Yield

by Johnson, Bryan K.

  Kevin clears his throat, forcing himself to regain his usually unshakeable composure. “My son’s best friend went there. I saw a baseball game at the school with them just last week. Now there’s nothing left…”

  To the southeast, the landscape is completely desolate. It curves down unnaturally inside the massive bomb’s blast crater. Superheated pieces of metal scattered inside still continue to glow, lending a yellowish-green tint to the night.

  The headlights of the two news vehicles shine into a tangled maze of wreckage. Broken buildings cover the sheared metal of cars. Their silhouettes slice through the light like talons jutting angrily upward from the rubble.

  March rains continue down, trying to wash the horrors of mankind away. Minutes turn to hours. Finally, the sat truck’s tires ease down from the wreckage pile they’d been driving over onto more level pavement. The husks of once huge structures stand almost two stories now. Everything above twenty feet has been completely sheared off, as if a giant scythe simply cut through the city.

  “I don’t know where the hell we’re at,” Dave sighs. He slows the truck, nearing an intersection.

  “We’re lost?” Jonathon asks impatiently.

  Dave runs a hand through his tussled brown hair, rubbing at the muscles tightening up along his neck. “Well, it’s a little hard to navigate when all the landmarks are gone.”

  “Over there,” Jonathon says. He points to a charred sign leaning against a blistered, red SUV. Only the letters W and AKE are visible. “I think that might be Westlake. Go left.”

  They turn and head north. Most of the colorful marinas that once lined the avenue are now gone. As they round a bend, Dave looks out past Jon through the passenger window to his right. The black waters of Lake Union stretch out beside them. The wreckage of boats and structures bulges out from within the waters. Thousands of fingers grasp up from the murky depths to the sky. Some are still inflamed, sending smoke upward into the darkness.

  “Jesus,” Dave says. “Is everything gone?”

  Jonathon looks out across the lake. He used to take Chris sailing here. They had a 14-foot sailboat they would take out every summer, one of the few things they both enjoyed and always could find the time for. The warm touch of sunlight. The smell of salt water mixed with the cool spray as it hit the bow… Now, the eastern shore is completely engulfed in flames, surrounding a lake filled with shattered pieces of mortality.

  Fire reflects back from Jonathon’s navy eyes. He watches the beauty burning before him with a silent tongue. Words themselves turn to blackened ash, taking with them the treasured memories he’ll never again get to make here.

  “I just don’t understand how…” Dave says. His calculating mind goes quiet.

  “You can’t find reason in evil, Dave,” Jonathon says. “We show news of violence in faraway countries and sit—invincible in our ignorance.” He stares into the orange flames just outside his window. “We’ve grown complacent. The wars we see are in someone else’s backyard…someone else’s city is in ruins.”

  Jonathon turns, a saddened rage filling his eyes. “Violence is very different when it’s thrust upon your doorstep.”

  The KOMO news team continues around the battered edges of Lake Union, silent again as the road turns northwestward. Fires surrounding the Seattle landmarks glow violently behind them.

  The buildings they pass seem to be increasing in height. The explosion’s curving blast wave slices just above the fifth floor now. Pockmarked holes torn through the structures create black shadows across their faces like a plague on all those left behind.

  Dave’s eyes suddenly go wide. “No…” The young engineer eases off of the accelerator, approaching the on-ramps of two of Seattle’s major bridges. In the distance, the George Washington Memorial and Fremont Bridge lie crumbled inside the black waters of Lake Union. Perverted metal rails and support wires run into the shallows from the shore line, taking untold captives with them to the deep.

  Lightning begins to pulse inside the clouds. The crack of thunder is like a gunshot at a cemetery. As the sky flashes, KOMO’s survivors see massive chunks of concrete just above the waves. The dotted colors of submerged vehicles are barely visible underneath.

  Dave kicks on the sat truck’s high beams. Hundreds of cars sit stacked atop one another in the shoals. Rows of vehicles dip under the water farther out, resting purposefully on the submerged bridge sections. Passengers are still trapped inside, unable to complete their most final of errands.

