Fault

Part 14

Fallon Connelly 1:45 p.m.

There aren't as many people in the park at the base of the arch as I would have expected, but I have to squint to see that far. Maybe they really are evacuating people. I try to picture a ferryboat filled with people like the stunned woman who ran into me but the image is too distorted for my imagination.

We're just crossing onto one of the many paths that lead to the base of the arch, and the river, when Kim grabs Brett's arm abruptly.

"Oh, God," she says, pointing to our left.

There a multi-level parking garage, often used by tourists, has collapsed in on itself. The cement structure now resembles a gray cake, with the open air spaces that hold cars now closed tightly. In some places you can see twisted metal flattened between the levels. I shudder at the thought of people being inside when it came down.

Kim is crying again. Brett rubs her back. Price's pained breathing has resumed.

I turn away from the sight, not being able to process it fully and not wanting to. What I see in the direction of the river are groups of people with ashen faces shuffling toward us.

Groups and groups of people, moving away from the river. Something isn't right.

"Come on," I say and start walking, knowing that at least Cal will be behind me.

There is a point, as you walk on the beautifully kept green grass, where the ground falls away and a low bank sinks into the brown water of the Mississippi. When my cousins came down a few years ago my dad and I took them on a touristy riverboat cruise. It was one of those boats with the white trim. They played fiddle music and gave some breathtaking views of the city from the river. We all walked away with pictures of the arch backlit by a fiery sunset. I wonder what view the people on the river are getting today.

I don't have to wait long to find out. With the arch far to our right and masses of stunned people passing us and heading back to the burning city, we come to the first point where we can see the river. And not a single one of us are prepared for it.

Eads Bridge is gone. Not entirely. The massive concrete supports still stand, sad ruins poking up through the water. But the road is missing. I bring a hand to cover my mouth, which hangs open in disbelief. Debris swirls in the river. Chunks of wood and metal float at the mercy of the churning water, which resembles rapids more than the strong but gentle river I grew up with. Two helicopters, one of them looking like it belongs to the National Guard, hover over the scene. I'm so horrified I don't even realize the most disturbing part of the whole image until Cal says it.

"Doesn't the Mississippi flow south?" he says, his voice shaking.

I can hear my third grade teacher, Mrs. LaGrange, say it as clearly as if it were yesterday.

From Minnesota down to Mexico, south is the only way for the Mississippi to go. Not today, Mrs. LaGrange.

Today the Mississippi flows north.