Hurricane Katrina | Stranded | 2
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A listener note. Against the Odds uses dramatizations that are based on true events. Some elements, including dialogue, may be invented, but everything is based on research. Marty Balmondi crouches in front of the open door of a Coast Guard helicopter as it sits on a helipad. The rotor blades spin above him as he yells at the pilot.

I'm just asking for 10 minutes. The pilot's face is unreadable behind the large mirrored sunglasses, but Bob Monday's pretty sure he's scowling. There are hundreds of people who need to be rescued from their rooftops. I don't have time to give you a joyride. Bob Monday bites his lip in frustration.

It's a little after 5 p.m. on Monday, August 29th, 2005, outside the Superdome in New Orleans. For the first time in more than 12 hours, the wind gusts from Hurricane Katrina have died down and helicopters can fly. Bah Munday works for FEMA, and he's desperate to get up in a helicopter to assess the damage to the city.

FEMA's response to the disaster is off to a rough start. A medical team was supposed to arrive last night to assist with the 10,000-plus people sheltered in the city's football stadium, the Superdome. Many of them are elderly, disabled, and in need of medical attention. But the team didn't make it into the city before the hurricane hit. Some supply trucks did arrive, carrying food and water, but far fewer than Bamande's bosses had told him to expect.

Then, as the night wore on, things got worse. The storm's winds ripped a hole in the Superdome's roof, leaking rain into the stadium. When daylight came, Bomb Monday got more terrible news. City workers reported that the 17th Street Canal's levee had cracked. The 17th Street Canal is the city's biggest. If its levee really is breached, then a huge portion of the city will flood.

But when Bah Munday emailed his boss at FEMA, Mike Brown, to warn him about the breach, Brown dismissed it. Brown said he had heard it was just stormwater coming over the top of the levee. An overflow would cause flooding too, but much less severe. Bah Munday is tired of all this speculation. He needs to see the levee with his own eyes. And for that, he needs a helicopter. Bah Munday leans forward, yelling to the pilot.

This isn't a joyride. This is a reconnaissance mission. President Bush himself is waiting for my report. Bahmundi is exaggerating. He doesn't report directly to the president, but Bush will undoubtedly ask FEMA for an update. And it's Bahmundi's job to provide that information to his bosses. The pilot stares at him for a moment, then shrugs.

Fine. Ten minutes. That's it. Bah Munday clambers on board, straps himself in, and tells the pilot to fly him to the northern end of the 17th Street Canal. As the helicopter approaches the mouth of the canal near Lake Pontchartrain, Bah Munday lets out a gasp. There's no doubt that the levee has been breached. A large section of the floodwall is shredded, pieces of concrete lying at odd angles.

Bah Munday estimates the rupture is a quarter mile wide. Water is gushing into the streets. Houses close to the levee already have water all the way up to the eaves. And soon, other neighborhoods will be flooded too, as water continues to pour into the city. Bah Munday can see people standing on their roofs, desperately waving at the helicopter.

He takes out his digital camera and begins snapping photos as fast as he can. He needs Mike Brown and other FEMA officials to see that what they thought was a manageable disaster has turned into a catastrophe.

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From Wondery, I'm Cassie DePeckel, and this is Against the Odds.

On August 29, 2005, Hurricane Katrina hit the Gulf Coast of Louisiana as a Category 3 storm. Government officials and residents were initially relieved. Some forecasters had predicted that Katrina would be a Category 5. But that relief soon gave way to dread, as people learned that several levees designed to prevent the city from flooding had been breached.

Soon, 80% of New Orleans would be underwater, leaving approximately 100,000 residents trapped. Local and federal officials were caught unprepared for the scale of the disaster, and ordinary citizens were forced to figure out how to save themselves. This is Episode 2, Stranded.

Gregory Richardson pulls himself through the hole he's just hacked in the ceiling of his attic. As he crawls out onto the roof, he feels like a baby bird hatching through an eggshell. Outside, it's hot and muggy. But compared to the stuffiness of his attic, the humid air feels almost refreshing.

It's just after dawn on Tuesday, August 30th. Richardson spent last night and all day yesterday trapped in the attic. For hours, he watched through the attic's trapdoor as the water rose, until the first floor of his house was almost entirely submerged. At that point, he knew that his only way out was through the roof. He stands up, wedging his feet against the roof tiles so he doesn't go careening into the murky brown water below.

