The Storm

The Storm

By Larry Edward Parks

©202 3 Larry Edward Parks Printed by BT Johnson Publishing www.btjohnsonpublishing.com 1-866-260-9563

Unless stated, Scripture quotes are New King James Version. THE NEW KING JAMES VERSION, (NKJV) Copyright © 1982, Thomas Nelson, Inc. Cover Design By: Timothy Johnson info@BTJohnsonPublishing.com Photo: Courtesy of Brandon Morgan & www.unsplash.com

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FOREWORD

I have been sitting on this mystery for several years now at the earnest request from two, true, American heroes. I have kept my promise as a personal favor to them not to publish this story, which has been very hard for me as a now seasoned journalist. This story has been hidden from public knowledge since 1965 . If published, it would have caused these men to have forfeited their lives, simply because of my pen and ink. A very poor trade-off indeed, not only because I would have been responsible for their deaths, but also because of my intense admiration for them both. I can now freely present the events that led up to this discovery without the fear of perilous consequences to their lives, because they have both now passed on. They asked me to wait for such a time, and I was true to my promise. I am now free to have this go to print. Without being too sentimental about it, I can truly say that they both changed my life and continue to do so to this very day, as you shall see. I would earnestly hope that you too, dear reader, will remember our “hidden heroes ” that have risked their lives, and at times forfeited them, so that we may all live quiet and peaceable lives. Hidden heroes have always been out there, and for the sake of freedom and liberty, were caught in the middle of impossible situations. I have great appreciation and admiration for them all. Warriors such as these have had to live out their lives in obscurity, fear, and anonymity. If you are one of them, I salute you. I would like to remind us all that unknown to us, while we live out our normal daily lives, there have been intense and dangerous secret events taking place that would shock and

traumatize most folks. We have all been hardened by the news, the movies, and the internet. We have heard so much about shocking disclosures, persecuted whistle-blowers, and sad developments, that many have become numb to much of the news. My hope in writing this story is that you as the reader will become aware of the plight of those who have actually endured such things, and that it will cause us all to value every day as a gift from God. May this story open your understanding, as it did mine. Not only did it open my understanding, but it has challenged me to live life to its fullest every day. May you read with interest and intrigue. I trust that you will enjoy reading THE STORM .

Zachary A. B. Taylor

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Chapter One ………… The Storm ……………………… ... ……… 9 Chapter Two ………… Morning Flight ………………………… 1 7 Chapter Three ……… .Major Peterson ……………………… . … 21 Chapter Four ……… ...North On Highway 19 ………… . … ... … 2 5 Chapter Five ………… Ruby, Louisiana …………………… .. … 2 9 Chapter Six ………… ..Henry …………………………………… 3 3 Chapter Seven ……… .Morning Light ……………………… . … 41 Chapter Eight ……… ..Downstream … Fast! ……………… ... … 4 5 Chapter Nine.. ……… The Return ……………………………… 51 Chapter Ten ………… .The Prayer ……………………………… 5 5 Chapter Eleven ……… Henry ’ s Story ……………………… . .. … 61 Chapter Twelve ……… Heading Home ……………………… ...6 5 Chapter Thirteen …… .The Office ……………………… . ……… 6 9 Chapter Fourteen …… .Backtrack ……………………… . ……… 7 3 Chapter Fifteen …… ....Another Run …………………… .. … . … .7 5 Chapter Sixteen …… ....Discovery! …………………………… ..7 7 Chapter Seventeen … ...A Closer Look ……………… . ………… 81 Chapter Eighteen …… .The Truth About Henry ……… . …… .... 91 Chapter Nineteen …… .The Upper Room …………… . ……… ...9 5 Chapter Twenty …… . … Deployment …………………… .. … ....101 Chapter Twenty-One … The Dirty Thirty Is Born ……… . .. .. … .10 5 Chapter Twenty-Two … Captain Bledsoe ……………… . … .. … 10 9

Chapter Twenty-Three … Front And Center ……………… . … 11 3 Chapter Twenty-Four … .The Story Continues ......................... 11 9 Chapter Twenty-Five … ..Mission Details At Last ……… ... … . 12 7 Chapter Twenty-Six …… Deployment …………………… .. … . 1 31 Chapter Twenty-Seven...The Mission At Hand …… . …… .. … 13 7 Chapter Twenty-Eight.....Back At The Base ……………… . … 14 5 Chapter Twenty-Nine … ..Betrayal ………………………… . … 14 7 Chapter Thirty ………… ..The Rescue ………… . …… ... ……… 15 7 Chapter Thirty-One …… .Back To Major Peterson ……… . . … 16 7 Chapter Thirty-Two …… ..Landing At Newark Intl ’…… ... … 16 9 Chapter Thirty-Three …… Face The Music …………… . …… ..17 3

Chapter One

The Storm

A llow me to introduce myself. My name is Zachary Allen Bronson Taylor, which is a very long name for a very small guy. I am presently working as a junior reporter for the Brooklyn Free Press, which sounds impressive, but in truth it’s just a small, downtown newspaper with a loyal group of readers. I love my job and old Brooklyn as well. I’ve been in Brooklyn about nine years now and live in a small apartment on the 15th floor right on 43rd Street. Looking straight out of my window I see the old Armor Building which housed some of the government offices during World War II. After it stayed abandoned for some years, it was converted into an apartment building. Why do I l ove Brooklyn? Maybe it’s the history of the city that intrigues me, or just the energy here. Who knows? 43rd Street is lined with little family shops. There are Italian pizzerias, Armenian shoe shops, Jewish clothing stores, Chinese laundries, Korean grocers, German locksmiths, and Greek restaurants, along with jewelry stores, pawn shops, bookstores, newsstands, antique shops, and every imaginable business that you could think of. When I first moved here it was always my guess as to what accent I would hear when walking into a shop, but the Brooklyn brogue was always present in one form or another.

