Yield

by Johnson, Bryan K.

  “What do you think?” Jonathon asks. He leans forward, straining to see any gaps.

  “That we should find another way.” There’s an edge of panic in Dave’s normally calculated voice.

  “We’re running out of options here, Dave.” Headlights flash in Jonathon’s side mirror. “Figures. Looks like Jean wants to weigh in.” Jon tries to mask the odd flutter in his voice when he says her name.

  He opens the door and jumps out into the downpour. Jonathon takes off into a run, looking down at the ground to keep the water from streaking across the front of his glasses.

  Jean rolls down her window, trying to stifle a laugh. The expression greeting her is not so amused. Jon’s clothes are completely drenched. They cling like rags to his body. A tailored suit coat is held over his head to block the driving rain.

  “Cute,” Jean giggles. She wipes the droplets about to fall on her from Jonathon’s chin. “Not the best look for you, but…cute.”

  “Gee, thanks.” A reluctant smile spreads across Jonathon’s face. He leans closer, looking around inside the news van. Everyone in the back is passed out. They drift through the fragments of dreams, their bodies finally succumbing to the exhaustion of yesterday’s events.

  Only Kevin Green is awake in the passenger seat. The reporter squirms, trying to avoid looking embarrassed at the blatantly obvious display of affection from his two colleagues.

  “How you doing in there, Kevin?” Jonathon asks.

  “I’m alive,” Kevin says. The words have new meaning today. “I’m ready to see my wife and kids again, that’s for sure.”

  His own broken family flashes into Jon’s mind. Chris… He’d almost forgotten that his son was flying into the city just when…

  Jonathon immediately tries to shake away the thought, as if even mentioning his boy, his star in the making, would bring him to the edge of a reality he cannot face.

  The silence feels like a shrieked command. Kevin straightens his body with a groan and opens his door. “Think I need to stretch my legs a bit.” The reporter jumps out into the rain, looking up into the starless sky.

  “You okay?” Jean asks.

  “Yeah.”

  “You have that look, Jon.” Her eyes narrow. “What’s up?”

  “I’m fine,” Jonathon says. “We just have a little decision to make.”

  “Alright,” she caves, her voice thick with skepticism.

  “From what we can see up ahead, the bridge looks okay.”

  “But…” Jean trails off. She’s learned by now that her man always likes to mask bad punch lines with a good hook.

  “It’s what I don’t see that worries me,” Jonathon continues. “There’s a lot of smoke covering the bay, so we can’t really see the other side yet.”

  “Oh, is that all?” Jean asks. A familiar fire jumps into her eyes. “What about the last bridge? Salmon Bay is the farthest west from the explosion. Maybe we should keep going.”

  “This one’s probably fine, too. We just won’t know for sure until we get out there. Dave and I will check it out first to make sure everything’s good.” Jonathon leans over, laying his elbows on the top of her door. “If we see any problems, I’ll throw it in reverse myself.”

  Jean looks up. Worry creases her brow. She lays her hand on his, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Promise?”

  “I promise,” Jonathon smiles. His eyes soften at the calming touch of her skin. Jon puts his other hand on top of hers. He never realized how much he actually missed the uneasy tingling in his stomach he gets whenever he’s around her. He hasn’t felt like that around his wife for a very long time. Maybe he never did. The sensation sweeps over him, like flying through the clouds with your eyes closed.

  He looks down. There’s a belief in her face so pure he’s taken aback. “I’m not really the courageous type, remember?”

  She nods bravely. A gust of wind whips through the open window, billowing the hair around her shoulders. Jean tries to pull strength from his navy eyes. She stares deep into his surging sea, wanting nothing more than to be here with this man at the end of everything.

  Jean reaches up and slips a small hand around his neck, pulling him to her. As their lips meet, the world seems to spin around them. It blurs away, taking with it the cares of everything other than this moment.

  Jonathon tightens nervously at first then crumbles into her familiar embrace. His heart thunders as he holds her. Billowing smoke from the city parts around them. The rarity of returning hope seems to push it all back into the stormy night.

