Few structures fall from grace as fast as the Superdome. The home to the New Orleans Saints and host of several Super Bowls drew great media attention immediately following Hurricane Katrina in , but for all the wrong reasons. In June , the stadium—now called the Mercedes-Benz Superdome—reopened upon the completion of its last phase of renovations. Sloan plumbing systems have been installed with each renovation phase with the last showcasing the latest and greatest in Sloan water-efficiency technology.
Scott M. Gallo Mechanical in Metairie, La. The design team at WDG saw the value and advantages of specifying vitreous china fixtures from Sloan and proposed these fixtures to the Superdome planning department, which has long been supplied with reliable, high-performing flush valves manufactured by Sloan.
Some slept outside on the terrace, trying to get shade under a National Guard truck. Young boys who had lost their shoes hopped on the hot pavement to save their scalding feet. Grown men discarded their clothes and walked around in their briefs. Bodden and six relatives fled their homes in the West Bank — which survived the storm in relatively good condition — to ride out the storm in the Superdome.
By last night, the family had had enough and was going to try to get out and walk home, through the floodwater and across the Crescent City Connection, a massive bridge spanning the Mississippi River. Her uncle, David Rodriguez, 28, said he heard at least seven shots Tuesday night and saw one man running past him with a gun. She has enlisted the older boys to take turns walking patrols at night as the rest of the family sleeps.
Is everyone here? Many of the injured, the elderly and the critically ill, and those suffering from dehydration, have been taken across a walkway to an adjoining sports center, the New Orleans Arena. One man was lying part way on a cot, his legs flopped off the side, a forgotten blood-pressure monitor still attached to his right arm.
Some had wrapped plastic bags on their feet to escape the urine and wastewater seeping from piles of trash. Others, fearing the onset of disease, had surgical masks over their mouths. An alarm had been going off for more than 24 hours, and no one knew how to turn it off. Samuel Thompson, 34, is trying to make it as a professional violinist. He had grabbed his instrument — made in by a Boston woman — as he fled the youth hostel Sunday where he had been staying in New Orleans for the past two months.
He rested the black case on a table next to a man with no legs in a wheelchair and a pile of trash and boxes, and gingerly popped open the two locks. He lifted the violin out of the red velvet encasement and held it to his neck. Thompson closed his eyes and leaned into each stretch of the bow as he played mournfully. A woman eating crackers and sitting where a vendor typically sells pizza watched him intently.
Thompson figures he is safe for now and will get in touch when he can. Meanwhile, he will play, and, once in a while, someone at the sports complex will manage a smile. And I should play for them. They should have something. Share story. Light was fading fast. The water was still rising. Thornton finally spoke. We need to get these people into the parking garages, where at least they can get out of the building and into some fresh air. Mouton suggested checking the water level every thirty minutes.
Inside the Superdome, things were descending further into hell. The air smelled toxic. People had broken up into factions by race, separating into small groups throughout the building that the National Guard struggled to control. A few of these groups wandered the concourse, stealing food and attacking anyone who stood up to them. The tiny jail cell down in the bowels of the Dome, which they kept for game-day security, was filling up.
A man had been caught sexually assaulting a young girl. Reports of other rapes were widespread. Three people died in the Superdome; one apparently jumped off a foot high walkway.
Supplies were running low, and as the National Guard began to ration things like water and diapers the crowd grew incensed and accused them of hoarding goods for their own use.
On Wednesday morning, Mouton and Thornton checked the water first thing. It had barely risen at all — maybe an inch. The chief of police had been given bad information. FEMA reached out that morning: It was sending buses to begin an evacuation. There was a plan. Thornton and Mouton just needed to find a way to keep things under control for 20 hours before it could be enacted.
That night a National Guardsman got jumped as he walked through a dark, flooded locker room. His assailant hit him with a metal rod taken from a cot. The bullet went through his own leg. In response, guardsman put up barbed wire at various areas around the building, protecting themselves from the general population. That night SMG sent a private helicopter to evacuate the staff and their families. Though leaving in the light of day would be easier, it could also cause hysteria from those left behind in the Dome.
Denise Thornton was tasked with deciding the order of evacuation. First went the disabled and the elderly. Then the women and the children. Then the male employees, and, finally, the men who worked security would be the last to leave. Her husband would be on the last helicopter. At in the morning, Denise Thornton walked with her group up to the helipad, out in the open air, and there it was.
Her escape out. She had heard a lot, from the National Guard, from her husband, from rumors among the employees. She knew the destruction was bad, that water was everywhere. But now, in the moonlight, she finally understood what had happened. The moonlight was shining on the water. For the remainder of that night, it was just Doug Thornton and a few remaining members of his management and security teams. The National Guard had pulled back from many parts of the building.
They guarded the office where Thornton and his team huddled, but that was about it. Outside, there was anarchy. And then the next morning, more bad news: The buses had been rerouted and delayed, sent to a highway overpass where people were stranded.
Thornton felt the seconds ticking, each one more dangerous than the last. He needed to start getting people out. The job was far from over; it took two days to get everyone out and onto buses.
Many of them boarded without having any idea of where they were headed. The Superdome was, as far as Thornton was concerned, completely destroyed. The roof had ripped off in sheets.
Feces covered the walls of bathrooms. The air conditioning ducts would have mold in them by now. That would be sorted out soon, Thornton thought, or maybe never at all. At noon, he boarded a helicopter. On the flight out west, Thornton looked down and saw his home in Lakewood South, as well as the seven feet of water surrounding it. The Superdome was gone. His home was destroyed. He flew on to Gonzales, where his wife was waiting for him.
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