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43rd is the kind of street where green awnings cast their dark shadows onto hot sidewalks in our long, mid-summer days, and the familiar sound of the brass doorbells ring every time the doors are opened. Along the street there are hard to pronounce names stenciled with gold lettering on wood framed, glass doors that open to narrow staircases leading up to some mysterious professional offices. I always imagined some old guy wearing a green visor sitting behind some huge oak desk with a squeaky chair and filing cabinets and papers scattered about. Probably just my imagination, but somehow, I know it's true! I’ve gotten to know most of the shopkeepers and some high-profile clients that frequent those businesses. They are some of the most interesting people you’ll ever meet. Many of the old shops were passed down from generation to generation, and now great-grand-children practice the trades their parents and grandparents did before them. There are stories of relatives coming to America with the hopes of a new life in the new world called America. And there are the on-going stories of love and hate relationships between the Irish, Germans, Jews, and Italians, not to mention the problems between the Chinese and Korean entrepreneurs. The Japanese did not fare so well, as many were still in internment camps after the war. And even the newly transplanted, old world immigrants, now being granted citizenship, viewed them with suspicion for their part in the war. They had their place in the sun, however (no pun intended), when Japanese restaurants made a foothold, but not without trouble. It seemed as if every nation under the sun was trying to survive this new America and make a good life, enduring hardships and the

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harsh, East Coast winters. All of this palled in comparison to the horrors of war they had endured in their beloved homelands that they had left. Stories abounded of parents escaping the devastation of the world wars and being processed at Ellis Island with very little money and living out of their suitcases. Many were established professional people in their own countries, but lost everything during the early wars and famines, such as the “Potato Wars” in Ireland. Some families were separated when some family members did not get past processing and were sent back home because of some sickness, or criminal record, or improper papers. It was just the way it was in those days. Everyone knew the rules, but it still did not make it any easier. Can you imagine having to turn around and go back across the wide Atlantic in some old rusty ship and return to where you had just left, separating from family and friends? Some had to work on-board, even in their sickness, just to pay for the return trip fare. What would you go back to? How sad! Many of those that did get processed through Ellis Island started businesses right here in Brooklyn with what little money they had, or through borrowed money from hard money lenders, and occasionally bookies and Mafioso bosses, that charged impossible interest rates. They were all true survivors, and that toughness and passion is what, In my opinion, makes them great. They settled their differences, got work, built businesses on a shoestring, paid off the loan sharks, and put their kids through college and brought them back into the family business. In my book, they are hero’s , every one of them! Anytime I get to whining about my lot in life, I just have

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to recall the stories I have heard and chastise myself for being such a softie!

Did I mention that I love my job? I had just graduated journalism school and was fortunate to snag the job at the “Press” the following week after graduation. Lucky me. Some of my buddies are still busing tables. I had answered a small add in the “Press” itself. I remember the strange, simple ad. It read, “Wanted, rookie writer/reporter for the Brooklyn Free Press. Low salary with a commission base. We like what you write... you get paid. ” All I saw was the word “paid” and that is just what I needed. Paid! I was hired immediately and took every small story and possible lead that I could. I was finally able to rent a cozy apartment and get out of the flophouse that I was staying in. I can still smell the stench of that place, and that always motivates me to carry on when I get into those slow weeks. My boss is Mr. David Fessmyer, an old school journalist, and the owner, editor, and operator of the “Press”. He’s an okay sort of guy with the typical snarl of managers overseeing the operation of a high-pressure environment - deadlines, overages, details, and delays, along with legal complications with the DA and Chief of Police, when trying to hide his sources and protect his people. My boss does a juggling act by keeping 15 hungry reporters on the street for a story, overseeing secretarial staff, pressmen, and technicians, and getting a story to print, along with his personal life. And he does it very well, I’d say. That would wear on anyone even half his age. Maybe that’s his secret, age and experience, along with bulldog tenacity. I always tried to do my best by him and always tried not to create any more headaches for him. I guess he always showed his appreciation

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by calling me “Zach” and sometimes “Kid”, or when he’s in a real good mood, “Son . ”

The place was always buzzing with phones ringing and typists clicking away and the sounds of phone conversations, mixed with the muffled roar of the two huge, roll - fed presses in the printing room next door. It was a symphony of sorts, and we all got used to it. It was necessary to get used to it! I recall that I was called on an assignment that launched my recognition within the office. I was sent to Somalia to report on the children warriors that were stolen from their families to fight in the war. When I interviewed the veteran children, I asked them about the noise and the fog of war. I specifically asked how they dealt with the gunfire, to which, almost to the child, they responded, “It's like music to our ears!” And that's the way the press room was to me with all of its hustle and bustle, “music to my ears.” Arriving this morning was no different. Walking through the door to the noise of business, Jeff, the assistant editor, leaned out of his cubicle to say, “The boss wants to see you, Zachary.” “Wow, what did I do now? ” I thought. “Don’t look so worried man, it’s just an assignment." Jeff had caught my worried look and immediately put me at ease. Lately, I had hit a dry spell and I wasn’t looking forward to a pep talk or a pink slip. Mr Fessmyer pushed open the frosted glass door to his office and hollered out, “Zach. front and center, Son. I’ve got an assignment for you.” His voice carried over the drone of the office buzz loud enough for everyone to hear. As I stepped into