  “Just going about their life,” Dave whispers. “Trying to make it to work. Home. Pick up the kids…then this.”

  The headlights on the news van behind them turn off, then on again in the side mirrors. Jonathon squints back, shielding his eyes at the summons. “Better stop and see what the news queen wants.”

  Dusty brakes shriek out and shudder to a stop. Even before the news van’s sliding door is all the way open, Neal and Kevin are out. They examine the shots, working their way across the scene in their detached, journalistic way. Somehow the horror and loss always filter down into just a story when it passes through the camera lens. The photog shoulders his XDCam and starts spraying b-roll of the crumpled bridge sections.

  “Get some shots by those supports,” Jean directs. She points out to where the six-lane George Washington slips into the water. “It’ll be grainy, but crank up the gain to pull something usable in this light. You’ll have to cut the package as tight as possible so we can broadcast the raw from our tower.” The rush of news pushes back her own feelings as she looks around. It steels her, forcing away the pain of caring. Coping is a whole lot easier when tragedy is just a headline.

  “And run a cable to the van’s generator if you need a bigger light kit for the stand-up,” she yells behind her. Jean walks away, rubbing at her temples. She circles around to the sat truck to check framing.

  The passenger door opens and Jonathon’s 6’4” frame stretches out. He winces as his formerly athletic joints pop and grind in their sockets. “I thought I was the tyrant directing shoots,” he says. There’s a hint of admiration in his voice.

  “This is important, Jon,” she snaps. Her eyes are shielded in shadow, locked on her crew. Jean feels his reprimanded silence behind her. She pauses for a moment before leaning her body back against his in apology. “Besides, you know how forward I can be when I want something.”

  “Yes, I do,” he says. His eyes drift down to the locks of shimmering hair resting gently on his chest. The smell of her Bulgari perfume fills his nose. Its scent is like a passionate memory swirling around them. “And so does my ex-wife,” he blurts without thinking. Jon’s weight shifts nervously, feeling the attention of the others now burning into him.

  “Ex?” Jean pulls away and turns, an exaggerated innocence betraying her face.

  “I was going to my lawyer today to sign the papers.”

  She’s silent as her normally forward impulses struggle with the right words. “Sorry it didn’t work out.”

  “Bullshit,” Jonathon says. His eyes pierce into hers. “You couldn’t stand her either.”

  “I never meant to end your marriage, Jon,” she whispers, “but life’s too short to apologize for the past. Eyes forward. Remember?”

  A grin spreads across his face. She’s recited those two words to him countless times before. Her irrepressible optimism and infectious sense of adventure have always been addicting. That’s what he loved most about her, even more than the physical attraction. Pulling him up flight after flight of stairs in random skyscrapers just to steal an intimate moment together. How she loved carnival rides on hot summer nights, umbrella-less splashing under thick Seattle rains…

  The memories with Jean somehow feel more happy and fulfilling than most of his 18 years of marriage. “I remember,” Jon smiles.

  “Don’t laugh. It helped my great-granddad get through the depression, both World Wars and three heart surgeries,” she says, a glow returning to her violet eyes. “‘The only way to live,
’ he’d say. ‘Eyes forward.’” Jean’s smile fades as she looks back out to the bright, orange flicker of massive fires along their path to the west. “I’m glad he didn’t live to see all this, though.”

  The gentle curves of her face are silhouetted against the glow of flame, her strength somehow even more beautiful amidst the chaos.

  * * *

  “In 3, 2, 1… This is Kevin Green, standing in front of all that remains of the George Washington Memorial Bridge in downtown Seattle,” the KOMO reporter begins. He points to the edge of the cracked asphalt, where the roadway enters the water. “The only thing you can see now are the stumps of the great structure behind me. Casualty numbers are unknown at this time. The explosion occurred during the peak of rush hour traffic within this densely-populated metropolitan area, so casualties could be well into the millions.”

  The reporter begins slowly walking down the split pavement. He gestures down into the water while his photographer tracks the shot. “Below me I can see cars, trucks and a significant amount of wreckage down in the waters of Lake Union. At least two dozen or more submerged vehicles are…” Kevin suddenly fades off. “Jesus. There are still bodies trapped down there.”