He surveys the neighborhood and feels like he's been punched in the stomach. The flood stretches in every direction, as far as the eye can see. The tops of houses poke up from the floodwaters like islands. Many are damaged beyond recognition. One neighbor's roof is half torn off. Another house has lost an entire wall. Looking down into the sludge-colored water below, Richardson sees his own patio furniture floating by.

Richardson worked so hard to buy a house in this upscale neighborhood. He'd taken such pride in his yard and his pool, and he knows the same is true for so many of his neighbors. Now it feels like it's all been lost. He sits down on the roof and takes out his cell phone. There's barely any battery left. He tries to call his father, who is 10 miles away in the lower 9th Ward.

The last time he talked to him was almost 24 hours ago, when he called to warn him about the flooding. But this time, the call fails. He tries to reassure himself that his dad is okay, that he was able to make it onto his roof. But deep down, he's sick with worry. Next, he tries to call his wife, who evacuated to Atlanta with her father. But that call also doesn't go through. He stares out across the flooded neighborhood, trying not to panic.

He has no idea how he's going to get off this roof. All he has left is half a bottle of water and a third of a loaf of bread. How long can he last up here? Suddenly, Richardson hears the sound of wood breaking. It's coming from a house two doors down, his neighbor Charles' place. Charles? Is that you? Yeah, it's me.

Richardson watches his neighbor emerge from his attic in much the same way he did. Charles takes in the view, then turns to Richardson. Looks like we're the only ones crazy enough to try to ride this thing out. In spite of everything, Richardson grins. He still has no clue how he's going to get off this roof, but at least he's not alone.

Dr. Kirsta Kurtzberg rifles through a pile of pills, searching for the antibiotics she needs to treat one of her patients. Typically, the pills are stored in an automated medication dispenser, like a vending machine for drugs. But yesterday morning, the power went out, rendering the pill dispenser useless, along with hundreds of other life-saving devices here in Charity Hospital. ♪

Fortunately, someone pried open the dispenser with a screwdriver so staff could still give patients their medications. It's late Tuesday morning, just over 24 hours since Charity lost all power, and Kurtz-Burke feels like she's practicing medicine in the Middle Ages. Without power, she can't run labs or order scans, and ventilators are no longer working.

so staff in the ICU have to hand-squeeze ambu bags to help their patients breathe. It's stressful and exhausting work. Finally, Kurtzberg finds what she's looking for, the antibiotic for her patient recovering from multiple gunshots. One of his wounds is infected, and she's concerned that it's getting worse. She heads toward his room. She's tired, hungry, and worried.

Another of her patients with a brain tumor is acting a little disoriented. Ordinarily, Kurtzberg would order a CT scan, but without power, she can't. Her only hope is that FEMA or the National Guard or someone will come to evacuate the hospital soon. In the hallway, she bumps into a colleague on the Code Grey team, tasked with running the hospital during the emergency. Kurtzberg knows their team's in touch with FEMA.

Her colleague shakes her head in frustration. Kurtzberg can't believe it. She was so sure that evacuation would be happening soon. There are 450 patients in this hospital, 46 of them critical.

They need proper medical care and real food, not the meager rations they're currently getting. So what's the plan? What does the emergency manual say to do? The manual doesn't have any guidelines for this scenario. No one ever expected we'd have to wait over 24 hours for evacuation. Kurtzberg feels her pulse quickening. She's not sure that she's going to be able to get her patients through this.

Marty Bamande waits at the far end of the helipad by the Superdome, watching as the helicopter carrying his boss, Mike Brown, approaches. Next to him stands New Orleans Mayor Ray Nagin. Reporters are on hand to capture the landings.

It's late Tuesday morning, one day since Katrina hit New Orleans. Bob Monday has spent the past several hours prepping for Brown's arrival. He knows it's mostly a symbolic visit, but he plans to make the most of it.

By some quirk of technology, Bamande has been able to send emails and text messages through his Blackberry, even though the hurricane knocked out cell service. But despite his urgent updates, he can't tell if the gravity of the situation is getting through to the higher-ups at FEMA. The helicopter touches down, and Brown emerges from inside.

He's wearing a FEMA-branded windbreaker and squinting behind his small wire-rimmed glasses. Bah Munday has never had any problems working with Brown, but he's an odd choice to head FEMA. He's a lawyer by training, and before joining the agency in 2001, he had no real experience in disaster management. His biggest previous job was serving as commissioner for the Arabian Horse Association.