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his cluttered office of papers and trinkets and trophies of years gone by, and of journalist awards, he spoke up: “Have a seat, Son, ” pointing to an old, cracked, oxblood, high -back chair. “Yes Sir,” I replied. “Zach, you’re going South, Son.” “South, Sir?” I responded. “Yes. Louisiana to be exact. You’ll be flying into New Orleans and then get a rental up into what they call 'The Bayou Country' to cover the storm surge." “What’s going on?” I blurted out. “Haven’t you been watching the news, Son?” he said. “The whole area i s practically underwater, 60 some thousand homes flooded in that area as far inland as Baton Rouge. The county of Livingston Parish is a mess, and the town of Colyell received 31 inches of rain in about 15 hours." "Go down there and get me a human-interest story, Zach. This thing is spreading out faster than a fat lady at a pizza parlor.” “Wow, I had no idea! When do I go?” “Now, Zach. Pack your gear. You’ll have five days to bring me a story and get it to me in print by this weekend. Here are your round-trip tickets and a folder with all the info you’ll need, with contacts, a rental car company, and maps. Get interviews and pictures and a kicker to draw in our readership." "A Major Peterson with emergency services will be meeting you to fill you in on the details. You will also have access to the Chief of Police in New Orleans, Jim Carson. Jim’s an old friend of mine and he’s doing us a favor on this one. Be professional and make me proud. Every bit of info is in the folder. Read it on the plane and familiarize yourself with the details. And again, be a professional. Here’s the company credit card, Zach, and remember, this isn’t an all -expense-paid vacation. Watch your expenses and get back here with

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something worth printing.” “Yes sir!” I responded like a buck private.

“Zach!”, Mr Fessmyer responded with an air of fatherly authority. “Yes Sir?” “Delores called earlier and wanted you to call her. She’s a sweetheart, Son, so don’t mess it up. I appreciate your work ethic, Kid, but you need a private life as well. Don’t lose that girl. Take it from one who learned the hard way, Son.” “Yes Sir,” I responded sheepishly. I didn’t know the boss was even tracking my social life so closely with my longtime girlfriend, Delores. We had met at one of those quaint little coffee shops about a week after I had arrived in Brooklyn. The boss was right. She is a sweetheart. Grabbing my briefcase, camera, and coat, I headed out the door and down the stairs. Jumping into my car I dialed Delores. “Hello?” the sweetest voice in the world answered. “Hi Sweetie!”, I responded. “Zach, how are you, Sweetheart? I’ve been trying to reach you.” “I know, Baby, and I’ve been so super busy. And I’m sorry. I have to go to Louisiana and cover the storm story down there. I’ll be gone five da ys and have to cancel our dinner date tonight. I’m going back to my apartment to get my stuff and head straight to the airport. Let’s get back together as soon as I return, and I PROMISE we’ll have some private time together. “That’s OK, Zach. You don’t ha ve to promise. I understand. But we haven’t seen each other in days, and I miss you.” “I miss you too, Sweetie, and I do promise we’ll get together as soon as I deliver the story to Mr. Fessmyer.” “How is he?” Delores asked. “Busy as usual and totally foc used on the expansion of the paper. I hope this story will help,” I replied. “I’m sure it will,” Delores kindly responded.

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“Just be careful, Zach. I’ve been watching the news and it’s a mess down there, I understand.” “ Yes, it is , and I’m going to get me a story for sure,” I said. “I know you will, Zach.” “Delores, what would I do without you?” “Fall apart probably,” she responded with a laugh, “and you wouldn’t know how to dress properly either.” She was right, and I knew it as I took a quick look down to make sure that I was wearing matching socks. “Well Baby, I gotta go. I’m getting on the Crosstown Expressway now and traffic is terrible.” “Okay, Zach. Just be careful and get back here safe.” “Will do gorgeous! Bye now!” “Bye, Zach. Love you.” “Love you too, Baby!” I hung up and turned my attention to packing my stuff and getting to the airport on time.

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Chapter Two

Morning Flight

T he flight was uneventful, except for one couple sitting behind me. I was somewhat amused at their hushed but serious, heated banter, as they argued over something about his mother and sister-in-law and about something that had to do with the up-coming Thanksgiving get-together. My thought was, that with everyone wanting world peace, how can we possibly have anything of the sort when two p eople can’t even get along sitting together in an airplane. Oh well! So goes the world! I hope they get it figured out before Thanksgiving. The conversation got me to thinking of a peaceful Thanksgiving with Delores and my Mom. We broke through the puffy white clouds from an altitude of 30,000 feet. As we descended for the approach to the airport, the sunny day began to turn into a dark gray. The once brilliantly lit sky beaming through the windows now cast an eerie, dark shadow. Looking down at the city of New Orleans made it abundantly clear, that something had affected the landscape tremendously. Miles of water surrounded the city. Seemingly small tributaries of water were everywhere. Dry land occasionally popped up out of the watery landscape. Houses were sticking up out of their watery graves. Whole subdivisions were covered, and farm and pastureland just outside the city were inland lakes where the levies had broken, allowing water to rush into the lowlands. I could not make out if there were any people at all, but small dots in the midst of