  A silver Ford Focus lies on its side close to the shore, resting just under the waters. Lightning flashes again overhead, illuminating a silhouette inside. Dead hands stretch toward the glass for help that never comes.

  Kevin kneels. He lays a hand on the cracked concrete, several feet from the tail of the submerged vehicle. “Our prayers are with all of the families that lost loved ones here today…”

  Chapter 30

  Weary travelers emerge from the night, stepping through two sliding warehouse doors that stretch to the building’s roofline. Three open chemical drums light the lower floor of the warehouse with their flames. The shadows they cast send the immense structure’s edges into darkness.

  Clusters of people huddle by the firelight. Close to twenty haggard souls rest sporadically throughout the warehouse, trying to find warmth inside the cold metal hostel. Some glance cautiously up at Devin and his group as they enter. Most just stand or sit, staring into their vivid fires. Dejection and fear smear their faces.

  The fireman stuffs the barrel of his shotgun into the unzipped bag over his shoulder. The gun handle hangs out within easy reach. Not wanting to attract attention, they approach the smallest commune on the far right side of the warehouse. Devin holds his hands out and moves slowly into the fire’s glow.

  The flames reveal three men and a woman crowding around the barrel. All look up in suspicion when the newcomers stop. Their hands clench, ready to defend what is theirs.

  A Creole man standing closest to Devin turns and scowls when he hears the shuffling of feet behind him. The man’s eyelids are blistered shut. The wounds create deep shadows across his face. In his late forties, the blind Creole wears a mismatch of new clothes over his deep black skin. The tattered edges of a cream dress shirt show from under a hooded sweatshirt.

  “Mind if we join you?” Devin asks. He scans their unwelcome stares for the leader.

  “‘At depends on what ‘chew have,” the blind man says in a rumbling New Orleans accent.

  Chris grabs Devin’s arm, turning to leave.

  “It’s okay,” Devin reassures. “I can handle this, mate. Bag of chips and some bottles of water work for you?” the fireman asks. He digs inside the canvas equipment bag and holds up his offering.

  “That it?” The blind man swallows hard. “What else you got?”

  “I’m not interested in buying this here warehouse, bloke. Just need to rest a bit. We can take our things elsewhere if you like,” Devin says. He eyes the other two men, meeting their icy looks.

  “No need for ‘dat now,” the blind Creole says. An eager tone replaces the confrontation in his voice. “Welcome to ‘da party.”

  “Splendid,” Devin sighs. His manners are forced and draining. “Why don’t you all get some sleep,” the fireman whispers to Chris. “I’ll stay up for a while and try to get some news from our hosts here. Portland’s still a hundred-fifty miles or so. Maybe they can tell us what the hell’s going on out there.”

  The fireman sets down the black munitions bag next to his companions before returning to the fire with his tithe. “Here you go, mate.”

  “Much oblige’,” the Creole says. He rips into the chips upside down, putting a handful in his mouth before passing the bag to the others.

  * * *

  Several feet from the burning drum, Chris gently takes Terra’s shoulders and helps her to sit. “Here we go,” he says. Concern softens his usually deep and hardened voice. Chris’s body sinks to the concrete beside her.

  “Thank you,” Terra whispers, almost too quietly to hear. Her sapphire eyes drift over to the fire. It crackles, shooting sparks up to their death with each sound. Shivering, she clutches her knees and pulls them tightly to her body.

  “That jacket works pretty good as a blanket, too,” Chris says. The ruddy glow of the flames sparkles along the girl’s black hair. Light pirouettes over her exotic features. It’s hypnotizing. “Maybe even a sleeping bag for you,” he laughs.

  Isabel clears her throat, setting the Huskies bag down next to them. “Oh, boy. I remember that look.” A grin flashes across her face. “Been a while. But I still remember.” She settles down a ways in front of them, her eyes sparkling.

  “Izz,” Chris growls. He looks back at her with embarrassment rising to his cheeks. Chris unzips the purple bag, still glaring at his annoying nursemaid. He pulls out a candy bar and sports drink.

