, he wanted to get up from his seat and take the child and hold him. He wanted to cry with Kendrick. He wanted to make the child feel safe. He resisted the urge and swallowed the taste of bile that had crept up into his mouth.
“I couldn’t sleep on the roof,” Kendrick said. “I tried to sleep. I wanted to sleep. I’m sleepy. But I didn’t want to be asleep if Momma came back.”
Kendrick sighed and laid his head against the officer who’d pulled him into the boat. Nobody spoke for what felt like hours, but was only minutes. The hum and bubble of the motor churning through the water and the distant sounds of sirens were the only accompaniment for the ride amongst floating and sinking debris.
“We’re going to take Kendrick to a shelter,” said Bellau. “We’re out of service until we get him there.”
Bellau didn’t mention Lane by name. Lane knew it was directed at him and his crew, though.
“Thanks for the access, Captain,” he said, faking a smile. “We’ll get off at the shelter and leave you to your work. We’ve got enough here.”
“Suit yourself,” said Bellau. “It’s going to be a long night for all of us either way.”
CHAPTER 15
April 5, 2026
Los Angeles, California
“You’re going to drown yourself,” said Danny. “Ease up there. You’re not going to run out.”
Maggie was lapping up the water in her bowl as if she’d been for a walk in the Mojave Desert. The sound of her tongue curling scoopfuls into her maw and the spray of it onto the linoleum tile flooring let Danny know he’d been away from home too long.
He was squatting next to her, petting her coat as she drank. “Don’t drink too much,” he warned. “You’ll get bloat.”
She stopped drinking and looked up at him with her big dark eyes as if she understood him. She licked her chops and then went back to work on the bowl.
He apologized to her again for being gone for most of the day. He didn’t like leaving her. He hadn’t spent more than a double shift away from her since the day he’d adopted her for twenty-five bucks from a shelter…
He named her Maggie. It was better than Waggie, which was his first thought, because of how much she wagged her tail when he played with her, rubbed her belly, or took her for long, leashless walks in Santa Monica or Malibu. She was a good dog, a protective dog, who Danny knew in his gut would protect him with her life.
He’d protect her with his too. Somewhere in his gut, he felt like he had.
Maggie switched from the water bowl to the one filled with leftover diner scraps. She gobbled them with her snout buried deep in the mixture of bacon, burger bits, French fries, and kitchen grease.
Danny slapped her on her hind end, said, “Clean your dishes when you’re finished,” and took the few steps it took to cross his efficiency apartment. He found the television remote where he’d left it and punched on the thrift-store thirteen-inch flat panel he’d scored for twenty-five bucks. It wasn’t 4k or 5k or whatever the technology was that made newer sets more expensive and ones like his virtually worthless.
“Another man’s trash,” he’d said to the gum-chomping clerk when buying the set. She’d ignored him and handed him his change.
He plopped onto his bed, a Murphy bed that he could flip up and hide in the wall behind a pair of French doors, and turned up the volume. He was watching a replay of a live report from news anchor Lane Turner.
Turner left his microphone and waded away from his camera to help a woman. It was riveting television. Minutes later, when it was over, a news anchor for a twenty-four-hour cable network referenced the report as being from a Los Angeles television station.
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br /> The anchor then talked over images of the flooding in New Orleans, explaining how all but one of the pumps built to withstand flooding and alleviate the pressure on walls and gates had failed. They had been unable to handle the amount of rain that had fallen on the city within hours. Estimates from the National Weather Service put the twenty-four-hour rainfall totals at more than thirty-five inches. The city was a bowl and it was overflowing.
Following the coverage of the flooding, there was an update on the crash of Pacific East Flight 2929. The weather over southwestern Florida had cleared enough that search crews were able to recover the black box only seventy-five miles from the shoreline. They were hopeful it would provide a definitive cause in the crash that had killed everyone on board.
Danny hit the mute button on the television. Maggie looked up from her dish, apparently puzzled by the silence. She’d scooted the bowl with her muzzle from one side of the small kitchen to the other.
“We need to check something,” he said to Maggie. “That last story made me remember I have a souvenir from my long, strange conversation with our sworn enemy Derek.”
When he said the name, Maggie cocked her head to one side. She licked her nose and returned to the bowl, seeking out the last of the grease.
Danny pulled the voice recorder from his pocket. He clicked a rewind button until an LCD display showed the recorded track number as 1. He pressed play and a timer began at zero. One second. Two seconds. Three. There was a rustling sound and then Derek’s familiar voice.
“This is a question and answer session with jail inmate Clint Anthony, booking number 4492302. The time right now is four thirty in the afternoon, Pacific Standard Time, Saturday, June 21, 2025.”
Danny calculated on his fingers; the recording was ten months old. What did a jail inmate have to do with Derek and his company? Better yet, what did any of it have to do with him? He pressed play.
The Alt Apocalypse {Book 3): Torrent Page 17