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the waters were leaving long white wakes behind. It was obvious that these were rescue boats of various sizes and shapes. Landing on a cleared runway and pulling up to the terminal, the passengers prepared to leave the aircraft. They had leaned over one another to peer out of the aircraft windows to catch a glimpse below. No one was talking. I believe they all caught the vastness of the disaster and what they were about to encounter in trying to make connections with friends and family. At the end of the ramp that opened up towards the terminal lobby I was met by a nice fellow by the name of Bob, holding up a hand-painted sign with my name on it. I immediately went over to him. The kind fellow asked, “Zachary Taylor?” I replied with an affirmative. “Your ride is waiting. Do you have any checked luggage?” “No sir, I don’t. Traveling light,” I said. My driver perked up and said, “My name is Bob Tarrent and I will take you to Captain Peterson at the emergency comm and post. I got word that you’re going to take the report of this mess to a Brooklyn paper.” “Yes Sir,” I responded, “but my report will be in the Brooklyn FREE Press. We don’t quite have the readership of the Brooklyn city paper, but we are fairly well known. “ “Good enough. Let me take some of your gear, and just followme.” “Yes Sir!”, I replied, and headed down the corridor. “By the way, Mr. Taylor, just call me Bob, okay?” “Good enough for me, Bob, and you can call me Zach, okay?” “Will do, Zach, and watch your step at the escalators. They are a little tricky. Faster than most.”

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The drive from the airport was telling. Debris and flooded-out cars were everywhere. Partially submerged houses had their rooftops and windows jutting up just above the waterline. Huge piles of tree limbs, trash, and even larger piles of sheetrock were stacked high where folks had already begun trying to reclaim their homes. Heaps of personal belongs covered over with blue tarps, and roped-off sections with blockades, were in the hundreds. To prevent looting, local and state police, along with the National Guard and Army reserve units, were everywhere. Checkpoints were on the main roads with law enforcement checking the papers and identification of true homeowners trying to get back to their property, or what was left of it. Boats were in the middle of the streets, high and dry, where they had washed up out of the river and gotten landlocked. The misting rain had been continuing throughout the morning since we landed, and yellow and orange emergency raincoats could be seen everywhere. It was as if everyone had gotten an inner office memo concerning the dress code for the day. We arrived at the command post, which consisted of several large box trucks, five large motor homes with official decals on them, and some semi-tractor-trailers. Generator trucks and flatbed trailers with high intensity lighting on elevated poles were scattered around the perimeter. Large water trucks were present with scores of lines of people all waiting for rations. There were ambulances and medical teams present and a sizable police force moving around, changing out barricades, and helping with crowd control. Everyone seemed hurried but calm enough. I believe the whole city was in shock.

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Chapter Three

Major Peterson

M y driver pulled up in front of one of the larger motor homes with FEMA in large block letters painted on the side. An older, stately man in uniform with perfect snow-white hair emerged and beckoned me to come in. As I entered the mobile office, he pointed to a chair, and I settled in. “My name is Captain Peterson and I’m head of the emergency relief with FEMA. I am assuming that you are Zachary Taylor?” “Yes Sir, I am,” I answered. “With the Brooklyn Free Press, right?” “Yes sir,” I replied. “You’re not some left wing, commie, hippie, radical, so called free-the-people press, are you?” “Noooo Sir!”, I replied quickly. “We are as American as Mom, Pop, God, apple pie, and baby sister, and we don’t march, rally, or whine and complain about the right ideals and conservative politics. My boss bleeds red, white, and blue when he gets cut. He was a decorated Vietnam war hero, Sir, and tears up when the National Anthem is played. His own son just finished two tours of duty in Iraq.” “Vietnam, you say? “ Major Peterson perked up. “Good to know, Son. I had my days in “Nam” too.” I squared my shoulders and said, “Thank you for your service, Sir,” and with a thanks he replied, “Glad to have done it, Son. Now, how can I help you with your mission?” he continued. “I need to know the safest route inland. I know that many of the lowland roads are underwater, and I don’t care to drown down here or be washed inland by some quirk of nature.

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I’ve got a job to do and that's to take back to my boss a good, first-hand report a bout what’s really going on down here.” “I like your spirit, Boy. Reminds me of me a million years ago.” “Thank you, Sir,” I responded. “I have five days to do this including return flights, so I have a limited amount of time to finish the task. And my boss says that you're the man that can help." “Okay”, the major replied. "Here’s the scoop. Forget Livingston Parish. It’s underwater and only boats and choppers are getting in and out of there. That’s north -west from here and the people of Colyell are evacuated out. You would be stopped by security forces there anyway. Too dangerous, even for brave young reporters. Go North out of Baton Rouge on Highway 19, which has remained open. You will be headed slightly north east towards Baker, and, strange enough, the town of Zachary." "From Baker or Zachary," he continued, "you can ask the locals where you can get access to the flood plain where a lot of folks have been affected by the storm, even more so than Baton Rouge. Ethel, Clinton, Jackson, and Slaughter. That might be your best bet but ask before yo go up there. You can go over towards Colyell, but the roads are barricaded, and you couldn’t get the photos that you need. The road just disappears into fast running water, and no view of the town at all. Your best bet is North. You’ll be going around the totally flooded areas. Stay far east of the river and you should be safe. Maybe." "Cell towers are not transmitting where you're going," he continued, "so take this 2-meter radio and communicate your position. I t’s set to our emergency frequency, and if you get in a jam, I’ll send a 'copter in. If you see an emergency

