Yield

by Johnson, Bryan K.

  “Didn’t say a word,” Jacob protests.

  “Yeah, I noticed.”

  The truck eases to a stop alongside a group of six travelers. “Get in back!” Jacob yells out the passenger window. “We’re heading to Portland.”

  A scruffy man in his early forties walks around the rig and steps onto the side rail under the driver’s door. “Thanks,” the hitchhiker says, putting his arms up on the sill.

  “Welcome.” Devin’s eyes narrow on the man.

  A hint of mischief flashes in the hitchhiker’s face. His clothes are streaked with dirt and blood.

  The fireman’s hand was inside the bag beside him even before the scruffy man was around the front of their truck.

  Devin pulls the coarse grip of a handgun out slightly in warning. “Just head into the back, bloke. Unless you’re looking for something else?”

  “No, no. We’ll be no trouble,” the hitchhiker says. He glances from the dark metal of the pistol up to the redhead’s intense, green eyes. There’s a ferocity in them that makes him shudder. He puts his hands up and slowly steps down. “I just like to know who we’re riding with.”

  The hitchhiker circles back around to rejoin his group. After a hushed conversation, they all climb up into the rear bed and find their seats under the dark green canopy.

  Devin pounds twice on the metal separating the cabin behind him from the bed. There’s a windowed opening just above it. “We’re good,” the scruffy man shouts in back.

  They creep forward and continue south along the almost empty interstate. Just as the lumbering vehicle seems to gain speed, it stops again to the grateful shouts of more walking exiles.

  Time and time again they slow. Tearful survivors climb up into the truck’s rear transport bed. They find welcome homes among the other weary souls before the rig finally fills.

  Sierra lays her head against her Papa’s solid chest. Driving always makes her sleepy. She smiles, listening to the soothing beat of his heart. It doesn’t take long before her eyelids start to droop. The child’s limitless exuberance tries to fight it off, but her weariness ticks louder and louder with each beat. Finally, the little girl drifts off to the first restful sleep she’s had in days.

  Jacob smooths back his granddaughter’s tawny hair. The innocence on her peaceful face is calming. Forgetting the chaos and tragedy of the past few days, the child’s love spreads warmth throughout the chiseled soldier. “What a trooper,” Jacob says. His gravelly voice is softer than normal. “Nothing seems to faze kids for long. You know?”

  “The resiliency of our children might just save us all,” Devin says. His own two miracles wait just hours away.

  “Thank God for that,” Jacob nods. A growing hope ripples through the general. He looks down at his granddaughter and the untold promise she might one day bring to mankind. “I know this little one will change the world. She is so strong, Devin. Stronger than I ever was…”

  “I find that hard to believe,” Devin says. He sees an unusual look on the general’s face. If Devin didn’t know the man better, he’d think it was regret.

  “It’s just…” Jacob starts. His growling voice hushes to a whisper. The general looks out the window at a changed world. “What does it say about you, Devin? When your deepest hope for your children is that they follow a different path than yours?” He pushes a lock of hair away from Sierra’s closed eyes. “Making wars is easy. It’s creating peace that’s the challenge. The world doesn’t need another soldier.” He leans down and gently kisses Sierra’s head. “Do something better than I could, little one.”

  Devin clasps the man’s shoulder reassuringly. “She’ll be fine, mate.”

  The general turns to the deserted scenery, oddly quiet.

  Sensing they need a change of topic, Devin flips down the visor. The afternoon sun is now beginning to shine brightly through the streaked glass. “So do you ex-military guys get any more info than the rest of us commoners about all this?”

  “I have some inside sources,” Jacob says, “but none of the civilian lines have been working. Back at the refugee camp, I pulled rank with a few of the soldiers. The latest news from command says there’s heavy fighting in the Atlantic and Pacific. Some of it’s a lot closer to home than I think they let on.”

  Jacob stares past the dirty window. The freeway is empty except for the occasional newspaper or plastic bag blowing across the cracked pavement: industrial tumbleweeds for a new era.

  “I never really got used to retirement,” Jacob says. “So, I ended up freelancing for KOMO-TV back in Seattle as a terrorism analyst.”

