Page 7 of Hurricane Irene

“Shit,” muttered Luke. “I didn’t even think about that. Those people south of us didn’t even have addresses. They used P.O. boxes. Very few had cell phones. Very few had any form of electricity.”

“Maybe that’s my next big project,” said Grant. “Maybe I need to get with Finley, Celeste, and the others to see if we can get power and water out to those folks.”

“They’ll need some convincing,” said Gabriel, “but Luc and I can help. They’ve known us since we were babies. They should trust us.”

“Can I ask a stupid question?” asked Hex.

“As good as anyone,” smirked Luke. Hex flipped him off and grinned.

“I know we don’t get hurricanes like this every year, I get it. But why keep building in a place that clearly doesn’t want you here? I mean, there have been some doozies come through here in the last fifty years. Why not just leave?”

“It’s actually not a stupid question,” said Antoine. “Like we said earlier. It’s home. People have been asking that question for years. But I would ask the same about people in the earthquake zones. You could fall off the earth with one big one. Be swallowed by a crevice. Taken out to sea by a tsunami. Or the folks in tornado alley. You can count on having at least a handful near where you live or exactly where you live.”

“He’s right,” said Raphael. “We stay because this is our home. You can call it stupid or stubborn or maybe it’s a mix of both. But this is where we were born, raised, lived for generations. If you let a little wind and rain run you off, then what kind of human are you?”

“No offense, brother, but that was a fuck lot more than a little wind and rain. I’ve never seen anything like that,” said Hex.

“Sure you have. It just had a different name,” said Gaspar. “You’ve been in sandstorms where you couldn’t even see your own hand. You’ve suffered through blizzards in the most remote parts of the world, fearing you’d lose your fingers and toes, or worse. You dick.”

The men all chuckled nodding at Gaspar.

“I get it,” smirked Hex. “You’re right. It’s our home and we’ve been fortunate enough to ensure that our homes are safe and stable. Now we need to check on our neighbors.”

“It’s going to be a long process for everyone,” said Luke. “We start with ensuring our homes are good and no disasters here. Grandpa says all is good, I believe him. Once we’re sure of that, we need to check on those closest to us. Those that rely on us for protection and provisions.”

“We need eyes on the businesses at the front of the property,” said Nine. “We’ll take a few of the ATVs, once the water has gone down some, and double check the shop, the spa, Gwen’s place, and the General Store. They should be fine but we’ll have people needing those places soon enough.”

“What do we do with folks who have lost everything?” asked Camille. “We can’t bring everyone back to the property.”

“We’ll find places for them to stay. The shelter downtown is fine according to Molly and Asia. If we have to, we’ll set up extra cots there for folks,” said Ian. Luke nodded at everyone and looked outside.

“If the sun stays out, we’ll see the water recede fairly quickly. If we get more rain, we’re going to be out of luck for today. Until then, we wait and plan.”

CHAPTER FOUR

The category five hurricane had moved north hours earlier, but night still held Belle Fleur in a closed fist.

The storm's center was already grinding toward the northern parishes, leaving its body behind—in black water pushing through ditches and bedrooms, in rain draining from broken rafters, and in trees creaking after hours of punishment.

There was no clean edge between earth and sky. The clouds hung low and bruised, and beneath them the rural community had been flattened into a single plane of wreckage and flood.

The road into town had vanished under water the color of old iron. Fence posts leaned out of it like snapped bones. A feed store roof lay upside down in a soybean field, its rafters webbed with insulation and electric wire.

A church steeple had speared through the porch of a cinder-block house. Sheet metal flapped from live oaks with a slow, dying clank, and every gust carried the sour mixture of mud, gasoline, sewage, pine sap, and things beginning to spoil.

Where homes had stood, there were open floors slick with rain. Walls had been peeled away, leaving beds, refrigerators, family photographs, and kitchen cabinets exposed beneath the blank sky.

One house had been lifted from its piers and crushed against three pecan trees. Another had come apart board by board, its contents scattered over half a mile: a child's yellow rain boot beside a drowned calf, a silverware tray caught in barbed wire, a wedding portrait face-down in the reeds.

The silence after the wind was worse than the storm. It held the drip of water from leaves, the hiss of a propane valve somewhere in the dark, and the distant pounding of someone who might have been trapped or might only have been a broken shutter striking a wall.

Once the last hurricane bands had followed the storm north, the six men of the Gray Wolf LEGACY team left their staging point to survey the damage around Belle Fleur and search for survivors.

Their truck carried them only as far as the northern approach before floodwater swallowed the road and killed the engine. From there they continued on foot along what had once been Parish Road 18, feeling for the pavement with axe handles.

Water pressed against their thighs and tugged at their packs. They wore helmets, life vests, work gloves, and the strained focus of men entering a disaster zone before roads had been cleared or outside rescue units could reach it.

Luke kept one hand on a length of rope clipped from man to man. Behind him came Hex, Cam, Eric, Whiskey, and Grant, each scanning roofs, trees, and upper windows for movement. Their comms, always reliable, had been intermittent all morning. By afternoon it gave only static. They were forced to use the walkie-talkies which were more reliable in the moment.