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situation, call it in, but don’t give out your name or what you are doing. Just give the Intel, and briefly. Do not tie up the channel, as there are a lot of emergency communications going on. No one will take kindly to a civilian tying up the channel with cross-talk or needless conversation." "Don’t ask for directions on this radio. Use GPS if available and talk to the locals. They are a proud and suspicious people up there and they won’t trust strangers and especially reporters. They don’t want to be a sideshow. Most have lost everything, including loved ones. Be smart. Just be honest and show some real concern. They’ll give you the shirt off of the ir backs if they think you're there to help." "And don’t be stupid and go through any water. I don’t want to have to send you home in a body bag. I’ve already seen enough of that in my day. Bring yourself and my radio back safe. Leave the rental. I’ll get it back to the lot for you. Take the jeep. It has high-power lights and sits high enough to be safe. Extra gas is mounted on the tailgate. Keep your radio on and charged and go by the water station for bottled water. Don’t run out and don’t drink any wate r from even city municipal supplies. Everything is contaminated. Even the ice, if you can find it. Don’t eat anything cooked in local water either. Don’t wreck the jeep. It’s government property and I’m doing you a favor. Don’t abuse the privilege." "Oh yes. Once you get off Highway 19 you are on your own, Son, and this isn’t Brooklyn. If I have to extract, you by chopper you’ll probably be dead by the time I get to you. There are no delis or Italian restaurants out there, and there are things out there that would just as soon eat you as look at you. Gators

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have a sweet tooth for crazy young city reporters, so ruin their day and stay out of their mouths. Got it, Son?” “Yes Sir, I believe so. Just show me how to hit the '19' from here and I’ll head out and s ee you back here in five days." “Good to go, Son, and good luck!” And with a “Thank you, Sir” I headed for the jeep.

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Chapter Four

North On Highway 19

W eaving my way through the streets of New Orleans, I finally made my way to Highway 19. The Major had given good directions, as expected, and I was now on the hunt for my storm story. The highway was clear and drivable, and only a few cars and emergency vehicles passed by me in the oncoming lane heading back to the city. I had the feeling of being very alone and isolated, even though I had traveled only a few miles out of town. At least the radio worked, and I picked up a unique Cajun radio broadcast. The music was exciting, and the brogue was hard to understand, but entertaining enough to keep me occupied. Evidence of the storm were everywhere. Arriving at Baker, I asked a local merchant where the most hard-hit area of the region was. I was directed to go through Zachary and head Northwest, that about any area up there had been hit hard with inland water from the river overflow and pouring rain. I said, "Thank you” and topped off the gas tank. Then I headed farther north-east. I arrived at Zachary and asked a store clerk where the hardest hit area was. I was informed, that heading east out of Zachary I would hit the 84 over to Indian Mound, and then up the 409 to Pride, located in the east Feliciana Parish. The store owner said that the area was the north end of the flooding, and from there I could head south where there were small towns that were not even on the

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state maps. I bought some beef jerky and a bag of pretzels and continued on my quest.

Getting a cell signal, I called the office. “Zach, you okay?” The old familiar voice of Mr. Fessmyer filled the speaker phone. “Yes Sir. I just wanted to check in and tell you that I met my contact and headed inland to the main inland flood area. I'll call when I can. I have already met some interesting people, and I’ll be catching the story of some of the local people. It’s worse than it appears on the news and... hello... hel lo boss... you there?” No signal. I had been talking to myself. "At least he knows I’m here," I thought. The highway sign read “Indian Mound 10 miles.” My plan was to do exactly as I had been instructed. Indian Mound, then to Pride, and from Pride drop south to be just north of the flood area. I passed on through Indian Mound without stopping and headed up the 409. Traveling had been good, except for occasional low spots in the road where it had puddled, but there was no flowing water across the road. Yet, there was a continuing drizzle of rain. I came upon an old bullet-ridden sign on the right side of the road. I had slowed down to a snail's pace to read what it said: “RUBY 15 mi.” The sign was barely hanging on the post, and I decided to continue up the 409. The road to Ruby did not look too inviting, It was a dirt and gravel mix that showed very little sign of travel, and a scary movie that I had seen came to mind. The road appeared to disappear into huge cypress trees in the distance and I recalled the movie The Gator People when I was a kid in Arizona, and how frightened it made me. I don’t know why I

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was so scared back then, because I hadn’t heard of any gator attacks in Toltec, Arizona. "I’d better stay the course 'till I get to Pride," I thought, "until I get to what I was warned about." Flash flood waters had washed across the road and were still flowing fast over the blacktop road. "It doesn’t look too deep," I thought, and was tempted to cross. I remembered the words of Major Peterson about being stupid, and I could only imagine washing downstream to a be dinner for some critter. "I guess it’s Ruby, Louisiana, I’m bound then," I thought, and I made my u-turn carefully and headed back two miles to the old signpost. The Gator People yet again. "Ruby, here I come," and I turned off onto the gravelly road. It wasn’t as bad as I thought, and the ground underneath the Jeep tires was firm, but wet, as it continued to drizzle rain.

