Watching them struggle to walk and hold their pants up with their hands cuffed, Achilles wondered if they normally wore such oversized clothes or if they were wearing what they could find.
“I think you broke his jaw,” Wilson whispered to Achilles. “Collateral damage. We have to explain that.”
Vodka shot Wilson a stare that shut him up.
“Is it collateral damage when someone attacks you? I don’t think so,” whispered Bryant.
Daddy Mention griped, suddenly pissed. Speaking under his breath to Achilles, he said, “I’m in this swamp tagging kids when I’m supposed to be on furlough. Instead, here I am busier than a beaver at midnight on payday with this shit.”
“Where’s Darkwater when you need them?” mused Bryant.
Because the Humvee couldn’t hold everyone, Achilles offered to catch a ride with someone else. Bryant wanted to stay with Achilles, but Achilles wouldn’t have it. He wanted all of them gone.
Bryant looked around nervously. “You sure? I don’t know if it’s safe out here on your own, double-solo.”
Bryant was referring to the fact that if Charlie 1 left, they took their weapons. “I’ll be cool,” said Achilles.
Vodka, riding shotgun, slapped the door. “Let’s go.” Scanning the horizon, he added, “He’s survived worse.”
“He could always ride on top,” said Bryant.
Vodka, Daddy Mention, and Achilles shook their heads.
“No one rides on top,” said Vodka. “Let’s get oscar-mike, B.”
“Hoo-ah!” they yelled.
Achilles waved until they were gone, already knowing it was farewell. The birds called him back to the aviary, their caws sounding like someone frantically crying Come! Come! He spent a few hours there, feeding the birds and listening to the river, trying to forget the tension that had swept through his body when he found himself looking at people through a scope again, automatically arresting his breath as he rested the crosshairs over their hearts.
A patrol boat coasted by, the crew of three soldiers unconvinced of Achilles’s status even after seeing his badge and military ID. The driver, a blond kid, radioed Charlie 1 for confirmation. Achilles imagined all three of them facedown in the river, turning lazily with the tide, the water crimson and hazy. He’d been mistaken for a looter six times that week alone. He sought out their eyes, but none could hold his gaze. The driver and navigator were preoccupied with the radio knobs. The gunner stood at the edge of the boat, his glances darting from Achilles, to his mates at the radio, and back to Achilles’s hands, as if Achilles might produce a weapon they’d overlooked when they frisked him, like he had an SAW snookered up his ass. By the time the boat left, he was taking shallow breaths, the exhalations longer than the inhalations. He didn’t see them leave. He knew they waved. He knew that he had waved in response automatically, which pissed him off. He knew they’d apologized halfheartedly—Can’t be too careful. You know that. There are some real animals here. He was still rigid with anger. He’d never been frisked before Katrina. For a moment, he’d wanted to jump on the gunner and bite his nose off, swing the M60 on the other two, spice them up. Had Vodka left him a gun, he might have.
On the walk home, he saw the postman again at Lee Circle, and they hugged like old friends. He learned that the postman was named Chester, had two children who were both safe, and that his parents had been lucky enough to evacuate early. Though it was only the second time they’d exchanged more than a nod, Achilles and Chester chatted at the base of Robert E. Lee’s statue until its shadow passed them, and for hours after, leaving only when the curfew approached. Even then, Achilles was sad to see him go.
CHAPTER 22
NO DILBERT CARTOONS HERE. THE MOST COMMON SIGN READ MORTUI Vivis Praecipant: Let the dead teach the living. The slogan was found in mobile refrigerated trucks, tents, walk-in coolers, and airplane hangers throughout the Gulf region, as well as over doors throughout the entire town of St. Gabriel — once a leper colony, and again a destination to be avoided at all costs. Often, there were more people attending the dead than helping the living. At each location a hodgepodge staff was assembled: coroners, pathologists, forensic pathologists, medical records technicians, forensic anthropologists, fingerprint specialists, funeral directors, medical examiners, crime scene investigators, forensic dental experts, dental assistants, x-ray technicians, mental health specialists, computer professionals, administrative support staff and security, all wearing badges reading Morgue Ops.
They worked out of warehouses, hangars, gymnasiums, schools, tents, and refrigerated vans. Webs of orange and yellow extension cords connected humming diesel and solar-powered generators, and one lot even had three kids running a hand crank. At some remote locations, autopsies were conducted outside, the sun being the only available light. Achilles had never been anywhere where there were so few families available to claim their dead loved ones. It was a massive effort to identify people whose bodies were often damaged beyond recognition, and often far from home. How had Mabel found Dudley? Achilles found himself wondering about Levreau, Detective Morse, Bud, Lex, Blow, and the Harpers. No one deserved this.
Ines and Achilles’s first stop was a temporary morgue in an old basketball court. Ines was reserved, her eyes darting at the tables for quick peeks and then back to the floor. After each table she shook her head slightly and breathed No, the surgical mask bellowing. Remains were arranged in descending order of completeness. The first few rows had entire bodies, then torsos. The last two rows held hands, feet, a head in a Styrofoam cooler. There were binders with photos of personal possessions. Ines flipped through them quickly, not knowing how Paul usually dressed or if he always wore a pocket watch or what his wedding band looked like. Achilles expected to make quick work of this, planning to cover one side of the room while she covered the other, but Ines held him back, squeezing his fingers numb. Other people, individually and in groups, moved about the room with the same slow shuffle, as if they had to will themselves to take each step.
The next two morgues were the same. People were slow to enter and quick to leave. Afterwards, clustering around their cars, some huddled in prayer. Others whispered and smoked, sighing between puffs, guiltily relishing the temporary reprieve. At the end of each stop, Ines bummed a cigarette. Achilles offered to buy a pack.
“I don’t even like the taste. I’m just doing it because … it makes me cough.”
Their fourth stop was a former convenience store, the large glass refrigerator doors suited for this new role. Of the overhead signage, only the billboard frame remained, but the name was clearly stenciled on the gray stucco: Victor’s Bait, Booze, and Beer. A few feet from the door, Ines vomited into her hand, retching loudly. People passed as if nothing was happening.
Rubbing her back, he suggested they stop. He was hungry anyway.
Ines shook her head. “I promised Mother.” She repeated it several times as he led her back to the car, bearing her weight. He bummed a cigarette and they sat on the hood, sharing it. They were only a few blocks from the point where the industrial canal levee had failed. In some places the land was flat, as if nothing had ever been there. On one block, two rows of houses remained facing each other, the fronts of the homes intact but the backs gone, like false fronts on movie sets. Bulldozers pushed houses out of the street, in the process sometimes damaging houses still on their foundations.