New Orleans, 2005, After. Episode X: Sleepless Nights and Explosions
New Orleans, 2005, After. Episode X: Sleepless Nights and Explosions
Time and memories following The Storm are disjointed and refuse, of their own, to follow chronologically. Thus we find ourselves entering the night before The Escape. Steamy, pitch black, mosquitoes and exhaustion. I'd paired with someone I barely knew, in the old pre-K days, to plan and execute the escape. He was tense, his senses chemically enhanced. He also had a gun.
He'd sit, all during the night, alone in the patio watching and waiting. We knew that many had armed themselves, and many more were desperate to leave. I'd come into possession of a vintage pickup truck, bright red, with a dubious engine and flat tires. But it was garaged and it was secret. We'd spent two entire days getting it ready to make a run out of the city (a further episode in itself) and it was finally gassed, inflated and we were counting the hours until dawn.
We'd very quietly loaded our belongings, what little we still had, into the truck. I was trying to get some last bit of sleep and had lit my remaining candles. The windows and doors were closed because of the insane and voracious insect life and I'd collapsed onto the couch wearing only boxers. I'd finally drifted off, wet with sweat, when a tremendous rattling and shaking of the rear doors jerked me awake. Dazed, my first thoughts were that intruders were trying to get into the house. I jumped up yelling, grabbed my clothes, tried to pull on pants as I ran out through the patio, down the black walkway and out onto the street, barefooted and stunned.
That's when I realized that it wasn't intruders but an explosion and fire. The sky was red and orange toward the River, bright across several blocks. The concussion had shaken the house. There'd be no more sleep, just the wait. In the dark.
To be continued . . .
Time and memories following The Storm are disjointed and refuse, of their own, to follow chronologically. Thus we find ourselves entering the night before The Escape. Steamy, pitch black, mosquitoes and exhaustion. I'd paired with someone I barely knew, in the old pre-K days, to plan and execute the escape. He was tense, his senses chemically enhanced. He also had a gun.
He'd sit, all during the night, alone in the patio watching and waiting. We knew that many had armed themselves, and many more were desperate to leave. I'd come into possession of a vintage pickup truck, bright red, with a dubious engine and flat tires. But it was garaged and it was secret. We'd spent two entire days getting it ready to make a run out of the city (a further episode in itself) and it was finally gassed, inflated and we were counting the hours until dawn.
We'd very quietly loaded our belongings, what little we still had, into the truck. I was trying to get some last bit of sleep and had lit my remaining candles. The windows and doors were closed because of the insane and voracious insect life and I'd collapsed onto the couch wearing only boxers. I'd finally drifted off, wet with sweat, when a tremendous rattling and shaking of the rear doors jerked me awake. Dazed, my first thoughts were that intruders were trying to get into the house. I jumped up yelling, grabbed my clothes, tried to pull on pants as I ran out through the patio, down the black walkway and out onto the street, barefooted and stunned.
That's when I realized that it wasn't intruders but an explosion and fire. The sky was red and orange toward the River, bright across several blocks. The concussion had shaken the house. There'd be no more sleep, just the wait. In the dark.
To be continued . . .
posted by Piety Research at 1:22 PM
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