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Chapter Five

Ruby, Louisiana

T he road continued on into the forest of cypress trees I had seen off in the distance from the main road. Because of the water, it looked more like bayou country now, and not northern Louisiana. Stands of water appeared in the mossy overgrowth. Trees in the rain-soaked ground had fallen over from the wind. The drizzle continued as the sky grew darker, partially hidden by the overhanging limbs of the trees. I felt like I was in a movie. A scary one. This was far from Brooklyn, and every scary book or movie that I had ever read or watched came across my mind. "Was the road getting narrower? Or was it my imagination getting the best of me?" I wondered. Bumping into a deep pothole startled me, and muddy water flew off in every direction. "Take it easy, Zach," I thought. "Take your time!" I then came upon an old, wooden, low-water bridge with high floodwater flowing just under it. I stopped the Jeep, questioning whether I should cross or not. I knew that I had no choice, as there were no other roads, according to Major Peterson. I crept across, praying all the way with a knot in my stomach and a twitchy foot on the gas pedal. Success. I made it across, and now on my left I came upon some old, abandoned, run-down houses - not from the storm, but from years of neglect. The roofs were caved in, with old shake shingles covered with green algae and moss. It appeared that the trees and underbrush were eating them alive,

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trying to reclaim their ground. It stood there as a mute reminder, that long after we’re gone, planet Earth will just go back to its old self, covering up our so-called modern progress without the burden of us on its back. A mile or so later I came across some old, rusted farm implements and equipment of various sorts, laying useless alongside the road, as reminders of better days in Ruby. "Who would live out here anyway?" I thought, as I pondered the life and times of its past settlers and inhabitants. I rounded a curve in the road, and I could not believe my eyes. It was like a movie set, or maybe I had gone through a time warp. Hollywood could not have built it better! ...the dirt road, the overhanging Cyprus trees, and the silver-gray wood siding on the posted front porches of every little building in town. The darkening skies and the rain drizzle set the tone for this place. I was in a Twilight Zone episode and some huge dude with overalls and a Jason mask was going to jump out and get me with a sickle or a hammer or something. I was getting more concerned every moment. The only modern thing at all that stood out was the Shell gas sign and a Coke machine on the first building on my left. Old, rusted-out pick-up trucks and car parts were strewn everywhere and backed up onto the sides of buildings. I could see straight down the street and every building blended into the scene. There was only one car that I could see parked down the street. It appeared like an old Crown Victoria Ford sedan, and it wasn’t in good shape. A loud voice came out of nowhere, “CAN I HELP YOU?” I almost jumped out of my skin! To my amazement, I had come to a complete stop, just gawking at the scene. I spun my head

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around to see how close my murderer was to me. “Can I help you, Son?” “Uh, uh, uh...” was all I could say, “You OK, Boy?” “Yeah!” I blurted out. I felt like the stranger now, because I was acting stupid, and the face I saw was the kindest old face I’d ever seen. “Yeah, I’m okay. You... you just startled me.” I’m not in the habit of stuttering, but I did that time. “How can I help you, Son? You lost?” “No, Sir. I came out here to report on the flood. There was water across the road to Pride and I saw the sign to Ruby, so I came here.” “Not much here, Son, but a few old rundown folks and buildings." He chuckled. “What can you tell me about the storm out here,” I asked. “Hold on, Son! Who are you and why do you want to know? Folks are kinda private in these here parts, and they wouldn’t take kindly to me spillin' no beans to a complete stranger. Who are you, Son?" he asked kindly. “I’m Zachary AB Taylor and I’m a reporter for the Brooklyn Free Press. My boss sent me down here to get a story first-hand about what went on down here, and to talk to the local folks about what they're going through. I don’t want to interfere with anything, and I don’t expect for anyone to talk to me about these parts unless they really want to. Here are my press credentials and the office number if you want to check my story.” “No need, Son. I believe you, but it would be best not to go door-to-door or nothin' like that, or you’re bound to get shot. We’ve had some pretty bad eggs come out here an' do some lootin', and these town- folk don’t know you fromAdam. No need to come all the way out here and end up dead, is there?” “No sir,” I replied. “I just need a story, Sir, to take back home.”

“You want a story, Son... well I can send you over to th e best storyteller around here. His name is Henry and he's a

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fishin' guide on the river for city folks that come out here to catch flat- heads." “Flat - heads, Sir?” “Yep, flat heads. Big, huge catfish that just lie on the bottom and eat 'till they're huge. You can barely get 'em up in a boat. Henry is the best around here at finding' 'um and gettin' 'um caught. He would probably be your best bet.” “Where does this Henry fellow live?” I asked. “Just follow the road through town and turn right at the first dirt road. Keep going 'till you see catfish heads hanging on a fence. That’s his advertisement. Don’t go up to the door. There’s a bell at the fence gate. Ring it and he’ll come out, if he ain’t in the outhouse. And if he is, just wait for him at the gate.” Well, that’s about the weirdest instructions I had ever heard. "But this isn’t Kansas anymore," I thought…

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Chapter Six

Henry

T rue to the instructions, I did as the old man said and headed through Ruby. Turning right on the first dirt road, I came to the fence with the huge catfish heads hanging on every picket in the front. Kind of like trophies, I supposed, and also an advertisement to the prowess of the mighty fisherman. The fish looked more like prehistoric monsters than any fish that I had ever seen. But, of course, there's not much fishing in Brooklyn, other than what you see at Eddie’s fish market on 40th Street or on your plate at Valencio’s Restaurant. I stopped the Jeep and got out and rang the old brass bell by the gate. No Henry, so I rang it again and peered onto the front porch. The whole house had the same look as the houses on the side streets of Ruby. Part of the porch sagged from the weight of the porch roof. The screen door had part of its screen missing and the hardware was rusty. Moss was hanging from the porch roof like green angel hair, and the shingles had turned green as well. I rang the bell again and yelled out, “IS ANYONE HOME?!” I waited for Henry to come to the door. Then, in a fewmoments the old door squeaked open and a big, bearded man stepped out onto the porch around the partially opened screen door. Peering in my direction, the old guy bellowed out "WHAT DO YOUWANT?” Raising my voice, I shouted back, “ARE YOU HENRY?” “WHOSE ASKIN'?” he yelled back. “I’m a guy that needs a guide for upriver. The man