Bah Munday hopes Brown is up to the monumental task ahead of him. Brown has seen the extent of the flooding, so what Bah Munday wants to discuss with him most urgently is the Superdome. As the Coast Guard and other agencies rescue people from their flooded homes, more and more people are descending on the stadium, and it doesn't have the resources to care for all of them.

Good to see you, sir. The situation here is critical, especially in the Superdome. With more arriving every minute.

The power is out. There are enough backup generators to keep some lights on, but not much else. There's no air conditioning, so the place is stifling hot. The toilets have overflowed, and human waste is running into the hallways. There's not enough food, water, or medication. And the streets around the dome have also begun to flood, making it more difficult for emergency personnel to access the stadium.

Brown's face remains neutral as he nods. "Thank you for the update." Bamunde can't tell if Brown registered all that, but he hopes so. He introduces Brown to Mayor Nagin, and the three of them make their way into a private office in the Heliport building. Nagin hands over a list of supplies he's requesting from the federal government, which Bamunde helped him prepare. It includes generators, food, and water. But the greatest need is buses.

Brown smiles. "If there's anything FEMA can provide, it's buses." Bah Munday knows he should feel relieved.

FEMA's team is here. Brown has assured Mayor Nagin that buses will be here soon, along with more supplies and a communications truck, which will allow various agencies to better coordinate their rescue and relief efforts. But he can't shake the thought of the provisions he was told would arrive before the storm. They never showed up. He hopes that everything Brown is saying now isn't just more empty words.

Trina Peters steadies herself against the side of a Department of Wildlife and Fisheries boat. Her daughter, Kia, sits next to her. Trina keeps her eyes forward, staring at the back of the state employee piloting the boat. To look out at the flooded streets, to see all the destruction, is too painful.

It's late Tuesday morning. This is Trina and Kia's second boat ride in 24 hours. Yesterday afternoon, a volunteer from the neighborhood rescued them from their roof. The wind had still been blowing, so he wasn't able to take them far, but they were able to spend the night in an abandoned house that had stayed on its foundation. The Department of Wildlife and Fisheries agent found them there this morning.

He told them he'd drop them off at Poland Avenue, which was still above water. From there, he said that army trucks would pick them up and take them to the Superdome.

Trina's head feels like it's disconnected from her body, and there's a dull, aching pain in her forehead. She hasn't eaten anything since Sunday evening. All her medications for her epilepsy, heart condition, and Crohn's disease are back in her destroyed home. She's hoping that the Superdome will have food and a medical area where she can be seen by a doctor.

The boat slows down. The wildlife and fisheries agent calls over his shoulder. I'm gonna have to let you off here at the bridge.

Just walk across. Trina and Kia climb out of the boat and step onto the steel deck of the St. Claude Avenue Bridge. They walk along it over the industrial canal and into the Upper Ninth Ward until they reach Poland Avenue. The street runs along a ridge of higher ground, and nearly every inch of its cracked concrete surface is covered with people. Trina guesses there must be at least a thousand of them standing shoulder to shoulder.

The sun beats down on Trina, and the body heat emanating from the crowd raises the temperature even further. She feels like she might faint. "I need to find somewhere to sit." Kea nods and leads the way through the crowd. Trina looks at the faces of the people as they move past. Some people look amped up, their adrenaline firing from the crisis. Others look completely stunned, like they can't believe this is really happening. Others are openly weeping.

Then, she spots a familiar face: one of her cousins from the Lower Ninth. He embraces Trina and Kia, then gestures toward a nearby convenience store. "The owner opened it up. He said we could take whatever we need. Let me know what you want and I'll bring it back for you." Trina hasn't had anything to eat or drink in over 24 hours, except some mouthwash she and Kia found in the abandoned house. She looks at her cousin, tears of gratitude swimming in her eyes.

Some water and orange juice if they have it, and whatever food you can get. Thank you. Her cousin nods and moves off to join the line of people waiting to get into the convenience store. Trina is surprised at how orderly they all seem. She wonders how long it will take for the army trucks to arrive and take them to the Superdome. She wonders if there will be food and medicine when they get there. But most of all, she wonders if she'll have enough strength

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head over to Symbiotica.com and use code ODDS for 20% off and free shipping on your subscription order. Jabbar Gibson jiggles the toilet handle, but nothing happens. Yet another thing to add to the growing list of essential items he doesn't have. No power, no food, no cell service, and now no water.

