The hurricane has passed, but survivors are stunned when they see that Katrina has stolen their town.
- by Ellis Anderson
The next installment of the award-winning book that follows Bay St. Louis through the very heart of Hurricane Katrina – and three years of grinding aftermath. The Shoofly Magazine is publishing one excerpt from the book each week through the storm's 20th anniversary on August 29.
The afternoon of the hurricane, when the winds began to die down, I still felt fortunate. Everyone who’d taken refuge in my home was safe. Both Joe’s house and mine were standing, although damaged. Some of the houses around us had flooded and most had taken a beating, but the neighborhood seemed intact. A few months of cleanup, and life in the Bay would return to normal. I’d forgotten that our houses were on the edge of an “island.” We’re on the fringes of the old town, built on some of the highest ground on the Gulf. Less than a block away, the elevation drops off dramatically. Joe brought his camera and we ventured into the streets. Before we began our expedition, Joe took a photo of me in front of my house. I look at it now, hardly recognizing myself. The woman in the picture is at least seventy and has been hanging out in a wind tunnel. There’s a wry smile on my exhausted face, but there’s relief there, too. I thought the worst was over. I was wrong. 
We wanted to get to the waterfront, but our routes were limited. Roads were blockaded by uprooted trees or houses that had been shoved off their foundations. Our closest option was Washington, one street back toward Old Town. As we walked the two blocks to the beach, occasional bursts of rain pelted us and leftover gusts hurtled past. The damage we saw increased with every step. The street was covered with power lines and roofing tin, lumber, and mangled cars. A few of our neighbors had emerged from hiding. Every face wore the same dazed expression, as if they were waking from a long and tangled nightmare. Shortly after turning onto Washington Street, I saw a brightly painted table blocking the driveway of a house. I paused. It was hand-crafted from a fine, light wood and in excellent condition. It looked as if it’d been placed at the curb for trash pickup. I couldn’t understand why someone would be throwing such a nice table away. In fact, hadn’t I seen a similar table at my friend Keith’s house? But Keith lived two blocks away on Citizen, close to the beach. Suddenly, a little bomb of horror detonated in my throat. As we approached the intersection of Hancock and Washington, we found it impossible to go further. We were still a block from the beach, but an enormous pile of rubble barricaded the road. Joe climbed onto the heap and began shooting photos, while I strained to see over the top. Finally, I summoned the courage to follow him up the mountain of debris. I clambered on to someone’s front door and gazed out at the apocalypse. The only word that came to mind was “Hiroshima.” 
What I saw from the top of the ten-foot debris pile. The house of my friends Alison and Dave is on the right. Photo by Joe Tomasovsky
On the corner, I saw the home of my friends Alison and Dave. The stately historic house was oddly distorted, as if it were melting. Doors and windows had been punched out of their frames. Someone else’s roof had crashed into the porch, one corner resting in what used to be their living room. The yard was heaped head-high with entire walls and floors from other houses, large appliances and furniture, cars, and riding mowers. Worse yet, theirs was the only house standing on that side of the street. On the other side, just three battered shells remained. Everything else had been crushed. From memory, I began to count the houses that had once lined the block. I got up to sixteen before my tears began. Washington Street boasted some of the highest elevation on the Gulf of Mexico, twenty-five feet above sea level. If this neighborhood had been destroyed, I knew the rest of the coast didn’t have a prayer. Waveland would be gone. Pass Christian would be gone. Long Beach, Clermont Harbor, Lakeshore, and Cedar Point, gone, gone, gone. I was looking at the tip of an incomprehensible iceberg. Thousands of homes had been completely obliterated. Bay St. Louis had been three hundred years in the making and had survived dozens of direct hits by storms. Katrina had annihilated most of the town in the span of a single morning. I heard a voice call my name. I shakily climbed down from my perch and saw my neighbor, Betsy. She stood in front of the collapsed remains of her house, yet she seemed unconcerned about her own loss. She asked if I knew where our friend Phil was. I hadn’t talked to him in several days. Betsy said that he’d planned on riding out the storm in his Hancock Street house, a few doors down from hers. We looked over at the building. It had floated off the foundations. No one who stayed would have survived. Betsy had somehow commandeered some firemen who were searching the ruins for his body. I’d seen enough. I looked around for Joe, but he’d disappeared while I was talking to Betsy. Stricken to my core, I headed for home. Although I’d walked that route hundreds of times, it had never seemed so long and lonely. At the corner by my house, a fire truck was parked in the middle of the street. Several of my neighbors gathered around two stunned firemen. A pack of skittish dogs, loosed by the storm, circled the small crowd, hopeful of finding their owners. I heard a young fireman trying to reassure a man with a gashed lip. “This isn’t as bad as Camille,” he said with bravado. I didn’t have the heart to correct him. Jimmie met me on the front porch. His mother was sleeping comfortably. Mimi may have been ninety-two and frail, but she was hardy. We discussed the gravity of the situation and decided that she needed to go to the hospital. She had a catheter, and sanitation would quickly become an issue with no running water. Jimmie alerted the firemen, who’d promised they’d send someone to pick her up shortly. None of us knew that the hospital— almost two miles inland—had been destroyed as well. Three more endless days would pass before help of any kind arrived. A woman I didn’t recognize came to the foot of my steps and asked if I had any water. The man with the gashed lip was her boyfriend and she wanted to get him cleaned up. I invited them both inside. He was an older man and climbed the steps with difficulty. Blood covered his face and the front of his shirt, but he seemed unaware. His girlfriend explained that they lived around the corner and the house had caved in around them. The man was a diabetic and had lost his insulin in the mayhem. He silently sipped the orange juice I brought him, while his girlfriend tended his wounds with bottled water and a paper towel. “Baby, baby,” she crooned as she cleaned off the crusted blood. She told me that the firemen had promised to take them to the hospital. They both thanked me as they walked back to the fire truck. I never saw them again. The light was fading and so were the dregs of my energy. I put out flashlights, snacks, and the last of the dry bedding for Augusta and her family and went over to Joe’s. He’d cooked a hot meal on his camp stove and insisted that I eat. I forced a few bites down, commanding myself not to retch. Joe had opened all the windows that weren’t boarded, allowing the remnants of the storm to air out the house. He told me to enjoy my last cool night for a long while—tomorrow we’d be sweltering, with no fans or air conditioning to diminish the heat. I must have slept at last, for when I woke it was as dark as the desert. At first, I didn’t remember the storm. When I did, I tried to convince myself it’d been a bad dream. The night told the truth. I heard no cars passing, no trains, no crickets or frogs or sweet-singing mockingbirds. No street or porch light cast a shadow. I stared out the window, hoping to spot even a flicker of light, but the blackness was unrelenting. The only thing I could see was the vision of my town in ruins. Homes and lives, hopes and dreams, an idyllic way of life—all gone with the wind. Margaret Mitchell had thought that the Yankees were the ultimate force of destruction, but she hadn’t imagined a Katrina. None of us had. “Are you awake?” Joe whispered. “Yes,” I answered. “I’m crying.” 
Under Surge, Under Siege is available in paperback and as an ebook.
In 2011, Anderson founded her first digital publication, the Shoofly Magazine and served as publisher from 2011 - 2022. She established French Quarter Journal in 2019, where she currently serves as publisher and managing editor. Anderson currently divides time between the New Orleans French Quarter and Mobile, Alabama.
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