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at the gas station said that you’re the man that can show me around these parts.” “HE DID, DID HE?” he bellowed. “Yes, Sir, he did,” I replied. “You know these parts, Sir?” Henry laughed and went on and said “DO I KNOW THESE PARTS? SON, I'VE BEEN AROUND THESE PARTS AND FISHIN' THESE WATERS SINCE I BEEN A KID, 'CEPT A STINT OVERSEAS IN THE 60’S. AND I KNOW THIS RIVER LIKE THE BACK OF MY HAND. WHAT YOU FISHIN' FOR?” “Information,” was my stupid reply. I knew it was dumb when it came out of my big mouth. “YOU TRYIN TO BE CUTE, KID?” he responded with a scowl. “THAT KIND OF RESPONSE'LL GET YOU KILT AROUN' THESE PARTS, BOY!” Henry wasn’t amused, and I chided myself for my immature response. “I’m sorry, Sir. I wasn’t trying to be cute. I was just being plain stupid.” “YOU’D BETTER TELLME RIGHT QUICK THEN, WHAT YER FISHIN' FER, AND IF NOT FISHIN' WHAT YER DOIN' DOWN IN THESE HERE PARTS, AND YOU’D BETTER TELL ME IN A SHORT SENTENCE!” “My name is Zachary AB Taylor from Brooklyn and I need to have someone show me the damage done from the storm.” Henry then lowered his voice and called me up on to the porch steps. As I got closer, I saw the years of hard work and troubles furrowed into the old man’s face, a roadmap of sorts, with piercing blue-gray eyes that looked straight through me. I felt uneasy as those piercing eyes bore down on me like a laser. “Brooklyn, you say? You’re a long way from home just to see storm damage. You could have seen that on the East Coast if you wait long enough.”

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“ Yeah, I know, Sir, but this storm washed out whole towns, and my boss wanted me to see it firsthand .” I responded. “Then you’re some kind of reporter. Is that correct?” “Yes Sir, I am. And I need someone to show me around these parts of the front edge of the flood waters to see how far inland this goes and how the people were affected. Can you help me? I want the readership back home to see the plight of the people here, and at least get an honest report and not some politically correct nonsense about relief fund s and promises and such.” “Are you some activist or something, tryin' to start a fight with the bureaucracy and powers-that- be or something?” “No Sir, just an honest reporter with a job to do.” “Let me tell you right now, that folks don’t want to be both ered around here, and especially with news reporters. If anybody asks where you're from, just tell 'em Shreveport, New Orleans, or Baton Rouge or somethin', got it? They don’t take kindly to Yankees” “Yes Sir!” was my quick reply. “Well, come on in, Zachar y AB Taylor, and we’ll talk over some Louisiana Mud,” which means "coffee", I soon learned. “Sounds good, Sir.” The man turned and disappeared into the darkened house. With the smell of catfish hanging low in the air, I climbed up on the porch and followed suit and walked through the paint chipped open door. With my eyes adjusting to the low light, I now saw the disheveled room. Obviously, at one time, it had been a living room. “Come on in, Son, and sit a spell and tell me all about it,” Henry replied wit h a kinder tone. Henry pointed to an old, rickety table, and I took a seat. The place was piled high with books and newspapers and fishing gear. Clothes were scattered about, and an old TV set

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was turned down low on the news channel reporting the weather. Henry set a steaming cup of the darkest looking coffee I had ever laid my eyes on and sat down in the squeaky chair across from me. And he started to talk. “You folks always do the reportin' on only the big cities affected. We’ve lost whole families inland and not a word about it in the news. No reporters come out here. Too far away from a Hilton Hotel, I guess. What prompted you to come inland?” I responded to Henry’s question, “I wanted to get the news that’s personal and the news behind the news. We dig out stories, and, as they say, 'Boldly go where no man has ever gone before.' We are not the average newspaper. We dig deep and report the truth and not a facade or semblance of the truth. That’s why I am here.” Henry stood up to full height and began his speech: “Here’s the truth, Son. There are some folks out here that lost everything, including their dogs, cats, cows, kids, and kin. Their livelihood is gone. Cattle, chickens, goats, hogs, soil, and moonshine. Whole families dead with not one survivor. We can’t even find their bodies to bury them. Gone. All gone. Whole houses swept off the foundation, and scattered belongings clear up to the state line. We’re findin' furniture in some treetops in the lowlands and dead cattle and horses 100 miles north. The mud swallowed up most everything and buried a whole load of farm equipment, never to be seen again. They show submerged houses and the rescue teams in New Orleans, but you won’t see rescue boats, helicopters, and camera crews this far inland. It’s ju st not convenient, and they really don’t have any idea howmany people really live out here. Ruby might as well not exist, and there are 25 of these towns just like Ruby that aren’t even on the new state maps. As far as