Gibson sighs and walks out to the living room of the small apartment he lives in with his mom and three younger siblings. He's 20 years old, but looks younger, with a smooth face and a gangly frame. Despite that, he has an air of authority that draws people to him. When he speaks, they listen. His mom sits on the couch, fanning herself with an old newspaper.

Is it flooded out there yet?

The air is so still. It's hard to believe that just 24 hours ago, the wind was blowing over 100 miles per hour. He surveys the scene outside. He spent his entire life in this apartment complex. It's officially known as the William J. Fisher Housing Development, but everyone calls it the Fisher Project. ♪

Gibson can see tree branches and other debris scattered across the sparse grass in the common space between buildings. The drainage ditches are full of water, but they're not overflowing. Some of the Fisher residents have battery-operated radios. They've heard that the Lower Ninth Ward and other neighborhoods across the Mississippi River are flooded. Everyone fears it's just a matter of time until Fisher is flooded too. Gibson pulls his head back inside.

I'm still dry. Good. There's still time for the government to rescue us before the water gets here. Gibson gives his mom a skeptical look, and she smiles. She's making a joke. They both know that a low-income housing project full of Black people will probably be one of the last places in the entire city to be rescued. Never mind that hardly anyone in Fisher had access to the transportation or spare cash needed to evacuate.

The project is still mostly full, and the residents here are stranded, with the city flooding around them. From the floor, Gibson's brother lets out a moan. He's hungry.

There's only a two-year age difference between them, but Gibson has always felt protective of his younger brother, almost more like a father than a brother. When he started a side hustle dealing drugs, it was partly to make sure all three of his younger siblings had the things they needed. He takes them out for meals, buys their school supplies, and makes sure they have presents at Christmas. And now, his siblings need him once again. Gibson walks to the front door. Hang tight.

I'll be right back. If the government won't rescue the people of the Fisher Project, then Jabbar Gibson will. He's just not exactly sure how. Kia's eyes water as she enters the Superdome. The heat is suffocating, and she's suddenly overwhelmed by the smell of human waste. She looks over at her mom standing next to her. Trina's cheeks are sunken, and she looks like she might keel over from exhaustion.

It's Tuesday afternoon. Kia and her mother Trina have just been dropped at the Superdome by an army truck that picked them up from Poland Avenue. The truck took them through back streets along the upriver side of the Mississippi. Kia was amazed to see how little flooding there was. At one point, they drove through the French Quarter and passed open bars, some with lights on and bands playing. It felt surreal, almost like the hurricane never happened.

Now, Kia scans the cavernous interior of the stadium. It's dark, except for a few emergency lights and shafts of sunlight beaming down from the holes in the roof. In the shadows, she can see people, thousands of them. They lie sprawled across the green astroturf football field, or sit huddled in the stands. A new wave of putrid smells hits Kia's nose, and she gags. She needs to get out of here.

Pinching her nose, she points up towards the dome's tiered seats. Let's head up there. Maybe it won't smell as bad. Trina nods, but to Kia, she seems a million miles away. They find a concrete staircase and start making their way up. The stairs are steep, and Trina struggles to catch her breath. A young couple comes down the stairs and passes them.

The woman nods at Kia. Don't go too high up there. Last night, a guy got pushed over the rail and fell about 50 feet...

The woman's companion shakes his head. No, that ain't what happened. He wasn't pushed, he jumped. The couple continues to argue about the man's death as they make their way down the stairs. Then, Kia hears some familiar voices calling out her name. She turns and spots a group of friends from the lower ninth sitting in a nearby row of seats. They beckon her and Trina over. But before they can move, Kia's mom grips her forearm.

What is it? Trina points to a red-headed woman in her 30s down on the fields. I know that woman. That's Sherry Walters. She's the social worker who works with that mentoring program at your brother's school. Miss Sherry. Miss Sherry! Miss Sherry!

Over here! It's me! Damon's mom! Waters looks up and breaks into a smile. She holds up a finger and mouths the word, wait, then disappears. A few minutes later, she returns, climbing the steps up to their seats carrying treasures. Two clean, dry t-shirts and styrofoam containers full of food. Oh, I am so thrilled to see you, Miss Peters.

