Yield

by Johnson, Bryan K.

  “Looks like a dress,” Abd blurts.

  Isabel shoots him an icy glare. The intensity in her eyes is enough to send him on his way.

  “Ladies?” Devin calls. He follows Abd ahead, soon trailed by Chris’s long strides.

  Terra turns and looks questioningly at Isabel.

  “It’s alright, honey,” Izz comforts. “I’ll be right here with you.”

  Isabel puts her arm around the girl, ushering her forward to join the trek south. Others merge down to the staggered roadway. They soon create a caravan of the damned, walking quietly as the changed world ripples all around them.

  Chapter 20

  Just five miles from the beginning of his son’s exodus south, Jonathon Thomas helps his own survivors pry debris away from the entrance to KOMO’s underground parking garage. His shimmering silver tie lies beside a pinstripe suit jacket folded neatly on the rubble. He brushes back the short, gray-peppered hair from his forehead. Beads of sweat stand out along it.

  Jonathon rolls up his dirty burgundy sleeves, lifting heavy chunks of stone thrown by the blast. As the last remnant pinned against the metal roll-up doors is removed, the grating sound of steel grinds upward. Dave drives out with one of the sat trucks, quickly followed by Jean in the news van. A cheer erupts from the remaining KOMO staff. They stand up as one to gratefully climb into their two chariots.

  “Give that man a raise,” Jon says, nodding toward Dave. He helps Jean step down from the news van.

  She laughs. A glimmer of hope shines from her twilight eyes. “I already told him he could have my paycheck.” Her smile, usually so carefree and infectious, quickly changes. She looks back at the news vehicles and the handful of survivors within. “So few,” Jean whispers. “Unbelievable.”

  Images of the talented people she worked alongside for so many years begin to fill her thoughts. She looks sadly at the faces that are left. They stare back with expectant eyes, begging for reassurance.

  “How in the hell did we let this happen, Jon?” she whispers. An unusual tone of insecurity trembles in her voice.

  “I don’t know.” Questions plague Jonathon’s own mind. “Did we get anything on the Associated Press feed?”

  “We couldn’t broadcast it out,” she says angrily. Missing even self-imposed deadlines aggravates her. Jean pauses, wondering how much she should tell him. “This strange alert tone overrode us.”

  “What?” Jonathon’s navy blue eyes narrow.

  “Mr. M.I.T. says we may be able to patch around it,” she says. “But not from here.”

  Her attention drifts back out to the wreckage of Seattle. The stumps of once-proud buildings are torn and blackened, their facades completely obliterated from the ground where they had stood.

  She closes her eyes, seeing the glimmering towers as they were. They rise like testaments to man’s brilliance before the images fade again into the scorched ruins that are left. Glass and metal blown out of the structures light the ground like glowing sand on a blistered earth. Wires and piping are exposed through massive holes in the skyscrapers. Entire floors catch sunlight for the first time. Row after row of devastated buildings stretch into the horizon.

  “This needs to be documented, Jon,” she whispers. The words are not a request. They echo from her mouth, mixing with the sounds of dust scraping across her Emerald City. “The world has to know what happened here today.”

  “What we need is to get away from all this,” Jonathon says. He closes the sliding van door in preparation for what he knows is coming. “Radiation isn’t something I want to experience firsthand.” He gestures through the glass at the passengers inside. “You think they want to die?”

  Jean dreads the words screaming out in her mind. Her voice drops to a terrified whisper. “Have you considered it might already be too late?”

  The thought tears through him. His bare forearms suddenly begin to tingle.

  Burnt scraps of paper swirl in the air around them.

  “We’ll leave, but we’re shooting footage along the way,” Jean orders. Her eyes harden as the brashness of her executive producer role suddenly returns. “It’s our responsibility to the public. Once we get to a translator tower, we should be able to broadcast again. People need to know, Jon.”

  His mind spins. The broad-shouldered creative director can only shake his head. He tries to fight back the new fears growing inside him. But the fear only darkens, twisting into a kindled rage. “Keep chanting your journalistic ideals when your people’s skin begins to blister,” he barks. Jonathon stares deep into her violet eyes. They don’t back down. They don’t even blink. “We need to focus on surviving this,” he shouts, storming away. “I don’t give a shit about anything other than that.”

