Issue date: 10/23/08 Section: News

And once you get past them, things start to get bad.

In front of a desiccated building off the freeway is a hand-painted sign that reads, "SHOOTING TO KILL. KEEP OUT."

At the corner of an intersection, a shipping crate stares down traffic. On the side is another painted message: "LET US BACK HOME PLEASE."

Consider them lucky. Many in Galveston don't have homes anymore.

Early Sept. 13, Hurricane Ike was in the gulf feinting and changing direction as deftly as a champion boxer, and the people who stayed behind in Noel Vargas' neighborhood were ready. They'd been through this before.

"When Carla and Alicia came through, there wasn't even any flooding. Those storms were stronger, but we'll be back, we'll rebuild. We'll rebuild," says Mike Gml, one of the few people in the Channelview subdivision whose house is still in decent shape. He stayed behind to take care of his pets.

"I think I need an environmentalist because I don't know if I can grow oranges in my backyard anymore," Gml says.

Of the 30 or so houses in Vargas' small neighborhood, Gml's is one of three or four that survived the storm. Vargas' house didn't. Neither did his church.

Shattered sanctuary

The pastor stands in the middle of what used to be a sanctuary. Behind him, workers gauge the damage and clean. There was a time when the sight made him stop. Now he's just worried about what to do next.

"Nothing works," says Vargas, who is now a pastor at West Oaks Baptist Church. "We're just trying to salvage what we can."

West End Baptist Church is still standing, but it has been gutted and cleaned out. Hundreds of chairs line the parking lot because Vargas can't keep them inside because most of them are likely infested with mold.

Inside, the place is being taken apart. Cheyenne Restoration, Vargas' contracting company, is busy figuring out if West End has any fatal structural problems that would cause it to collapse. About a month ago, the structure was four feet deep in poisoned storm surge, so rotting wood is a major concern.

"We don't know if it'll hold up," Vargas says.

In the back, a rusted emergency exit door hangs open. When the surge came though, it plowed through the door and rushed down the church halls at high speeds.

Everything of value is huddled in the middle of the shattered sanctuary. A podium, an organ, some books, some tables and a fist-sized crucifix are the only things remaining in what used to be a building the size of a large restaurant.

Vargas leans up against the frame of what used to be a window. He doesn't know what is going to become of the church he has been a member of for 12 years. He doesn't even know if he's coming back.

"We're not sure what's gonna' happen," Vargas says. "We're homeless. You never think it could happen you."

He turns and takes one more look at the sanctuary before heading out to his car. There's a second ruined building he needs to go through before calling it a day: his house. It's not easy, Vargas says, being around this collapsed town for long.

"You see all the destruction and eventually you want to see something else," Vargas says.

On the way out, one of the workers stops him. His name is Robert Blevin and he is a member of the team assessing the damage to the Vargas home.

"Looks like the drywall isn't paper based, so it might not grow mold," Blevin says. "That's some good news, I guess."

That's what passes for good news in Galveston these days.

The deadly surge

Think suburbia meets World War III and you'll have an idea. This place is a warzone.

Vargas slows down once he enters the neighborhood. It's not just for reverence's sake. There's a pair of upended barges choking the road into the subdivision.

"When I saw this, my heart sank," Vargas says.

By the look of it, so did all of the houses. The neighborhood is spread out among two blocks and four rows of houses. One of the rows rests just a few feet from the bay. Of the eight or so houses there, two have completely disappeared, foundation and all.

His house isn't faring much better. The contractors have removed all his belongings, but nearly everything is destroyed. The water was up to about eight feet in this one-story house, almost filling it to the ceiling.

"Fifty percent of the stuff here is not ours," Vargas says while he points to a mound of twisted appliances. "We don't know where our stuff is."

From the street, the Vargas house looks like it's doing OK. The walls are still up and the roof is intact. If it wasn't for the missing window, one might think that the surge wended around.

"I think you'll need a new floor," says Jerry Wilton, the owner of Cheyenne Restoration. He chuckles and then realizes what he's laughing about.