  “Terrorism?” Devin asks. Curiosity flashes in his green eyes. “Do you think that was part of all this? Or did these countries just launch from somewhere we couldn’t pick up?”

  “Honestly, it could have been both,” Jacob shrugs. “Suitcase nukes. Long range ballistics. Most intel went dark with the rest of the West Coast grid. NORAD’s probably the only place that really knows for sure. Looking back now, there sure were plenty of warning signs. But,” he says, his eyes lost along the rough horizon, “I don’t think anyone could have predicted this.”

  The soldier turns back to Devin. There’s a spark of doubt on his patriotic face. “It’s a hell of a snare they got us in, though. China and North Korea on one side. Russia and Iran on the other. Hell, if I was just a few years younger, I’d be fighting,” he smiles.

  “Served this country for almost thirty years until my knee blew out. Never could fly a desk. I’ve gotta be where the action’s at. You of all people can understand that.” Jacob’s smile fades. He rubs at the reconstructing screws and metal plates inside his rebuilt knee joint. “Course, if they need me back out on the battlefield, it’s probably too late already.”

  * * *

  Scattered pedestrians move along I-5, heading along the four southbound lanes under showering skies. A large group excitedly turns toward the rumbling of the military diesel. They wave desperately at the approaching green transport.

  Glancing back into the cramped and overflowing passenger bed, Devin’s stomach knots. They can’t fit anyone else.

  “They’ll outnumber us if you stop,” Jacob says. “This rig’s already way over capacity. It’s not a Greyhound, son.”

  Guilt eats away at him. The fireman forces his arms to swerve around the begging crowd. “I’m sorry!” he shouts through rolled-up windows. “There’s no room!”

  Weary hitchhikers pound on the sides of the green truck as it idles by them. They plead for help and pity from those inside.

  The sight of their weeping faces recedes in his mirrors. Families and children cry out among them, stumbling forward from fatigue.

  “I’m sorry,” Devin whispers. Tears sting in his eyes.

  Chapter 47

  Sporadically at first, cars and trucks begin moving along I-5. More of salvation’s chariots merge onto the freeway as Devin rumbles past the city of Kent. Twenty miles to the north, black clouds still spread from horizon to horizon. Fire glows inside the darkness, continuing to feed on the ashen remains of Seattle.

  Most vehicles they see are overflowing with refugees. Feet dangle from open tailgates. Bodies sit atop other willing laps. The acceptance of a shared fate seems to have pushed all modesty and selfishness aside, bringing those who are left far closer. The caravan of strangers looks at one another across the moving pavement. Stories of terror and survival are carved into every face.

  “I know you’d like to, Devin,” the general says, “but we can’t save everyone. Somebody’s bound to pick them up. We could have broken an axle if we added more weight back there. Then everyone would’ve been walking again.”

  Devin nods blankly. He knows Jacob’s right, but all he can see in his mirrors are the desperate faces of those they passed.

  “If there’s one thing I’ve learned from my years in the Army, son, it’s that a shared tragedy brings people together in a way that nothing else can.” Jacob’s steely blue eyes dart from car to car. “Just loo
k around you. I bet you not a soul knows anyone else they’re riding with, but they still help each other because they know that’s all they have left.” There’s a hard-fought wisdom in Jacob’s face. “When everything’s been stripped away, we have only our values to guide us.”

  The freeway traffic continues to get heavier the farther south they move.

  “Well, it feels like I’ve done most of the talking the past few days,” Jacob starts again. Silence has always made him uncomfortable. “What’s your story anyway, Devin? Where are you from?”

  “Originally?” Devin asks. “Liverpool, but I moved to the States with my family back when I was still in high school. Hated them a bit for that,” he smiles. “I suppose that’s where my daughter gets some of her rebellious nature. I left home two weeks before my eighteenth birthday and never looked back.”

  “That’s a long time to be out on your own.”

  “Not really,” Devin says. “I became a firefighter pretty soon after I left. Spent seventeen years running into fires. Even was a station chief back in Portland.”