Damone called me early Monday morning. He was terrified you weren't going to survive the storm. I'm going to try his phone right now and let him know y'all okay. Waters pulls out her phone and dials. We'll see if it goes through. Kia watches eagerly. She would love to talk to her brother and grandmother, maybe figure out a plan to join them in St. John Parish, where they evacuated. Suddenly, Trina slumps back in her seat, her eyes fluttering, head rolled back.

Mom? Mom! Miss Peters? Oh my God. Miss Peters, are you okay? I'm... I'm fine. Just got a bit lightheaded.

But Waters is studying her face with a look of concern. She knows about some of Trina's health issues. "Where's your medicine?" Kia interjects. "Back at the house. We didn't have time to grab it." Waters looks at Trina. "We need to get you to a doctor. Come with me. I know where there's a medical area. Hold on. Wait a second." Trina reaches into her shoe and pulls out two waterlogged $20 bills.

She turns to one of Kia's friends and presses the bills into her hand. Take this, please. We're in good hands. Miss Sherry's gonna help us now. You need it more than we will. Before the friend can protest, Waters guides Trina down the stairs. Kia trails after them, relieved that someone else is taking charge and getting her mom the help she needs.

Excuse me, Lieutenant Governor. Sir.

It's Tuesday afternoon, and Foreman has barely slept the past few nights. Sunday night, she and her family sheltered in the Hyatt as the storm raged. Last night, they made it back to their home and were relieved to find it mostly undamaged. They spent a sweaty, sleepless night there with no power, no AC, and temperatures in the 90s.

Then her husband took the kids to their aunt's place in Lafayette this morning, while Foreman stayed behind. As the mayor's spokeswoman, she can't leave New Orleans. It's been chaos all day. Everywhere she goes, she's inundated with people begging for help.

Promised supplies from FEMA have been slow to arrive. Thousands of people are stranded on interstate overpasses, surrounded by floodwaters, waiting to be picked up and transported to an already overtaxed Superdome. Hotels without power and out of food are kicking guests out, sending them to the Superdome too. The truth is they need to get people out of the city. FEMA has said they have buses on the way, but who knows when they'll arrive?

So Foreman is trying to get the city's own buses to the Superdome to start the evacuation process. But there's a problem, and she needs the lieutenant governor's help to solve it.

She calls after him again. Lieutenant Governor, Mr. Landrieu. Finally, Landrieu turns. When you get back to Baton Rouge, can you please find Brenda Hatfield? Hatfield is New Orleans' chief administrative officer overseeing transportation. She evacuated to Baton Rouge, and with phone service out, Foreman can't reach her. Uh...

Landru nods. Foreman thanks him, trying hard to hide her embarrassment. She knows how absurd the situation is, that the city of New Orleans can't find the keys to its own buses.

but nothing since the hurricane has gone according to plan. Foreman heads off to find the mayor. As she makes her way to the stairs at the end of the hall, she looks out a window to the Superdome across the street. People are swarming around it. All of them are desperate. She's trying her best to help them, but it doesn't feel like enough. Kia perches on the armrest of a plastic chair in the medical aid area of the Superdome.

Her mother, Trina, is in the chair, an IV hooked up to her arm. Suddenly, Kia feels her mom clutch the belt loop of her shorts. Kia looks down. Her mom is trembling all over. Mom, are you okay? But Trina doesn't answer. Her eyes have rolled back in her head. Kia has seen her mother's epilepsy take hold many times, so she immediately recognizes it. She spots a medic and yells out. Help! Help!

The medic, in the middle of helping another patient, glances over his shoulder. But the medic walks away, headed toward another patient. Kia looks around frantically and spots Sherry Waters, the social worker.

"My mom! She needs help!" Waters runs over. She takes one look at Trina and puts her hand on Kia's shoulder. "I'm going to get a doctor. I'll be right back. I promise." Kia holds her mother's hands, hoping Trina can sense her presence through the electrical storm raging in her brain.

True to her word, Waters returns in a few minutes, a doctor right behind her. The doctor quickly works to get Trina on a gurney, and soon the four of them are rushing out to the helipad. The doctor explains that they're going to medevac Trina to a hospital out of the city. Pia nods, climbing into the helicopter in a daze. She's never been in a helicopter before, but she doesn't have time to be scared. All she's thinking about is her mom.