  “I…” Jonathon stammers. He looks down at the soft moonlight running along the gentle edges of her face. He wonders how the pictures of his life would have played out if he’d been with her instead. Their flirtatious looks over coffee in the morning. Her touch upon his skin, holding his hand the way his wife never would. How they’d stay wrapped around one another in bed all day until the twisting limbs were indistinguishably one…

  Jonathon’s hated never being good at expressing himself. Love was a word seldom used outside the meaningless confines of his marriage. “I…” he tries again. His eyes are adrift in her purple oasis.

  “Later!” she laughs girlishly. Jean squeezes his hand one last time before reluctantly gripping the wheel. “Let’s get driving before we have to do the whole romantic sunrise thing. I know how much you hate PDA.”

  * * *

  Dave presses down on the accelerator and begins creeping toward the first pockets of smoke. His hands nervously rub at the stubble along his face. Neal Adams sits on the floor of the truck cabin beside him. The aging photog steadies the camera on his shoulder with both hands. His left leg is positioned securely under the dash to brace his body upright. Focusing through the window, the cameraman cranks the iris open, trying to pull a decent exposure in the harshly-lit smoke.

  “This may get bumpy,” Jonathon warns.

  “Couldn’t be worse than all the potholes back on the parkway,” Neal smiles. Dark shapes emerge in front of them through his viewfinder. “Jean wanted to add some more dramatic POV shots to the package.”

  “Right.” Jonathon gestures outside. “Because the rest of this just isn’t dramatic enough.”

  “Here we go,” Dave interrupts. His teeth are clenched so tightly his lips barely move.

  One hundred yards behind them, in the waiting news van, Jean gasps.

  The sat truck completely disappears into the haze. Its red tail lights sink inside a moving fog, their color consumed by gray.

  Jean’s eyes follow them into the smoke. Their glow is soon replaced by a hollowing dread. Her chest suddenly begins to hurt. It feels like steel, frozen to the touch, crushing down inside her.

  Parked cars fade in around the KOMO sat truck. Slowly they drift by, inching through the clouds that hang over the bridge like a noose. Jonathon’s eyes dart around to the crumbled retaining walls. Pieces of vehicles smash through them, dangling out into the abyss. Some are still caught. Others punch gaping holes into the lives left behind, lying submerged in the bay almost a hundred and fifty feet below.

  The metal grate from the drawbridge creaks loudly as the sat truck’s front tires ease on. Pockets of dead space briefly appear in the smoke.

  Jon leans forward, almost able to make out the other side. Worried lines cut across his forehead. The fog ripples and curls in the wind. It parts for only a moment before spreading its blindness again. Jonathon’s eyes go wide.

  The Ballard’s two massive span pieces rest awkwardly against one another. The far side span is angled ten-degrees downward. The side they’re on leans heavily on top of it. A crushed car is pinned sideways at the joint of the four-lane bridge, its roof completely caved from the weight.

  “Hold on,” Jonathon says. He leans out of his window and shouts back through the smoke to the waiting news van. “Wait there!” he booms. “There’s some damage at the draw joint!”

  Faintly, he sees a blur of light go off and on again in the distance. “That’s my girl,�
�� Jonathon smiles.

  Dave flips the truck’s brights back on, hoping for extra visibility. But the smoke just bounces back most of his high beams. Wind whistles over the bay, creating gaps and soft clearings through the fog.

  The other side of the bridge is still intact.

  “Nice and easy,” Jonathon says. He glances down at the white of Dave’s knuckles fiercely gripping the steering wheel.

  The engineer tips his head quickly in a timid sort of nod. He wipes the sweat running down his temples. Somehow his skin feels like ice. Exhaling loudly, Dave taps the throttle.

  The bridge shudders as the sat truck creeps out onto the southern span. Reverberating tremors from the thick support cables cause the joints to bounce, shooting weightlessness and panic through the survivors.

  The shrill cry of metal stretching and grinding against itself pierces into Jonathon’s ears. His stomach twists, his jaw tightening to fight back the growing fear. Jon leans out of the passenger window and into the frigid air. He looks down through the bridge’s steel honeycomb surface to the swiftly moving water below.

