Yield

by Johnson, Bryan K.

The wheels reengage with a loud screech, sending the sat truck hurtling up a cross street.

  “Holy shit,” Neal shouts. Excitement rushes through the cameraman’s veins. He shifts the XDCam further back on his shoulder, scooting forward to get a shot out the passenger window past Jonathon.

  “You get that?” Jon asks.

  “What, the damn North Korean invasion?” Neil says, almost insulted at the question. “Yeah, I got it.” Adjusting his exposure, the photographer can see dozens of soldiers and vehicles moving down the dark side streets they pass. Neal glances behind him. “We need to get higher. I can’t pull a clean shot.”

  “Are you kidding me?” Dave shouts.

  “Kill the lights,” Jonathon says.

  “What? Why?” Dave asks, his voice raising an octave. He looks over at both men.

  “Because we’re going higher.”

  “These guys will carve us up before we can even broadcast, Jon.”

  “Right here,” Jonathon says. He motions up an alley to the entrance of a multi-level parking garage. “Please, Dave.” Urgency fills his voice.

  Reluctantly, Dave cuts to the right and guns the engine up a curving driveway.

  “Easy,” Jonathon says. He leans forward to look out the windows, his heart thundering in his chest.

  The sat truck spirals up into the black garage. It moves higher and higher up the structure, creeping to a stop next to the elevators on the seventh floor.

  “Hold on,” Dave whispers. The engineer flips the interior light switch off. “Don’t want to make a scene when the doors open, do we?”

  Jonathon pulls carefully on the door handle. He cringes as the squeaking metal hinge grudgingly opens. The creative director moves quickly to the concrete half-wall overlooking the street, waiting for a second before motioning Neal over.

  The seasoned photographer steadies his body and lifts the 45-pound camera into position. Neal exhales a long deliberate breath, holding perfectly still as he starts to record. His hands twist the long lens, focusing on two North Koreans wearing short-billed green hats almost a hundred feet below.

  The men are heatedly talking close to one of the car fires. One of them is examining something on a small digital device, pointing south down the street. The other, a cruel-looking man with three gold stripes on his collar, gestures back to the rows of soldiers still assembled.

  The troops salute and begin running towards the alley mouth the KOMO sat truck smashed through minutes ago.

  “They’re looking for us,” Neal whispers. His right eye narrows inside the viewfinder. The photog adjusts his shot down the street, stopping on several heavily armored black transports parked below a burnt-out Starbucks sign.

  “Let’s send what we have,” Jonathon whispers. His stomach swims with more butterflies each second that passes.

  The cameraman jumps inside the sat truck and hands the camera to Dave. “I know,” Neal says, staring into the engineer’s wide eyes. “Just make it work. Our side needs to see this.”

  Dave shakes his head. He glances back at the equipment rack. Fresh bullet holes punch circles of light right through them. “There is no way…”

  “Try,” Jonathon insists. His eyes drift down to the stained concrete. “You know she would have wanted us to.”

  “Alright,” Dave says after a long pause. He twists a coax cable into the rear outputs of the camera and flips it back on. “Check my scopes,” the engineer says. “Hopefully that tone decided to take the night off.”

  Chapter 42

  Seattle’s refugee camp fills with ceaseless legions of the worn. Their haunted souls stagger in through a pair of razor-wire gates. A sea of green tents lines the middle of the encampment, reflecting prominent stadium lights that kick on all around.

  A massive picture board stands encouragingly at the front entrance. It welcomes hope from those who enter. Images and descriptions of lost loved ones fill it, overflowing onto the fence for another 50 feet. Even in the darkness, people huddle around, trying to catch a familiar glimpse of someone they’ve lost.

  The outer camp area is covered with white tarps. They zigzag over tiered rows of metallic poles. Large signs hang above the various sections, their thick black letters separating need from vengeance. Military recruitment. Information. Food. Medical help. Growing lines snake everywhere as people seek answers and aid.