"That's not funny, I know."

Vargas will need a new floor and some new walls, because the surge punched about three feet of drywall off the bottom of all the interior walls. Nearly everything was destroyed in the storm. In the kitchen, the water crushed the family's stove.

"It was crunched like a soda can," Vargas says.

The surge hit the rear of the house, and though no one was there to see it, the pastor believes the wave barreled through the walls in the back and funneled through the living room window. Because of the path the surge took, his daughter's room was obliterated. The master bedroom fared much better. But "better" just means that the walls in the bedroom escaped major damage.

Much of the furniture has disappeared. Vargas believes that the furniture went out with water - through the living room window.

"One of my neighbors at the end of the road came up to me and said, 'Hey, weren't your chairs green? I think I got a piece of one,'" Vargas says.

The damage to the Vargases home is catastrophic and the pastor isn't sure that they'll move back. He's not sure if his family will even be allowed to move back.

The problem is cost. With the widespread destruction of Galveston Island, Vargas and his neighbors have had trouble getting insurance companies to pay attention to the situation.

It's possible that his insurance provider could condemn his home. If that happens, Vargas will receive a monetary sum, but he and his family will be homeless. If his house is not condemned, it's possible that the city will require the Vargases to elevate the house at least a foot to prevent future flood damage. Allstate would not cover the costs of the modification in that case, meaning Vargas would have to pay for it out of pocket.

"We're not sure what's gonna' happen. We don't know," Vargas says.

One big moan

Across the street, Lee and Alicia King don't have any answers either.

"I'd be happy just to have an [insurance] adjuster call me back," Alicia King says.

The Kings lost their home, both cars and almost their lives. The Kings, their three children, two dogs and cat stayed behind during the storm. At one point, the water was about five feet deep in their home.

To escape the flooding, the Kings huddled in their cramped attic. Above the garage they stored enough food and water to last them through the hurricane. Though the Kings were blind to the outside world while the surge flowed their home, they heard everything.

"The last thing we heard on the radio was when it was 60 miles out," Lee King says. "Then, all of the sudden, things went from OK to not OK.

"It was one big moan."

The claustrophobic crawlspace saved the King's lives. About four feet below them, the storm surge, balled up like an icy fist, smashed through their house at dangerous speeds.

"The doors were open and the water was going about 40 mph before it stopped, and then 40 mph [the other way,"] Lee King says.

The Kings spent six tense hours in the house. Six tense, uncomfortable hours.

"The fleas were there, too," Lee King says. "They tore up my children."

Six tense, uncomfortable hours punctuated by a few scares. That's where the hole in the ceiling comes from.

During the storm, Lee and Alicia King's son, Jack, tumbled through the thin, drywall garage ceiling and feel about 10 feet into a pile of soaked trash.

"Yeah, it was scary. I looked up and, woosh, he went through the floor," Alicia King says.

All of the Kings, including dogs and cat, are safe and taking refuge at a hotel in San Antonio. They expect to be there for at least the rest of the year.

While the Kings settle into a new home, the old one is a painful reminder of the day Ike sucker punched their neighborhood.

"It'd be easier to just not deal with it and start over," Alicia King says.

Strong faith, silent island

For Vargas it's a time to count blessings. Through it all, he knows his family will bounce back.

"Above all, appreciate life," Vargas says. "Even with our problems, here in the states, we have it pretty good."

Vargas will leave the island for College Station after night falls. With malfunctioning traffic signals and a ruptured infrastructure, Galveston is a risky proposition after sundown.

The traffic is heavy exiting the island. The truck next to us is still long enough to make out a cardboard sign taped to the driver-side door.

"Two men with tools. Will work."

Looking around, the debris piles high enough to block out road signs, it's hard to imagine how many men and how much work it'll take to get this place back to normal. On the way out, the traffic passes by the landlocked boats again. Silent and defeated, they're eerie monuments to a broken town.

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