As the hurricane headed up the coast of Florida, reports flooded in as fast as communities were flooded out. Boynton Beach had virtually been blown off the map. The hurricane was moving at an impressive speed, and - unlike conventional hurricanes - this massive storm showed no signs of slowing down. In fact, it seemed to be intensifying as it gained momentum and moved up the coast. Fire departments and EMS crews were taxed to their limits; many were still reeling from the January 17th bombings which had destroyed hundreds of oceanfront homes belonging to famous celebrities, corporate executives, and independently wealthy families. Now a natural disaster was replacing the man-made disasters that had struck America only two months ago.

TV stations were reporting every incident; suddenly local weather forecasters became the "stars" of the hour as they kept watch over the progress of what some were calling "the storm of the millenium". One rather haughty female weather person at a station in North Carolina had predicted that the storm would "blow itself out to sea and die"; now she had reversed her prediction: now the storm would move inland and devastate the entire east coast of the United States.

O.U.T.R.A.G.E. members across the country were helping to deal with the disaster in any way possible. Some were leaving their 'posts' at the many restaurants, community centers, schools, libraries, gymnasiums, and other sites where they'd been stationed since O.U.T.R.A.G.E. began its daily teleconferences at the end of January. Psychologists, psychiatrists, and grief counselors who had worked tirelessly after the O.U.T.R.A.G.E. bombings were now squeezed into service again, being flown to sites where the hurricane had already left damage in its wake and moved on. Countless families had been obliterated. Property damage was alredy mounting into the billions. The number of new homeless people was unfathomable. Already, hundreds of thousands of people had nothing left but the clothes on their back - and the hurricane hadn't even left the coast of Florida yet. Experts were predicting incaluable destruction as this storm continued its vicious path up the east coast.

The American Red Cross had seen its resources stretched to the limits in these past few years; now, it was almost helpless itself, unable to move people and supplies quickly enough, mostly due to a lack of funds. Government resources, of course, were inadequate, virtually unavailable. Reports of wealthy individuals committing suicide other than face the possibility of being destitute were mounting all along the coastline. One man had shot all six of his family members in a warped attempt to "save" them from the possibility of being broke; he'd left a note, saying he couldn't bear the thought of his wife or his five children doing without their million-dollar mansion, Hummers, and luxury lifestyles. He saw himself now as a failure since there was nothing he could do to save his family from such utter devastation. He then shot himself in the head. Four hours later the hurricane demolished the family's mansion, just a mile south of Boca Raton. "I have nothing if not my possessions," he scrawled. "I am a complete failure." Another man who had made a fortune in Florida real estate scribbled out a last will and testament dictating that all his money be used to "care for the victims of this terrible tragedy. I myself don't have the will, or the courage, to try to survive such carnage. To be homeless, poor, hungry, or needy is beyond my comprehension. I can't even imagine living in such circumstances." He and his live-in girlfriend of sixteen years then retreated to their sprawling master bedroom, equipped with whips, chains, handcuffs, and cocaine. Their sumptuous West Palm Beach home was ripped apart within an hour after the 63 year-old real estate magnate and his 31-year-old had just completed their final sex acts together. When rescue squads found them, the stunningly attractive platinum blonde still had her boyfriend's penis in her mouth, as he lie tangled in the chains that bound his hands and shackled his ankles. His blindfold remained fitted to his face, but his thirty-six-hundred-dollar toupee had been blown off and landed on a mountain of cocaine, which miraculously kept it from being whisked away by the fierce winds. Teeth marks on the tycoon's engorged appendage seemed to indicate that the final impact of his girlfriend's blow job coincided precisely with the moment of impact when the hurricane blew the entire second story off their den of debauchery.

The storm blew on. Up the coast.