  “Was?” Jacob presses. Devin’s use of past tense jumps out to the general like a bright red flag.

  “I…” Devin pauses. He glances out to the landscape whizzing by them, trying to find the right words. “I was put on semi-permanent leave a couple months ago.”

  “Semi-permanent?” Jacob laughs. “What the hell’s that? In my day, Devin, they called it getting fired.”

  “A blooming mess is what it was, mate,” Devin says. Color jumps to his cheeks.

  “So, what’d you do?”

  “Why does it matter?” Devin asks. The fireman scoots his back in tighter to the seat, his body straightening.

  “Why are you answering a question with a question?” Jacob counters. “It’s a long drive, and I just realized I really don’t know a whole hell of a lot about you.”

  Devin sighs. He really doesn’t want to pick at old wounds. But the general is not the kind of man to drop it. Not after he smells blood.

  “Underneath this elegant veneer,” Devin begins, “I’m told I’m a bit of an ass. For some reason, people enjoy being so incredibly forward around me.” He glances accusingly at Jacob. “I was also told that I had a bit of a drinking problem, and I needed to get it under control. It was all rubbish, blown completely out of proportion by the bloody media,” Devin says angrily. “I suppose if you look forward to having a drink to take the edge off a rough day or to celebrate a good one, pretty soon you’re making up all kinds of excuses just to take a nip.”

  “They ‘semi-permanently’ fired you just for enjoying a drink every now and then?” Jacob presses. He puts his fingers up in quotes to emphasize the fireman’s bullshit term. “How did any of that even get back to the media?”

  “Well,” Devin grins. “There was also a minor dispute with one of my daughter’s boyfriends. Yes, I may have had just a wee bit too much liquid comfort in me at the time, but the 18-year-old cretin was in my house, trying to dilly-dally with my little girl! So…” Devin pauses again, looking at the general’s rapt face. “I kindly escorted the bugger out. And down the driveway. And perhaps across the street into my neighbor’s bird bath…” The fireman’s voice trails off. His eyes drift to the window, borrowing agreement from the barren landscape moving past.

  Jacob erupts into laughter. A deep, merry laugh rolls uncontrollably out of him, echoing back across the truck cabin. The sound is infectious.

  Devin tries unsuccessfully to stop the smile spreading across his own face. “The tosser had it coming!” he defends. “Then the police got involved, and like I said, I was a wee bit drunk. The TV stations had a bloody field day with the story.” His face takes on an officious anchor scowl. “‘Out-of-control fire chief. His drunken rampage at 11…’ I mean, really!”

  The general’s laughter ripples out in another wave. His once lethal hands wipe tears of joy from his eyes.

  “Not my finest moment, mate.”

  * * *

  Sierra yawns, jogged momentarily awake by a series of potholes along the well-used freeway. The little girl blinks sleepily. She looks around before drifting back to sleep again, safe in her grandfather’s arms.

  “Have they hit any more cities?” Devin asks quietly.

  “Not that I gathered back at the camp,” Jacob says. “But no one’s even sure how they hit the ones they did. North Korea and Iran have both been testing long-range missile delivery systems. I know our satellite and radar defenses, though. And there is just no way they could have launched those a continent away without being intercepted by command. Maybe the bombs were smuggled in through our seaports or with air cargo. X-rays can be blocked. Security can be bypassed. It’ll be a while before they pick up the pieces.”

  “I just hope pieces aren’t the only things left,” Devin says, his thick British cynicism returning.

  He looks over at a flatbed pickup truck passing on their left. Its bed is filled with refugees. Some nod back to him. Some wave. Most just sit and stare unresponsively before zooming on.

  More cars move along the lanes of I-5 as the truck approaches Tacoma. Dead vehicles litter the side of the road. One still has its hood up, pouring out steam into the misty sky. An elderly man with sunken eyes stands in front of another. He holds up a cardboard sign with red lettering: NEED GAS.

  Cars zoom past him, humanity’s selfishness resuming in greater numbers.

  The traffic continues to get heavier. They soon pass Tacoma’s last exit and approach Lakewood, then Olympia.