  Inside the camp’s cafeteria rest dozens of split-bench tables. Bodies cluster around the small TV sets interspersed within. Their eyes are entranced by the flickering screens, hypnotized by the nightmare of a new World War. Grainy aerial shots dissolve from what used to be Los Angeles to the devastated scenes in New York and Washington, D.C.

  “This new footage,” a halting voice reads over the damage, “shows all that’s left from four of our greatest cities. CNN’s Atlanta headquarters has received exclusive video out of Seattle, bypassing an unknown media blackout still in place around much of the country. The destruction is on an unprecedented scale.”

  The shattered cities are destroyed in circular levels. The inner rings of each are completely gone, leaving only charred dust surrounding a deeply carved blast crater. The middle rings are filled with burning debris, still pulsing brightly in the night. The outer ring is covered in heaps of twisted metal and concrete blown out by the force of the initial blasts. Piles of wreckage stretch out toward every horizon.

  “Emergency services were overwhelmed within hours of the explosions, creating overcrowded hospitals that have been forced to turn away even those most critically injured. Additional relief efforts have been mobilized in the affected regions, but it’s feared that the survival rate will still be less than five percent per city.”

  Stuttering video of nighttime explosions and weapon fire dissolves on screen. Tomahawk missiles launch from racks atop naval warships. They scream through the black anxious to inflict their deadly wrath. More fire in rapid succession, thundering off in a blaze of anger and soot.

  “There are new reports of massive counterattacks against the capitals of the Axis nations,” the anchor continues. “The Department of Defense tells us multiple nuclear blasts have destroyed Moscow, Beijing, Tehran, and Pyongyang late last night in retaliation for Monday’s attacks. It’s not known how many of the Axis leaders were still in those cities, but the D.O.D. believes most are either dead or in hiding. The potential death toll from this first counterstrike could be as high as 44 million.”

  Cheers erupt inside the cafeteria, celebrating genocide with a roar.

  “Teach you to screw with the U.S.,” an angry voice shouts. He slaps the hand of another survivor. Glee is etched onto their faces.

  The mob stares proudly at images of the foreign obliteration of life. The extermination of another culture is scarcely tempered by anything resembling humanity. Instead, vindication burns eagerly inside hundreds of hateful eyes.

  “At home, there is still no statement on the condition of the President or his cabinet officials. We do know that senior leadership was in Washington at the time of the D.C. blast. Rescue and recovery efforts thus far have both been unsuccessful.”

  The CNN anchor pauses. New video of the White House and Congressional ruins plays through his on-air monitor. Patriotism crumbles to an ashen ground.

  The pristine white stones of our capital’s proudest monuments lie in scorched pieces, their scattered revolt stretching freedom all across the National Mall. Fires from ruptured gas lines burn liberally over miles of wreckage. Only the flames unite and march on in protest.

  “Secretary of Defense Bryan Rose is now in control of our troops and has been sworn in as Commander-in-Chief,” the anchor continues.

  Clips of the 51-year-old Secretary of Defense taking his oath of office dissolve to his first Presidential speech. The power and experience behind his light gray eyes seems out of place somehow. They stand out in stark contrast to his youthful appearance. He looks more like a movie star than a leader with his streaked brown hair and sun-kissed skin.

 
“What was done to us cannot be undone,” President Rose begins in a charismatic southern accent. “The horrors we’ve endured will echo across the world for generations to come.”

  * * *

  Living quarters around the refugee camp are tight. Sleeping bags and blankets are huddled together under anything that can block the weather. It isn’t raining, but moisture still hangs in the northwest air, making everything feel colder and heavier than it should.

  “We will not just accept this fate, for this is also the fate of the entire free world.” President Rose’s passion shouts out from a handful of radios scattered throughout the camp. “This country is unlike any the world has ever known. Our way of life and our strength have surely been tested, but we will not falter. We will not yield.”

  A group of children plays in a puddle nearby. The youthful ignorance of race and religion blinds their happy faces. Families talk and smile by the fires, oblivious to the words changing the very world around them.