It's only when the helicopter is high in the sky that Kia realizes she's leaving the city where she's lived her entire life. And she has no idea when, or if, she'll ever be back.

Jabbar Gibson removes the gas cap of an old Ford parked on L.B. Landry Avenue. He sticks out his hand and his friend places a length of hose in his palm, like Gibson's a surgeon who called for a scalpel. He feeds the hose into the gas tank and begins to suck on it. It's Wednesday morning near the Fisher Housing Project.

The flooding hasn't reached here yet, but Gibson knows it's just a matter of time. So he and his friend have crafted an escape plan. They're going to siphon as much gas as they can from the cars left around the neighborhood. And then they're going to steal a big truck they saw parked a few blocks away.

It's not the first time Gibson has stolen a vehicle, so he knows he can do it. And this is for a good cause. He takes the hose from his mouth just before the gas reaches his lips and directs it into a plastic jug. Just then, he hears a sound behind him. Gibson turns. A yellow school bus is rumbling down the middle of the street. Suddenly, a new, better idea occurs to him.

He turns to his friend. "What if we had a bus?" His friend grins, and they jump up, running into the middle of the street, waving their arms. The bus slows to a stop, and Gibson runs to the side as the driver pops open the doors. "Yo, where'd you get this bus?" "There's a warehouse full of them over in Algiers Point." Algiers Point. That's not far from Fisher. The man gives them the address, then drives away.

Gibson and his friend take off running. They need to get to that warehouse before people take all the buses. If they pull this off, Gibson can save his family and a whole lot of people from Fisher. People who have no other way out.

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Jabbar Gibson sticks the key into the ignition of an old yellow school bus and turns it. The engine coughs and sputters, but doesn't start.

He sighs. Nearby, he hears his friend having the same trouble with another bus. It's Wednesday, August 31st, two days after Hurricane Katrina struck New Orleans. Gibson is in an old brick warehouse in Algiers Point, about a mile from his home in the Fisher Housing Project. There are roughly 30 buses parked in and around the warehouse, but they can't get any of them to start.

Gibson goes back to the small office and switches out his key for another one. Fortunately, all the keys are labeled, so it's easy to match the right key to the right bus. Gibson hears one of the buses start. He pops out of the office and runs over to it. His friend grins from behind the wheel. "Hoo-hoo! Get on board!" But then, his face falls. "Damn it! There's like negative gas in the tank."

"We won't make it back to Fisher, let alone out of the city. I guess we better start siphoning." Gibson shakes his head. "Nah, these things have huge tanks. It'll take us forever to siphon all the gas we need. Let's keep looking for one that already has gas." The two of them fan out again, checking buses. Gibson is about to give up hope as he enters yet another bus. It's old and beat up. The paint on the side is chipping, and the leather on the seats is cracked.

But when he turns the key, the engine comes to life. A few warning lights blink, but the gas gauge says the tank is nearly full. Gibson lets out a triumphant whoop and honks the horn. His friend rushes over and climbs in. As Gibson releases the emergency brake and puts the bus into gear, he instinctively looks into the rearview mirror, but he can't see anything behind him except the rows of empty seats.

He realizes the mirror is designed to get the driver a view of the kids, not what's behind the bus. It's a sharp reminder that he's never driven a vehicle this big before. Gibson shrugs. He'll just have to figure it out as he goes. Gregory Richardson slaps his arm, killing another mosquito.

But it's a losing battle. After 24 hours on his roof, Richardson is covered in insect bites. His lips are dry, and he's badly sunburned. It's Wednesday morning. Richardson and his neighbor Charles spent all Tuesday trying to attract the attention of helicopters flying overhead, to no avail. They've both run out of food and water.

Richardson isn't sure how much longer they can survive up here. He looks down into the brown water, lapping at the sides of his house. It hasn't receded at all yet. By his estimate, it's still more than six feet deep. No sane person would jump into it.

who knows what kind of chemicals and bacteria are in there, not to mention snakes. But he knows the true definition of insanity is to do the same thing over and over and expect a different result. And that's what another day on the roof feels like. Richardson stands up. Charles, I think we gotta do it. Do what? Get off these roofs and paddle our way downtown to the Superdome. That's where they said to go before the storm, right?