  Suddenly, the trapped car at the joint crumples under the sat truck’s load, dropping the front of their span forward. The passengers scream out, their echoes sharp and metallic. The jolt shakes their bodies like specks in a snow globe.

  Neal’s crouched frame hits the top of the aluminum cabin. The photographer somehow readjusts framing mid-air, focusing on the rows of damaged vehicles in front of them. The world seems so different through his lens…objective. Detached.

  The darkened waves roar hungrily by fifteen stories below. Burning debris flows down the water. The warning lights of those gone before them flicker in the night.

  The sounds of flexing metal groan back across the bay. Jean cringes blindly at each noise. Her heart plunges into the darkness with them, terrified and uncertain.

  “This is gonna hurt!” Dave yells. He pumps the brakes just as the front tires begin to roll off the lip of their span’s metal surface. The rubber creeps into the gap between the two drawbridge sections. Holding in perfect balance for a moment before gravity picks up speed, the front of the truck drops two-and-a-half feet.

  The vehicle’s suspension gives, slamming the tires up into the wheel wells. Its front bumper smashes onto the gridded surface of the northern span. Dave cranks the wheel hard to the right, trying to cross the rear wheels diagonally and avoid high-centering over the damaged bridge joint. The left wheel drops, then the right, bouncing off the pinned car.

  “Go!” Jonathon shouts. Gaps in the smoke show a clear path ahead.

  Dave’s chest tightens as he floors it. His eyes are wide with panic, shooting anticipation through his veins. The sat truck tires screech out. Their hardened rubber slips; then accelerates up wildly towards the safety of the other side.

  The V8 engine roars. The rig rocks side-to-side up the inclined northern span joint, dragging the vehicle’s front bumper along with it. Sparks dance down through the bridge, showering fireflies into the black.

  Finally, the tires grab level pavement and pull the truck off the steel draw span. The bridge shudders behind them. Metal grinds on metal, swaying slightly in the Seattle wind.

  “That was fun,” Jonathon gasps. His voice is like gravel. His fingernails are still dug firmly into the rubber door handle. Jon glances at the side mirror. The smoke is beginning to thin over the bridge. “Let’s give them some light,” he says, motioning for a U-turn.

  Dave swings the sat truck into the southbound lanes and flicks his brights back on. He flashes them on and off to signal the waiting news van. They slow to a stop about 350 feet north of the bascule joint. Dave kills the wipers, realizing the rain is now only a trickle.

  Jean almost jumps on the gas pedal. “Thank God,” she whispers. Tears spring to her eyes when she sees the truck perched invitingly across the bay. Its lights are like a beacon welcoming them home.

  Jonathon climbs out and watches the headlights grow inside the dwindling smoke. His heart is still pounding.

  The van moves confidently along the bridge towards them. It arcs right and left, swerving around the burnt husks of cars. Jon smiles. A mixture of pride and passion fills his eyes as he watches Jean deftly navigate through the bridge’s gauntlet.

  Neal jumps out behind him. The photog kneels down along the bluff to get a wide shot. He snaps his lens into telephoto, seamlessly tightening his track and refocusing for a closer view. Jean and Kevin are smiling, zooming over the Ballard on his viewfinder.

  Suddenly, the sound of ripping metal booms across the expanse. Its shriek cuts viciously through the night

  The south span buckles just as the news van approaches the center of the drawbridge joint. Five-hundred tons of steel slam down onto the north span, splintering the metal reinforcement bars instantly. The trapped vehicle under the southern draw leaf completely caves. It disintegrates into shredded aluminum, loosening its unifying grip on both bridge sections. The rear bridge joints shear away as both massive spans begin to fall.

  “NO!!” Jonathon shouts in horror. He can hear Jean’s screams echoing back across the bay.