  “Looks like there’re still a few of us left after all,” Jacob remarks. Cars start to slow in front of them. Vehicles fight their way into the four condensing lanes.

  “Never thought I’d be happy to see a traffic jam,” Devin laughs.

  “One private I spoke with back at camp said there was an evacuation order for the rest of the state.”

  “The state?!” Devin asks. He whips the wheel sharply to avoid some road debris. “Why? Where’s everyone supposed to go?”

  Jacob motions behind to the dark storm ravaging the skyline 40 miles away. “Remember those clouds in Seattle? All that nuclear dust got blown up into the stratosphere. It’s falling now and creating more toxic rain across the state, just like the storm we saw.”

  He leans his head out of the passenger window and looks behind them. The general’s graying military cut barely moves in the wind. Almost pure black clouds billow and grow over Seattle, pulsing across the earth with their lethal retribution.

  “We have to find another way south,” Devin shouts. The traffic is creeping bumper to bumper. They crawl across the pavement under darkening skies.

  Just outside of Olympia, traffic is almost at a standstill. Row after impatient row of motorists tries to merge onto I-5. The rig slowly rolls around a turn, passing under an overpass that blocked their view of the interstate ahead. Devin’s eyes go wide.

  A sprawling mess of vehicles is parked along the freeway. The glittering metal stretches for miles. Nothing is moving.

  “Shit,” Devin blurts before looking guiltily down at the little girl sleeping next to him. “Sorry, Sierra.”

  A flipped motorhome lies on its side, trapped between the posts of another overpass far ahead. Flames still burn along the sides of the blackened wreckage. All southbound lanes are blocked. The vehicles closest to it are merging onto the right shoulder to get around, one by one.

  Devin glances to the right and signals. “Hold on!” he shouts. The fireman guns it, moving onto the shoulder towards the coastal Highway 101 cutoff. The rig jumps and bounces under them. One side of the vehicle rolls smoothly along the shoulder’s pavement; the other side is forced down onto the uneven gravel and dirt. Other cars and trucks soon fall in behind them, heading up the off-ramp.

  Traffic lightens again as Devin drives west into the setting sun. The rays shine brightly through the front glass, illuminating specks of dust dancing around the cabin.

  Chapter 48

  A sole
military transport darts in and out of shadows along State Route 8, its evergreen color blending into the trees. Small towns and lush Pacific Northwest forests zoom by the windows.

  Out here, everything feels almost normal, like the troubles of the city can’t breach the dense tree line. Quaint local stores are open for business. Cars and trucks dart here or there. Life is almost as it should be.

  Almost.

  Grocery stores and gas stations overflow with unfamiliar customers. Columns of vehicles heeding the statewide evacuation order stretch out into long lines for fuel and supplies. Station signs are filled with hastily scrawled numbers, having run out of enough zeroes to properly gouge. The ones still with gas proudly display signs of $30 per gallon. Or more.

  Approaching the turnoff for Highways 107 and 101, Devin banks the truck to the left. The 23-footer rolls over the rumble-stripped center line just to make the sweeping turn.

  Sierra is bounced awake. The little girl squints up at the setting sun, glancing around at the strange scenery.

  “Welcome back,” Jacob smiles.

  His granddaughter’s small mouth opens into a gaping yawn. She rubs the sleep from her eyes, coming to life for new adventure. “Where are we, Papa?” she asks excitedly.

  “Tough to say. We’re getting close to the coast, though. You can smell it.”

  The 5-year-old sniffs at the air. Her nose quickly wrinkles, turning questioningly towards her grandpa.

  “No, not that,” Jacob laughs. “I guess we’ll have to work on our hygiene when we get back to your mom’s. We did have to walk a ways, you know, and I seem to remember having to carry some little girl whose legs were just too tired to move. Ring any bells?”

  “Hmph,” she mumbles defiantly.

  “Hmph? Is that even English?” Jacob shouts. He turns to Devin. “Kids today.”

  Jacob pulls his granddaughter close, working his trained hands over her sides. “I’ll show you some hmph!”