darkness, praying for one last chance—and then the lightning came again. In the sliver of blue-white light that flashed across the water, he saw the position of the cord—then the room went black, sealing the door to his tomb.
He continued to stare at the ceiling, searing into his mind the position of the cord—then he took a breath, squatted down into the water, and jumped for the last time.
He felt the cord brush the back of his left wrist; he twisted and grabbed it with both hands, allowing his weight to pull the attic door down and open. He heard the creak of the spring-loaded hinges and he felt the door begin to descend—but then it slapped against the surface of the water and stopped.
Even in normal circumstances the attic door took a hefty tug to open; but he had nothing to pull against now, and the water took away his weight. He worked his way around to the narrow opening and thrust his arms and head inside; he grabbed a rung of the ladder and pulled himself up, forcing the door open with his body until the springs began to moan and the door swung down into the water.
At the top of the ladder he shoved aside some boxes and rolled over onto his back, exhausted. Up here the storm was deafening; he could feel the entire attic groan under the powerful gusts of wind. He heard sections of shingles slapping against the roof, then suddenly grow quiet as they ripped off and flew away. He felt water drizzling onto his face, telling him that the tar paper was gone, too, and all that remained of his roof was a three-quarter-inch sheath of flimsy fir plywood.
He tried to catch his breath but couldn’t. The attic was like an oven, and he found himself sucking at the air like a baby with an empty bottle. His lungs were on fire, and he felt a searing pain in the center of his chest.
Then, he felt water lapping at his back.
He sat up in the darkness and felt the floor; the water had already covered the plywood subflooring—and it was still rising fast.
He scrambled to his feet, banging his head on a slanted rafter. He shoved hard against the plywood roofing, but it wouldn’t give way. He felt around among the boxes for anything hard or sharp—a tool, a saw, anything that might be able to penetrate the wood—but all he could find was a foot-long scrap of two-by-four left over from construction decades ago. He hammered it against the plywood again and again, but it had no effect. He began to feel light-headed and he stopped.
When he did, he heard a voice calling from somewhere outside.
“Tommy Lee Batiste!” the voice shouted. It was barely audible over the wind.
He held his breath and listened. There it was again.
“Tommy Lee Batiste!”
“In here!” he shouted back. “Hey! I’m in here!” He took the two-by-four and pounded it against the roof again, screaming at the top of his lungs.
A minute later, he saw the beam of a flashlight streaming through the slats of the roof vent at the far end of the attic, and he heard the sound of metal rubbing up and down against the side of the house.
“Tommy Lee Batiste!” the voice shouted through the slats.
“Yes! I’m here! I’m coming!” He started toward the roof vent but forgot that the plywood flooring extended only a few feet beyond the attic door. He stepped off the plywood and into the space between the floor joists. The insulation and drywall instantly gave way beneath him, causing one leg to sink into the saturated mass as if it were a cypress swamp.
“Wait!” he pleaded. “Don’t go! I’m coming!”
He sucked his foot out of the muck and struggled to his feet again, steadying himself with the roof trusses and feeling his way over the floor one joist at a time. He finally reached the roof vent and collapsed against it, pounding his fist against the wood.
“Step back!” the voice commanded.
The man moved back onto the nearest joist and waited. Seconds later, an ax head crashed through the thin wooden slats, sending splinters flying
He continued to stare at the ceiling, searing into his mind the position of the cord—then he took a breath, squatted down into the water, and jumped for the last time.
He felt the cord brush the back of his left wrist; he twisted and grabbed it with both hands, allowing his weight to pull the attic door down and open. He heard the creak of the spring-loaded hinges and he felt the door begin to descend—but then it slapped against the surface of the water and stopped.
Even in normal circumstances the attic door took a hefty tug to open; but he had nothing to pull against now, and the water took away his weight. He worked his way around to the narrow opening and thrust his arms and head inside; he grabbed a rung of the ladder and pulled himself up, forcing the door open with his body until the springs began to moan and the door swung down into the water.
At the top of the ladder he shoved aside some boxes and rolled over onto his back, exhausted. Up here the storm was deafening; he could feel the entire attic groan under the powerful gusts of wind. He heard sections of shingles slapping against the roof, then suddenly grow quiet as they ripped off and flew away. He felt water drizzling onto his face, telling him that the tar paper was gone, too, and all that remained of his roof was a three-quarter-inch sheath of flimsy fir plywood.
He tried to catch his breath but couldn’t. The attic was like an oven, and he found himself sucking at the air like a baby with an empty bottle. His lungs were on fire, and he felt a searing pain in the center of his chest.
Then, he felt water lapping at his back.
He sat up in the darkness and felt the floor; the water had already covered the plywood subflooring—and it was still rising fast.
He scrambled to his feet, banging his head on a slanted rafter. He shoved hard against the plywood roofing, but it wouldn’t give way. He felt around among the boxes for anything hard or sharp—a tool, a saw, anything that might be able to penetrate the wood—but all he could find was a foot-long scrap of two-by-four left over from construction decades ago. He hammered it against the plywood again and again, but it had no effect. He began to feel light-headed and he stopped.
When he did, he heard a voice calling from somewhere outside.
“Tommy Lee Batiste!” the voice shouted. It was barely audible over the wind.
He held his breath and listened. There it was again.
“Tommy Lee Batiste!”
“In here!” he shouted back. “Hey! I’m in here!” He took the two-by-four and pounded it against the roof again, screaming at the top of his lungs.
A minute later, he saw the beam of a flashlight streaming through the slats of the roof vent at the far end of the attic, and he heard the sound of metal rubbing up and down against the side of the house.
“Tommy Lee Batiste!” the voice shouted through the slats.
“Yes! I’m here! I’m coming!” He started toward the roof vent but forgot that the plywood flooring extended only a few feet beyond the attic door. He stepped off the plywood and into the space between the floor joists. The insulation and drywall instantly gave way beneath him, causing one leg to sink into the saturated mass as if it were a cypress swamp.
“Wait!” he pleaded. “Don’t go! I’m coming!”
He sucked his foot out of the muck and struggled to his feet again, steadying himself with the roof trusses and feeling his way over the floor one joist at a time. He finally reached the roof vent and collapsed against it, pounding his fist against the wood.
“Step back!” the voice commanded.
The man moved back onto the nearest joist and waited. Seconds later, an ax head crashed through the thin wooden slats, sending splinters flying
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