  “Now is the time to rise up and overcome. Now is the time for action.”

  * * *

  “Tracking the war now,” the anchor’s voice begins again. “Fighting in the Pacific and Atlantic Oceans continues for another day. U.S. forces succeeded in stopping the Axis’ advance along the coast, but not without heavy cost. Smoke from the damage could be seen for miles on shore…”

  Terra sits in front of Chris by a bonfire under the stars. His arms surround her, pulling the girl back into the safety of his embrace.

  Fireflies illuminate their faces, flying and dancing through the sky. Terra smiles. The glittering lights bloom and arc up into the night. Their glow swirls across Terra’s fair skin, bathing her in a gentle yellow light.

  “We’ve also received new images from KOMO-TV out of Seattle, showing the enemy’s advance might already be farther than initially thought. Foreign military were reportedly spotted on American soil, several miles north of Seattle’s blast crater. However, CNN lost communication with the news team before details could be confirmed. We will update you as soon as we’re able to reestablish an up-link. The Department of Defense is refusing to comment on the story at this time…”

  Hearing footsteps, Chris glances back. A familiar shape emerges from the darkness and kneels beside them. Chris smiles before realizing something is wrong.

  Devin’s eyes are locked on the ground. Chris looks up at him, his curiosity soon turning to fear. The fireman’s body is shaking.

  Dread shoots through Chris. He starts to rise just as Terra puts an arm to his chest. He stops, looking back at her in surprise. A peculiar warmth fills her face. Gently, she lifts the edge of a blanket resting against Devin’s body.

  The firelight dims then flickers back, catching on the angelic face resting peacefully in the fireman’s arms.

  Hesitating for only a moment, Terra lifts the child out of Devin’s grasp and into her own. Her timid heart swells with wonder.

  The fireman lays a hand on Chris’s shoulder. His words stammer out, their pain rising unsteadily to Devin’s lips.

  Anger flashes first in the basketball player’s eyes. They fill with rage before tears begin to roll down his face. He jumps out of the fireman’s grip and stumbles closer to the fire, wanting to scream—to run as fast as his body will take him. But his brown eyes just stare jealously into the flames. Both burn without control, sending sparks viciously up to the heavens.

  “In a statement, the D.O.D. says the military isn’t releasing casualty figures at this time, but we’re told that all forces have been called up to active duty to confront the new threat at home. A re-institution of the draft is also expected this week by President Rose…”

  Eager men, unrelenting anger on their faces, already stand at the camp’s military recruiting booth. A line stretches for hundreds of feet behind them. It feeds, growing as quickly as its inhabitants’ thirst for revenge. At the end, several patriots look disdainfully back at a group of men in tattered robes clustered by the fence line.

  “Across our homeland, racist attacks against those of Iranian, Russian, and Asian descent have been brutal…”

  A group of six Muslims sing their evening prayer in unison. They kneel along the fence toward Mecca, laying their heads gently upon the earth.

  “Allah is most great,” they sing in Arabic. “Allah is most great. I bear witness that there is no God but Allah…”

  The glow from a television in the cafeteria beside them becomes more intense. Images of riots and destruction shine brightly in the dark.

  “Homes, businesses, churches and mosques have all been firebombed, many with their occupants still inside. An urgent call by the President to stop the violence has gone largely unanswered as Americans strike out at anyone they can…”

  Chapter 43

  The low hum from the on-board truck generator might as well be a homing beacon. Its mechanical rumble, its very function, is out of place now inside the deadened city. KOMO’s survivors cringe. Their eyes stare fearfully back. The unmistakable sound of life bounces all across the concrete parking structure. Right-angled corners throw the noise back through the garage, amplifying it as sound waves find and feast on every echo.

  Jonathon glances over the side of the split wall, looking down at the foreign activity below. Green uniforms seem to be fewer in number now, but it’s hard to tell for sure. Deep shadows crouched at the base of each surrounding building could be hiding hundreds more.