  “Jon!” she calls after him. Sadness soon replaces her veil of strength. Jean’s knees begin to shake.

  Scratching obsessively at his exposed hands, Jonathon climbs into the passenger seat of the sat truck and slams the door. Dave looks curiously over from the driver’s side. “What…” the young engineer starts. He takes another look at the brooding black man. “Never mind.”

  Jean takes a deep breath. Worry still shakes her. Pull it together. They need you. She turns, seeing dirty faces staring back with concern through the front windshield. Jean moves around the front of the news van to the passenger side…and an open sliding door. Shit. They heard everything.

  She stops cold. Embarrassment twists through her. Apprehension flashes color to her tanned cheeks.

  Kevin Green leans out from the passenger seat. A mixture of panic and preservation is in his eyes. “I think we should follow Jonathon’s lead on this one, Jean,” the reporter says expectantly. “I’ve got a wife and kids at home.”

  “We all have families,” his photographer loudly agrees from inside. Heads nod all around.

  “It’ll be okay,” Jean says to the group. “We’ll just shoot some quick b-roll as we go, and be out of the city in no time. Dave says we can send a short broadcast once we’re far enough north.”

  Their faces look timidly back at her. Their eyes beg only to flee.

  “It’ll be okay,” she repeats. Jean forces happiness into her hoarse voice. She slides the door closed and walks across the uneven ground to the driver’s side. Her hands tremble as they grip the handle. Jean’s eyes close tight.

  Reluctantly, she opens the door and sits. Even though her entire being wants only to curl up and cry—to shriek up into the fiery heavens—she turns and weakly smiles.

  “Here we go, kids. Play nice back there.”

  Both news vehicles slowly pull away. They begin driving over the wreckage-covered streets, headed north into the unknown. The tiny vehicles are surrounded by monolithic pieces of a life now lost. Fragments of civilization crumble under their tires as they drive through the city’s smoldering ruins.

  Chapter 21

  Strange and saddened bodies walk with Devin along I-5, their backgrounds and beliefs at odds with the shared circumstance. More people emerge through whirling clouds of dust. They take shattered on-ramps down to join the mass migration south. Rainless clouds remain dark overhead, intermixing with the thick smoke of fires burning unimpeded over the ravaged and broken.

  Refugees move slowly across their scarred homeland. Hundreds of timid eyes dart around for signs of help. But no one comes. No compassion is there to meet them. Only the dead surround, stretching far into the distance.

  Mile after relentless mile, they trudge on. Angry murmurs soon ripple through the crowd, spreading more quickly than any plague.

  “Where the hell are the rescuers?” a tattooed 24-year-old asks. Circles of ink are stitched into the skin around his gaunt neck. He pulls down a black bandanna used to block the dust from his mouth.

  Heads shake with uncertainty. Several voices respond from the crowd, almost too weakly to hear.

  “Don’t know. Maybe the terrorists got them, too.”

  “They’re all dead, probably.”

  “Terrorists? I heard w
e were under attack.”

  “No, the people I met downtown said it was a weapons experiment.”

  “Not a chance. It’s gotta be some crazy terror cell with a dirty bomb or something.”

  “Shouldn’t the military be out here? Or FEMA?” another woman asks. Panic shakes in her voice. She holds a shattered left wrist against her body.

  “Our government doesn’t care about us!” the man wearing the bandanna shouts. Sounds of wrathful agreement rise within the mob. “We’re on our own now. It’s kill or be killed.”

  “Our rules now.”

  * * *

  The clustered hopeless shuffle along the freeway, spreading out as the day wears on. Some stop to wait for help. Others slow as fatigue sets in.

  “Alright, guys!” Isabel yells ahead. Her feet grind painfully to a stop, refusing to go even one inch more. She adjusts the duffel bag slung across her shoulders. The wet bag feels ten times heavier than it should. She rubs at the line cutting into her shoulder from the strap. “I think it’s about break time back here!”