  She floors it, red-lining the engine. The tires bark and spin but can’t seem to gain traction. The bridge section teeters backward, dropping out from underneath the news van. Jean’s violet eyes fill with terror. Oh my God…

  The headlights dip back, then shoot forward when the vehicle launches off the falling bridge span. They tumble through the smoke, their bodies floating in heaven’s grip. Jean’s hand stretches out to the windshield, reaching toward the spinning hope of salvation above.

  Jonathon lunges to the bluff’s edge just as the van smashes into the bay. The crushing weight of both 500-ton spans slams down into the water after it, launching black water up into the sky.

  His stomach heaves. Headlights flicker under the raging water, pulling the woman he loves with them. Jon drops to his knees, all of his strength shattering. Helplessly, he watches the lights continue slowly down as the currents take her away—into the grip of darkness.

  Chapter 35

  Bustling mobs of the injured fill the hallways of Portland’s Kaiser Permanenté Hospital. All along its swarming corridors, patients scream out in pain or cry for the help of a loved one. But the blue and white uniforms have all but disappeared, leaving only a handful to make their rounds through the chaos.

  “Code blue!” the loudspeaker above announces ominously. “New evacs coming in. Prep ERs one and two.”

  Slowly at first, the building begins to shake. A low roar fills the air. It pulses back from every wall, rattling both metal and nerves. The thundering of medical helicopters grows louder in the distance as the transports bank toward the rooftop’s helipad.

  Pushing through a crowd of people in front of the pharmacy, a fuming mother shoves a slip of paper into the window slot. The mob starts to murmur impatiently behind the blond woman, growing larger by the second. Dissident voices whisper and shout at the delay.

  Nurses push into the horde. They fight their way through the huge line, trying to get down the halls to their patients.

  “No, I’ve been to the other pharmacies,” Katherine pleads. “They wouldn’t fill my son’s prescription.” She stares at the heavyset black lady behind the counter. The ferocity of survival flickers in Kat’s hazel eyes. “Please! My son has type-1 diabetes. He needs insulin.”

  “I’m sorry,” the pharmacist says coldly. “But all medicine is being redirected to the impact zones. I can only authorize prescriptions in the case of an emergency. If he has an attack, you’re more than welcome to bring him back in and we’ll see what we can…”

  “He almost died yesterday,” Katherine cuts her off. Maternal rage slices just below her words. “Do you understand that? If he has another attack, it could kill him.”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am. But there’s nothing I can do.” The pharmacist leans over, deliberately looking around her current distraction. “I’m gonna have to ask you to step aside.
There are lots of…”

  “Excuse me?” Kat asks incredulously.

  “Please step as…”

  “I will not let you kill my son!” Katherine screams, slamming her fist into the window.

  The pharmacist jumps back from the shaking glass. Fear shoots into her eyes at the ferocity of this unassuming housewife.

  “You need to pick up that damn phone and figure something out,” Kat spits. “Sitting behind that glass, playing God.” She shakes her head, leaning closer to the holes in the window. “What do you want? Money?”

  Katherine throws her purse haphazardly onto the counter. She rummages through it, pulling out a wad of bills and stuffing them under the glass.

  The pharmacist stares uncomfortably at the money, squirming in her seat. “Ma’am, I…”

  “Just take it!” Katherine shouts. “All I need is a couple weeks’ worth of insulin. I’ve gone everywhere else. Please. It’s for my eight-year-old son,” she begs. “Please!”

  The pharmacist slowly pushes the money back under the window. “I can’t help you. I’m sorry. Next!”

  Too stunned to even move, Katherine can only stare back at her. She waits for some spark of compassion—some semblance of humanity. But there’s nothing in the woman’s eyes other than the eagerness to deliver her next death sentence.

  Kat shoves the money back into her purse. “Go to hell.”

  Chapter 36

  The Creole’s blistered hands stretch out toward the warmth of his fire drum. The morning air feels brisker than normal, much colder than any March he can remember. It’s like the moisture has all been sucked from the air, leaving only a frigid sort of emptiness behind. His breath hangs in it. His fused eyelids still see the same brilliant white that now follows him everywhere he goes, even into sleep, but the blind man can feel the steam freezing just as it leaves his mouth. He shivers.