  The broad-shouldered man feels his stomach tighten. He glances across the garage, seeing uncertainty in every shape. Jonathon holds his body deathly still as he listens for approaching noises from below.

  * * *

  Dozens of dark faces move silently through the city, their eyes scanning for any evidence of the living. The silhouettes spread like black ghosts in the night. There is no compassion in their eyes. No humanity. Only their deadly mission glints back from the ovals of white coursing through the shadows.

  A deep and rolling sound barely perceptible in the distance makes their feet slow. The sound, almost like the touch of rain on a metal roof, sputters and dies as they approach.

  The fading echo is close.

  Without a word, the single column of darkness instantly spreads out. Their bodies move like tentacles into the pockets of black along the Seattle streets. Teams of three slip quietly into the buildings closest to the sound, their machine guns taking aim.

  * * *

  Jonathon flips the generator switch off and gently closes the exterior metal door. The dull click as the latch reengages makes them all jump.

  “Did they get the video?” Jon asks through the open passenger window.

  Dave gives a thumbs-up. “Somehow,” he nods, pulling the headphones off his neck. “That tone is gone, too.” Causation and reason race through the engineer’s mind. “They probably redeployed that frequency sometime after landfall.”

  “Let’s hope not,” Jonathon shudders. He glances around inside the truck. Scared faces look back at him. Their eyes are desperate for answers. “Just stay put. I need to scout around and see how we’re getting out of here. We’ll be sipping Frappuccinos again before you know it, alright?”

  His long legs carry him quickly into the darkness on the far end of the parking structure. Empty streets stretch north into the distance as far as he can see. No soldiers or fires, just the darkened and abandoned city lying invitingly ahead. About time something goes right.

  Jonathon’s eyes soften as he thinks of getting back to Chris. He doesn’t know how, or where, but somehow he just knows his son is okay. The kid has always been a survivor.

  Jon smiles. He heads back toward the sat truck with a hopeful jump in his step.

  Light flashes first from their muzzles before the sound detonates across the parking garage. The flickering weapons cascade like lightning blasts, one right after the next. Their brilliance illuminates spheres of death around the advancing bodies of the attackers.

  Their dark faces betray no mercy. They are carved on
ly with a meticulous and unrelenting precision, showering the KOMO sat truck with their country’s wrath.

  The screams of those dying inside wrench through Jonathon. He watches the metal rip and buckle as bullets shred through it, cutting into the lives just beyond. They cry out, begging to be spared. But the three North Korean gunmen continue on without hesitation or regret.

  Jonathon’s feet refuse to move. His body is frozen—too scared to help, yet too terrified to run for safety. He stands there for what feels like an eternity, just past the circles of light bursting out with each gun blast. Every lit round flashes on his face. The fiery sparks trace his anguish again and again. Even Jonathon’s voice has been stolen away with his courage. He stands transfixed, silently watching the massacre of his colleagues.

  Jonathon, he hears Jean’s voice scream out in his mind. Her hand stretches toward the window of the news van before disappearing below the black waters. He thinks of her smile. Her love. How she would lean up expectantly, even in the rain, for that one last kiss…

  The ever-present courage that always filled her violet eyes spreads inside him. His body begins to tingle, gradually at first, before flooding him with a calming rage.

  Jonathon screams out as he lunges at the closest attacker. His athletic build crosses the distance in an instant, slamming into the much shorter man before he can take aim. The force throws them both into the two other gunmen, sending them all crashing to the concrete.

  Jonathon’s large hands dig into the sides of the Korean’s head. He slams it over and over into the asphalt, feeling the back of the man’s skull cave in. Jon takes the gun out of the North Korean’s dead hands and rolls just as one of the other soldiers opens fire.

  Jonathon’s legs churn against the ground, trying to pick up speed, but his dress shoes slip out from underneath him. Jon falls to his side and rolls again, aiming the gun back towards the two green uniforms closing in.