  The slow sound of the zipper opening makes Terra jump. Her eyes dart around.

  “Your five-star dinner, madam,” Chris says. He holds the main course out with a bow.

  Terra’s body relaxes. Her protector’s smile, however, looks awkwardly pained.

  Chris’s legs started to cramp almost immediately after he knelt onto the concrete. His body starts to lean, trying without success to relax the muscles firing all along his right leg.

  Terra smiles at the unexpected chivalry. The huge teenager is literally falling all over himself to wait on her. She cracks open the bottle and takes a drink, letting a contented sigh escape.

  Like magnets, Chris’s eyes slowly stray back to hers. The blue seems dampened. Lost. It’s as if the color is clinging to the darkness even as he tries to pull it back from the abyss.

  Wavering firelight moves over their faces. Sparks shoot out above them—the fireflies dancing in the night.

  Terra’s eyes soften then yield under his gaze. There’s a piercing sort of innocence within them. Calming and safe. Her stomach flutters. She’s felt it every time he looks at her.

  He can’t save you…

  Terra shivers. Flames steal her eyes away again. She turns, watching the snapping fire bugs ballet up into the black.

  “Let’s get you warm,” Chris says. He scoots closer, rubbing his hands on the white leather shoulders of the letterman jacket to stop her shaking.

  She leaps out of his hands like a cornered animal, her startled eyes snapping back.

  “Sorry, I…” Chris stammers. “You just looked cold. And I…” his mortified voice falls off. His eyes buckle. Hers could melt ice.

  Terra’s face slowly relaxes as she looks at him. The man’s expression is horrified. She leans forward and wraps her arms around her legs again. Tighter and tighter, she clutches them. The teenager stares distantly into the flames, her chin resting atop her knees.

  “I’m sorry,” Chris whispers. His face is averted like a scolded child. Color flushes his cheeks. He puts a hand down to the concrete, beginning to stand.

  “Please…” Terra’s musical voice whispers, “stay.” She grabs his knee before he can move away. “I’m just…”

  Chris looks back at the thin hand holding onto him in surprise. His body sinks down again, following Terra’s eyes to the fire. “You don’t have to explain anything to me, Terra,” he says. Flickering light bou
nces all around their sanctuary. It paints motionless bodies still trying to drift away from the nightmares of the real world, seeking solace in whatever dreams they can.

  “Honestly, girl, I can be a real dipshit sometimes,” he smiles. “It’s probably not a secret, I know. But I’m not what you’d call intellectually gifted. Sports were always my thing.”

  Terra’s eyes drift back to the curious man beside her.

  “My friend D used to call me his big ox on the court…” Chris starts. His smile quickly shatters. Thoughts of his lifelong best friend cut through his mind. I’ll never see him again. The reality rips into him like a gunshot. D’s dead. They’re all dead… He will never again get to laugh so hard at one of Darius’s practical jokes that his sides ache. They will never be able to bail each other out of trouble at college or grow old in the same neighborhood. Their kids will never meet, never know how one could always make the other better…

  “Damn,” he whispers, trying to blink back the tears in his eyes.

  “Was he…” Terra asks. She dreads the answer even before the words leave her lips.

  “He was sitting next to me on the plane. Right next to me,” Chris says. “How come he died and I didn’t? He was the funny one. The smart one. The one that was always gonna do something.” Chris looks away, wiping a tear roughly from his cheek. “I’m just a baller. Why the hell am I still here?”

  Terra looks at him, feeling the same pain, the same loss, deep inside her. “To help the ones you can,” she says. She leans closer, laying her head on his shoulder. “That’s what my mom always used to say.”

  * * *

  Devin and the blind man stand, arms outstretched to the fire. It hisses and pops loudly inside the drum, the sounds snapping back from the steel walls.

  The Creole wipes the chip grease from his hands down the front of his light blue sweatshirt. He feels the stranger’s questioning stare even through the fire’s glow. “How bad was it whe’ you were?” the New Orleanite rumbles.