"I don't know. I'm pretty wiped out, man. I don't know if I have the energy to make it all that way." Richardson explains that he has a spare closet door in his shed. He's pretty sure it will float. The two of them can use it as a raft. From their rooftops, they've seen people making their way through the water using all kinds of makeshift flotation devices: refrigerators, empty drawers, pieces of driftwood. Charles still isn't convinced.

Charles reluctantly agrees. Richardson tells him to hang tight. Richardson walks to the edge of the roof, then sits down, letting his feet dangle in the water. After so much time in the heat, it almost feels nice, except for how filthy it is. Then he takes a deep breath and eases himself in.

As he dog paddles toward his shed, he hopes he's not making a terrible mistake by leaving the relative safety of the roof behind. But he feels he has no choice. It's clear by now that no help is coming anytime soon. He and Charles are going to have to save themselves.

In the Superdome, Marty Bamande types an email on his Blackberry as fast as he can. It's the only way he can communicate with Mike Brown, his boss at FEMA.

It's late morning on Wednesday, over 24 hours since Brown visited New Orleans and promised that supplies were on the way. But so far, what's arrived has been woefully inadequate. They still don't have enough food or water. The promised buses to move people out of the city are nowhere in sight.

To relieve overcrowding at the Superdome, the mayor's office has designated the nearby convention center as a secondary shelter. It's filling up fast, but there are no supplies to send there. Meanwhile, Mike Brown seems to have checked out. Bahmunday can't tell if he's oblivious to what's happening or just overwhelmed. But it doesn't matter. He needs Brown to act.

Bah Munday types out his latest message, not caring that it's full of typos. He informs his boss that the situation is past critical. People are dying in their homes, awaiting rescue. And others are dying at the Superdome, unable to get the medical care they need. And if nothing changes, many more will die within hours. He finishes the email and hits send.

A few minutes later, his phone buzzes. It's a one-sentence email from Brown. "Thanks for the update. Anything specific I need to do or tweak?" Bob Munday clenches his fists. Maybe Brown means this sarcastically, but it doesn't help his sense that Brown isn't taking this matter seriously. Bob Munday has to physically restrain himself from chucking his BlackBerry in frustration. He's never felt so powerless in his life.

Let's go! Everyone get on.

He watches as the people file on board. He's antsy. Any second, the floodwaters could arrive and they'll be trapped. Or the police could show up. And he doubts law enforcement will let him drive away in a stolen bus. He's, as they say, known to police. Just two weeks ago, he led the New Orleans PD on a high-speed chase. A few months before that, he was arrested for drug possession.

But he can't worry about that right now. He knows that these people are counting on him to get them to safety. The bus is filling up, but many more people are waiting to get on. He looks in the rearview mirror. Squeeze in, squeeze in. Let's get three or four people in each seat. If you have a kid with you, put him on your lap. The people do as he says, scooching over in their seats.

And then, a siren blares right behind the bus. Gibson sees red and blue lights flashing. Panic surges through him. He does not want to get arrested. Who knows what kind of conditions the jails are in right now. Before he knows what he's doing, he leaps off the bus. He tosses the keys to his mom, who's standing outside.

The rest of the people on the bus follow his lead, leaping off and running in every direction. As Gibson sprints into his apartment building and up the stairs, he's furious with himself. All those people were counting on him to get them out of here, and he's letting them down. Now that the cops are here, he has no idea how he's going to get himself or anyone else to safety.

This is episode two of our four-part series, Hurricane Katrina. A quick note about our scenes. In most cases, we can't know exactly what was said, but everything is based on historical research. If you'd like to learn more about this story, we recommend Breach of Faith, Hurricane Katrina, and the Near Death of a Great American City by Jed Horn.

Inside City Hall During Katrina by Sally Foreman.

I'm your host, Cassie DePeckel. Austin Rackless wrote this episode. Our editor is Alyssa Adams. Script consulting by Jed Horn. Additional story consulting by Petrina Peters. Voice acting by Ace Anderson and Kat Peebles. Sound design and Dolby Atmos mix by Outhouse Audio. Audio engineer is Sergio Enriquez. Coordinating producers are Christian Banas and Desi Blaylock.

Produced by Alita Rosansky, Olivia Richard, and Emily Frost. Managing Producer is Matt Gant. Senior Managing Producer is Ryan Lohr. Senior Producer is Andy Herman. Executive Producers are Jenny Lauer-Beckman, Stephanie Jens, and Marshall Louis. For Wondery...

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