Act Two

(2 of 5)

It turns out that you can't drain a city of 2 million people in a day. It's not as if it's a fire drill you can practice, other than on a computer model that will never account for all the brave and stupid and sentimental things people do when their world starts to rattle and pitch. Sound the alarms too soon, and you may disrupt lives for no reason. Wait too long, and you risk losing them.

For officials in cities across the country, newly aware that they had better have some kind of rational evacuation plan in place, Rita taught as much about the challenge of leaving as Katrina taught about staying behind. Los Angeles, sitting on a basket of fault lines, has no plans for a mass evacuation. San Francisco envisions sending residents out across bridges that could crumple. New York City at least has subways that can move 8 million people a day--but those lines are mentioned as a favorite terrorist target.

In Texas, the plan was for about a million people to move out of harm's way. The reality was that two and half times as many hit the roads, and that doesn't count the dogs and cats and goats and hedgehogs evacuating as well. The Texodus came in waves, first on Tuesday from Galveston, the barrier island of 57,000 that takes its hurricanes seriously, then thousands more from coastal towns and hundreds of thousands more from Houston, whose Mayor Bill White urged residents of low-lying areas to get out--now. "Don't wait," he said. "The time for warnings is over." In Matagorda County, sheriff James Mitchell warned parents that if they decided to try to ride out the storm and were caught, they could be charged with child endangerment and their children taken into custody. But for once, the public did not need much convincing. Forecasters couldn't say for sure where Rita was headed, and people weren't in a mood to take chances.

White called what followed the largest mass evacuation in U.S. history. It was also at times the slowest. By Wednesday Rita was a Category 5 hurricane, one of the three meanest storms ever tracked in the Atlantic, moving at about 9 m.p.h. toward her prey, faster than East Texas could run away. Fleeing families were lucky to move a mile in an hour. Soon dead cars lined the roadsides, and the tanker trucks meant to revive them were themselves stuck in traffic or else had the wrong nozzles to fit civilian cars. "They're saying if you have one-eighth of a tank of gas or less, to get off the roads and let other people escape," said Mary Sieger, 62. "But where should people go if they do pull off? There's no gas in the entire city. They can't get home."

Somehow state and city officials could not seem to reverse the southbound lanes until midday Thursday, and even that was remarkable because there was no master scheme for doing it at all. "Contraflow was never in the plan," White tells TIME. "We improvised it." One city official says that was only because of TV images of packed lanes next to empty ones. "They [state officials] were not going to do it," the official says. "It was never part of the plan because they believed that the roads could accommodate the traffic." But that's barely true on a normal day's rush hour, much less during a sudden spasm of survivalism. Governor Rick Perry acknowledged that being stuck in traffic for 12 or 15 hours was bad, but "it sure beats being plucked off a roof by a helicopter." It was a line he was to repeat all day.