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the powers-that-be are concerned, we don’t exist, unless they want somethin' from us, like our stills, or arrestin' us for killin' what we eat out of season, or takin' gators and cypress wood without a license. My two best friends were lost and nowhere to be found. It grieves my heart to think that they're buried inland under a ton o' mud. At least their buried, I hope, and not hangin' in some brush pile, like we found some folks from Ruby. I’m gonna help you 'cause you're the only one who cared enough to come out here, even if it is for a story. You made the trip, Son, so I’ll tell you exactly what’s goin' on." I interrupted Henry: “I’m sorry about your losses here, Sir, and I want to report what I hear and see. Can I quote you?” “If you don’t use my name, quote all you want. I’ve been up and down this flooded river lookin' for anything and anyone, but right now keep me out of the news. No one wants any attention up here unless someone wants to truly help us here in Ruby. They ignored us for years, even when we tried to keep our schools open, and we had to bus our children out. Most are old folks here anyways, and the kids have long ago moved away. It’s peaceful enough here, but this storm took the wind out of our sails. We lost some long-time friends, Son, and folks are still grievin'.” “Can you take me inland?” I asked. Henry responded, “Further north, you say? That'll be tough, Son. No roads. You'd have to go by boat, but I’m afraid it won’t be very pleasant. The flood water is still comin' in and parts of the river channels are flowin' fast and deep. Can you swim? Never mind. Even a good swimmer couldn’t last long against this flood current. It’s risky,

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but if you wanna go I’ll take you. You a payin' customer?” “How's three hundred a day plus expenses sound?” I said , “Make it three fifty and you’ve got yourself a guide. No checks, credit cards, promises, or money orders. Greenbacks... only good ole greenbacks” Henry responded. “Fair enough if it’s as dangerous as you say.” “Oh, it’s dangerous enough!” Henry laughed with a serious glint in h is eye. “Dangerous enough!" Now let’s get some shut eye. We’ll need it. If you're hungry the fridge is over there. Not much in it, but it will hold you over 'till breakfast.” Then, walking through the dark hallways with a flashlight, Henry showed me my room and cleared off some yellowed newspapers and dirty clothes from off of an old, cast-iron bed. “She’s old but sleeps well. More quilts in the closet over yonder if you get a chill. Toilet's outside. Take this flashlight and if you catch a glimpse of two red eyes in the dark, that’s a gator. Stay clear of it. They're fast and hungry since much of their food source washed downstream. Gun's next to the bed, if you know how to use one. And if not, just wake me if anything gets in your room,” Henry quipped. “ Gets in my room! Gets in my room!" I thought? Henry could see the concern in my eyes. “Just holler if there’s something you can’t handle, Son. OK?” “Yes sir,” I replied, “I certainly will call you!” "I wasn’t about to walk back down the hallway to the kitchen," I thought. “Sun’s up at six. Be ready,” and he turned around and disappeared through the doorway, and I attempted to settle in the dark room and squeaky bed. "What a day," I thought. I had just left the city of Brooklyn that morning and here I am in this scary movie. I shut off the flashlight and covered my head with the old quilt. It was assaulting my nostrils with the combined

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smell of mildew and mothballs. "Goodnight, Zach," I said to myself. "What did you get yourself into?"

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Chapter Seven

Morning Light

I t had taken a while to get to sleep, and morning came sooner than anticipated. Between the frogs and crickets, I kept imagining the “Gator People” coming to the cabin window. Man, I wish hadn't seen that movie. The sun was barely up when Henry’s old rooster began to crow. I crawled lazily out of bed to raise the yellowed, water-stained window shade. The sun was just now filtering through the cyprus trees, casting their ghostly shadows onto the ground. The whole scene was eerie, but somehow the aroma of coffee and cooking bacon floated into the room, making me feel comfortable, like being a kid again at my Grandma's home in upstate New York. I knew that Henry had already been up because of those welcoming smells. Then, banging on the door, he hollered out, “Ar e you up, Son? Rise and shine!" “Yes sir, I’m up and getting dressed right now,” I replied. “Grubs on the table. Come and get it!” Henry didn’t have to wait long for me. I was hungry enough to eat an alligator. I headed to the kitchen table. It was already set. “Sleep well, Son?" Henry asked. “Yes sir, I did, after I got used to the swamp noises.” “Yeah, it can get a little scary for some city folk not used to strange sounds, and especially when a raccoon or two gets loose in the house. Guests kinda lose it on that one, especially if there’s a snake!” Henry laughed. “I would imagine so, Henry. Especially the snake part!” I said.

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“Wow, this looks good, Henry. Thanks for the breakfast!” I blurted out, almost embarrassing myself with youthful glee. “You paid for it, Son, so enjoy it,” he said with a smile. “We’ll be loadin' the gear in the Jon Boat after breakfast. The weather cleared, but the river's still runnin' fast. I have life vests in the boat and grapplin' hooks, and I hope I don’t have to use either on e!” “Me either,” I replied. “You good to go, Son?” "Yes Sir. Good to go!” "What’s this good to go stuff?" I thought. It must be some local term. I grabbed my coat and camera and followed Henry out the back door. There he grabbed an old shotgun leaning against the wall and headed out to a rickety, wooden walkway that led out to the river. When we reached the dock there was an old metal boat straining against the ropes, because of the flow of the river. It was tied off to some upright posts attached to the dock. Pieces of old rope, and some old fishing poles, nets, and line were strewn around the bottom of the boat. “ Jus't push that stuff out'o your way when you get in, Zach. We’ll clean it out later,” Henry called out over the sound of the r ushing water. “Yes Sir!” I responded, with one eye on the river and another on the beat up, dented metal boat. Henry explained to me what the boat was. It was a flat bottom boat that had the common name of Jon Boat and was good for navigation in shallow waters where logs and brush were. It had what he called a “shallow draft.” "Aboat like that," he said, "could navigate through mossy swamp water and over sand bars better than a deep-hulled, V- bottomed boat.” He also explained that a Jon Boat in fast running water would not be as stable as a V-bottom, deep- hulled boat, but that’s all he had and that was our ride. “Get ready for some action, Son, and hang

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