hole in the damaged roof and toward the endless swamp that surrounded him.
"EEEEEeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaahhhhhh!"
Freed from his chains by the storm, Billy was loose.
PART TWO
PRODIGAL SON
Chapter Nine
Evangeline Defante’
B y the time Nick returned from the Search and Rescue Conference, everything had changed. His untimely departure from the Crescent City, prior to the horrendous events in the late summer of two thousand five, only exacerbated the alienation from his co-workers that he had already established. Timing is everything and, without it, Nick had managed to end up with nothing.
It was his decision to leave early for the meeting with the hope of escaping the oppressive summer heat of New Orleans. A couple of weeks in Colorado were just what he felt he needed to recuperate and recharge his system. Nick hoped that he’d be able to start fresh upon his return and eventually regain the respect and camaraderie of his fellow officers that he’d lost after his last assignment. No one liked anyone associated with the Internal Affairs Division, particularly an undercover operative, and Nick only held out a faint hope of recovering professionally from his ill-advised rotation. The fact that he was successful in his duties only made his fellow officers despise him more and the chance of cooperation with any future endeavors harder to obtain.
Although Nick made every effort to return home after the levees broke and the city flooded, all that was remembered was that he was not there. By the time he reported back to duty, weeks had gone by and the National Guard was already in place. A large portion of the population had long since vacated, and groups from all over the country were providing the lion’s share of the search for survivors and recovery of the deceased. His new position in Missing Persons was much needed, but not at all secured because of his absence when he might have been the most useful. Nicholas Vizier missed his chance of redemption once again. It wouldn’t be the last time.
What was left of his home in the eastern part of the city was a heartbreaking sight. His humble abode was never all that much to begin with, little more than a two-bedroom single-family dwelling in a sketchy part of town that was well on its way to becoming a ghetto. Still, as humble as it was, it was all Nick had. Now, it was gone.
The waterline was clearly visible on the exterior wall at about ten feet high; the interior was a sad and putrid mix of mud, mold, and garbage. The stench was unbearable inside, even before he opened his refrigerator without thinking. Even the faintest of memories his olfactory nerves held of the event would continue to cause his stomach to wretch for years afterward. Judging by the multitude of discarded freezers taped shut at every curb, he figured he was not the only one to have made that mistake.
From that moment on, he wore a bandana soaked in cheap cologne around the bottom half of his face every time he ventured into the abandoned dwelling. Third world technology trumped first world luxuries in times of disaster, thought Nick. When he caught a glimpse of himself in the broken mirror above his bathroom sink, his reflection reminded him of a bank robber in some ridiculous B-movie Western. Drawing two pistols with his fingers and thumbs, he aimed and fired at his absurd image. Nick shook his head and chuckled, then tears welled up and drifted down his dirty cheeks, his sobs choked by the pungent cloth tied across his mouth.
Nothing in his house was salvageable. Nick sighed at the pathetic sight, thinking about the irony of it all. His domicile mirrored the state of his career. The wasteland that was his home symbolized his life. There was nothing left for him here; there was nothing left for him anywhere. It was time to go home.
Although he was born in St. Martinville, Nick spent his formative years moving from town to town every couple of years. His father, Russell Vizier, was
"EEEEEeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaahhhhhh!"
Freed from his chains by the storm, Billy was loose.
PART TWO
PRODIGAL SON
Chapter Nine
Evangeline Defante’
B y the time Nick returned from the Search and Rescue Conference, everything had changed. His untimely departure from the Crescent City, prior to the horrendous events in the late summer of two thousand five, only exacerbated the alienation from his co-workers that he had already established. Timing is everything and, without it, Nick had managed to end up with nothing.
It was his decision to leave early for the meeting with the hope of escaping the oppressive summer heat of New Orleans. A couple of weeks in Colorado were just what he felt he needed to recuperate and recharge his system. Nick hoped that he’d be able to start fresh upon his return and eventually regain the respect and camaraderie of his fellow officers that he’d lost after his last assignment. No one liked anyone associated with the Internal Affairs Division, particularly an undercover operative, and Nick only held out a faint hope of recovering professionally from his ill-advised rotation. The fact that he was successful in his duties only made his fellow officers despise him more and the chance of cooperation with any future endeavors harder to obtain.
Although Nick made every effort to return home after the levees broke and the city flooded, all that was remembered was that he was not there. By the time he reported back to duty, weeks had gone by and the National Guard was already in place. A large portion of the population had long since vacated, and groups from all over the country were providing the lion’s share of the search for survivors and recovery of the deceased. His new position in Missing Persons was much needed, but not at all secured because of his absence when he might have been the most useful. Nicholas Vizier missed his chance of redemption once again. It wouldn’t be the last time.
What was left of his home in the eastern part of the city was a heartbreaking sight. His humble abode was never all that much to begin with, little more than a two-bedroom single-family dwelling in a sketchy part of town that was well on its way to becoming a ghetto. Still, as humble as it was, it was all Nick had. Now, it was gone.
The waterline was clearly visible on the exterior wall at about ten feet high; the interior was a sad and putrid mix of mud, mold, and garbage. The stench was unbearable inside, even before he opened his refrigerator without thinking. Even the faintest of memories his olfactory nerves held of the event would continue to cause his stomach to wretch for years afterward. Judging by the multitude of discarded freezers taped shut at every curb, he figured he was not the only one to have made that mistake.
From that moment on, he wore a bandana soaked in cheap cologne around the bottom half of his face every time he ventured into the abandoned dwelling. Third world technology trumped first world luxuries in times of disaster, thought Nick. When he caught a glimpse of himself in the broken mirror above his bathroom sink, his reflection reminded him of a bank robber in some ridiculous B-movie Western. Drawing two pistols with his fingers and thumbs, he aimed and fired at his absurd image. Nick shook his head and chuckled, then tears welled up and drifted down his dirty cheeks, his sobs choked by the pungent cloth tied across his mouth.
Nothing in his house was salvageable. Nick sighed at the pathetic sight, thinking about the irony of it all. His domicile mirrored the state of his career. The wasteland that was his home symbolized his life. There was nothing left for him here; there was nothing left for him anywhere. It was time to go home.
Although he was born in St. Martinville, Nick spent his formative years moving from town to town every couple of years. His father, Russell Vizier, was
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