  The pregnant flight attendant puts a hand up to Terra’s arm for support. The other clutches the bottom of her pregnant stomach to ease the sharp throbbing in her back. “Whew!” Isabel winces.

  Terra stares straight ahead, her face expressionless. Her eyes are glazed. They stare past and through everything around her—and have for miles. Unfocused. Barely blinking.

  Isabel nudges the teen, trying to get a reaction. Terra’s eyes slowly look over. “Making a pregnant woman speed walk,” Isabel says. “His mama needs to revisit that lesson in manners.” The feisty Latina stands on her tiptoes to shout at Devin. “Won’t get much farther without food and water anyways!”

  Devin reluctantly stops. He fights back a spark of agitation at the delay. “Fine,” he groans. The fireman turns to Chris. “Feel like doing a little scouting?”

  Abd strides back to them from the lead. Chris’s unwelcoming eyes freeze him in place.

  “Don’t need to,” Chris says gruffly. His eyes stay locked on the Arab hovering several paces away. “Unlike some here, I grew up in this city.”

  “Glad to have a guide, mate.” Devin smiles, trying to soften the intimidating man’s mood. “Any stores nearby?”

  “Off the freeway. There’s a market just east of that exit up ahead.”

  “‘Bout bloody time,” Devin says. “Finally some good news.”

  “Shouldn’t we stay here?” Chris asks. “We’ll be easier to spot by the rescuers.”

  The sound of exploding glass echoes right behind them.

  Car windows splinter and yield under the assaulting blows. They shatter into millions of sparkling prisms as raiders and vandals eagerly set to their work. Devin looks around at all the refugees walking and pillaging nearby, seeing only desperation and anger in their eyes.

  * * *

  “They ain’t coming,” a scruffy-looking man whispers to a tall, desperate shadow walking next to him. “No one will know. Just take what you want.” His eyes begin to shoot around, weighing justification and risk. “We have to defend ourselves. Think about it.”

  “Survival of the fittest, man,” the accomplice responds.

  “Exactly,” the scruffy man answers. His dirty mouth curls up into a grin. “It’s time to play.”

  * * *

  “Nobody seems too hopeful they’re on the way,” Devin says. “I’ve been a firefighter for a lot of years, and the systems are just not designed for something like this.” Devin points toward the cracked edges of a massive blast crater, miles behind them. “Too big of an impact area. Compromised resources.” Thousands of refugees continue to pour onto the freeway. “They aren’t coming today, mate. Not for a while.”

  Devin turns back to the girls resting behind them, motioning up towards the next off-ramp. “We need to head up. You ladies ready?”

  “Masochistic Brit,” Isabel mutters in objection. A hint of a smile touches Terra’s face.

  Even though her feet beg her not to, Isabel slowly begins to hike on behind Devin and Chris. Her hand moves down to an aching lower back.

  Abd slows. He’s also tired. But not from walking. His thin runner’s build could walk all day and night if he needed to. Abd is tired of the expected uselessness and insults screaming back at him from the eyes of the towering black man. He stops.

  A crooked but polite smile spreads across Abd’s face, trying its best to exude gentlemanly charm.

  “What the hell do you want?” Isabel asks as they approach. She wraps an arm protectively around Terra’s shoulders.

  “Just to help,” Abd sighs. He grits his teeth to stay the words he wants so badly to shout. “May I?” he asks. A curiously helpful tone rises to his voice as he points to Isabel’s duffel bag.

  Her chocolate eyes squint threateningly back. Trust is not something Isabel gives easily. Especially not today. The pain in her back finally overcomes any misgivings. “It’s nothing that valuable anyway,” she says, handing her only possessions to him. Isabel’s voice hardens. “But you’d better stay close, Arab.”

  He takes the bag and slings it over his right shoulder. Abd winces as the weight shifts in his separated socket. Pain shoots down his left side. The jolt turns into throbbing then gradually subsides back into the now-familiar ache. He looks up expectantly, but Isabel and Terra have already sped away. “You’re welcome,” he mumbles to himself.

  Abd and the rest of his tenuous fellowship break from the other survivors on the freeway, heading up the exit’s off-ramp. Several others follow behind them. Most stay on the rugged interstate, continuing south.

  When they reach the intersection atop the crumbling overpass, Devin’s body stiffens. Husbands and wives, parents and children are all running chaotically through the streets. Their arms overflow with anything they can carry. Panic and skepticism look back from thousands of eyes as the city embraces a new order of anarchy.

  Two thin figures kick out the glass from a broken storefront window nearby, carrying out a television set. One of them adjusts the rifle slung over his shoulder.

  “Might want to stay a little closer up here, ladies,” Devin says. He motions down to the others still climbing up the steep incline.

  “Let’s hurry up, ladies,” Isabel echoes, looking back at Abd with a mischievous smile.

  Dark eyes flicker under the shadow of his brow. The Arab’s jaw tightens. He forces his feet to move obediently, step by step behind the ungrateful infidels.

  “Jesus,” Isabel says, glancing around at the chaos teeming throughout the streets.

  “No. I think he took the day off,” Devin says. His sharp British humor seems out of place amid the melee.

  A look of protective understanding passes between Devin and Chris. They set out again in front of the others, heading east from the intersection. Rules of law no longer apply within the dying city. Sporadic packs of people push forcibly past one another, their surging elbows and disregard striking without cause or care. A crimson sun hangs low over the twisted metal of sheared buildings. The brilliant sunset glitters back from steel and glass, sparkling like fire along the boulevard’s broken dreams.

  * * *

  The front entrance of the market is completely smashed in. A shopping cart is caught awkwardly between the frame and floor. The store’s tall windows lie in small, sandy pieces all across the concrete. The dull sounds of panic echo from within. People push in and out around the shattered doors, clutching to whatever they can.

  Devin stops twenty feet from the single-story building’s double doors. His emerald eyes narrow. Angry voices shout at one another from inside the dark opening. Devin’s stomach churns uneasily.

  “Let’s do this,” Chris says, his voice full of youthful eagerness. The teen turns toward the store.

  “Hold on, mate,” Devin says. He quickly puts a hand up to Chris’s chest. “I’m thinking you’d best stay outside.”

  “Excuse me?” Chris snaps. He shoves the hand away, staring hard into Devin’
s eyes. The towering basketball star takes a big step towards the redhead. “I can handle myself, mate.”

  “I’m sure you can,” Devin says coolly. “But the ladies need an escort.” He nods at the people swarming around them. “It’s like the wild west out here. Look around.” Devin turns to the injured Arab. “No offense, Abd, but you don’t look like you’re up for much of a fight.”

  Chris’s brown eyes flicker, trying to find a way around the fireman’s reasoning. Reluctantly, he sighs. His pained agreement comes out more like a grunted yell.

  “You’d better stay with us, boy,” Isabel chides. Her left eyebrow shoots up.

  The basketball player’s eyes soften under her all-too-familiar look. Over the years, he’s learned better than to play with that fire. Nothing good ever comes of it.

  His weight shifts uncertainly, feeling Terra’s eyes now upon him. Chris spins away before she can see the embarrassment rising to his face. The teenager’s armor flips on again like an electric chair switch once he realizes she wasn’t the only one staring.

  A crooked smile cuts across Abd’s face. It fades quickly. “Why don’t I go with you, Devin,” Abd blurts. He takes a step back toward the fireman. “You’ll need some help carrying supplies.”

  “Alright,” Devin says. He pauses, his eyes angling up with regret. “We could carry a lot more if we emptied out your bag, Isabel.”

  The pregnant Latina’s hand reaches out guardedly for the strap on Abd’s shoulder.

  “Not very gentlemanly, I know,” Devin says. His British charm tries its best to disarm her. “I’ll have to work on that for you.”

  “You heard that back there, huh?” Isabel says. She blinks back a silly tear springing into her eyes. The flight attendant takes the bag and gently empties its contents onto the ground. Hesitantly, she hands it back to Devin.

  “You okay?” he asks.

  “Yeah.” She tries to smile. “It’s just sad that all I own is right here in this little pile.” Isabel wipes the emotion away just as it begins to run down her cheek. “My life now fits inside a carry-on. Pretty depressing, huh?”