Authors: Bryan K. Johnson

Tags: #Thrillers, #Fiction

Yield (31 page)

BOOK: Yield

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His young granddaughter, Sierra, gently pulls herself up into his lap. She looks with concern at her Papa
’
s normally cheerful face.

The only light inside Jacob
’
s militarily-precise Renton living room comes through the partially open blinds beside him. The power grid has probably been destroyed for hundreds of miles. In the distance, the blooming smoke of Seattle rises through the streaked glass. The cloud billows, turning the sky a burning and vibrant red.

Jacob takes his
5
-year-old granddaughter
’
s hand. They turn the charging crank several times on the back of the wooden emergency radio and lean closer.

“
The cause is still undetermined
…
”
the static hisses.
“
But because of the scale of damage, at least in initial reports
…
the blasts were possibly nuclear in nature
…
It is believed that the President and most of Congress were in Washington, D.C. at the time of that city
’
s explosion
…
”
The news anchor pauses, stunned even at his own words.
“
We do not yet know if there are any survivors
…
”

“
Jesus,
”
Jacob whispers. His patriotic eyes fill. His jaw clenches.

* * *

NORTH BEND, WASHINGTON - 28 MILES EAST OF SEATTLE

Ruben Gonzalez looks down from the massive plume of black smoke spreading like locusts across the horizon. It shadows Seattle,
far
to the west. He runs into his dad
’
s quadruple-bay mechanic shop, joining the rest of its seven-person staff. They cluster around a radio resting on top of an open engine block.
“
Dad! The smoke
…
”
Ruben shouts.

“
Quiet!
”
Robert Gonzalez barks.

“
One of ABC
’
s sources in the military reported earlier today that there
’
s been a dramatic increase in hostile chatter
…
”
the radio continues.
“
That could indicate today
’
s actions were possibly a coordinated terrorist attack
…
”

“
Was Mom on that plane?!
”
Ruben interrupts.

“
I don
’
t know, Ruben!
”
He closes his eyes, praying it wasn
’
t Isabel
’
s plane. Robert
’
s voice lowers to a whisper.
“
I don
’
t know.
”

Through the windows of the door to the left of them, two customers stand in the waiting room. One of them stares out at the fading mushroom cloud above Seattle; the other flips through the channels of static on the television. The TV set finally finds a grainy image from Chicago
’
s Board of Trade.

* * *

CHICAGO, ILLINOIS

Hundreds of traders are uncharacteristically silent. They stand immobilized, staring at the ABC news anchor on the television wall filling one side of the CBOT. Stock names and numbers run along the massive leader board. Usually calculated hundreds of times every second, the numbers now crawl by unchanged as a government-mandated trading freeze takes effect.

“
The blasts occurred simultaneously at approximately 9:20 A.M. Pacific
t
ime, 12:20 Eastern
…
”
the anchor reads.

Towards the back of the room, murmurs begin rippling through the tense crowd of bond traders.

“
Again, we haven
’
t received confirmation as of yet. But certainly, the concurrent nature of the explosions draws parallels to the terrorist events of recent years
…
”
the news anchor continues.
“
If that is the case, there could also be more attacks to come
…
”

The words of change rip through a society that is, that was — that will never again be certain of its place in the world. Murmurs soon turn into a roar of voices. First one, then more traders turn and begin forcing their way back through the packed room toward the exits. The CBOT quickly turns into chaos, a stampede of civility trampling the bodies of the weak.

* * *

PORTLAND, OREGON

The ABC newsroom in Portland is a frenzied blur of activity. Springing to life shortly after losing all contact with their sister station in Seattle, producers and reporters stride through a maze of desks, shouting at one another over the screaming of police scanners. Rows of televisions line the walls and assignment area, each tuned to what
’
s left of the major news networks.

“
Jeff
’
s going live!
”
the news director yells.

A graying, midday producer snatches up the telephone on his desk.
“
Anchors to the set please,
”
he barks into the paging system.
“
Anchors to the set!
”

Another producer lunges past, stopping to yell through the doorway of the dark graphics department.
“
Where
’
s that animap?!
”

* * *

SEATTLE, WASHINGTON

Jean runs up to the news van in KOMO
’
s underground parking garage and stuffs a script into Kevin Green
’
s hands. The reporter
’
s eyes scan down through the official AP statement. Dave kneels inside the truck beside him, his deft hands working the broadcast switcher controls.

“
What?!
”
Kevin asks. He looks back at Jean in disbelief.

Her eyes are beyond emotion. The executive producer moves past him and leans inside the open sliding van door, laying a hand on Dave
’
s shoulder. The young engineer pulls the headphones up off his left ear and squints back.

“
We
’
re cutting in! Two minutes,
”
she shouts, motioning two fingers at him.

“
I can only give you audio,
”
Dave yells over the static in his ears.
“
Our stinger barely has enough power to hit the translators from here. We won
’
t have the bandwidth for video.
”

“
Just give me what you can.
”
Jean quickly plugs a hard-wire mic into the audio board and passes it to her reporter.

“
Mic check. One, two,
”
Kevin says.

Dave eyes the VU meter, riding the levels up to -12 DB.
“
Good to go!
”
He gives a thumbs-up to his producer. The engineer glances behind him, hearing feedback growing in his headset.
“
Close that!
”

Kevin climbs inside and slams the van
’
s sliding metal door.

* * *

Static hisses and pops for what seems like an eternity. The gathered survivors of Flight 661 look at the wreckage around them, waiting for answers to emerge from the noise. But the small radio
’
s hiss just bounces across the silent Seattle freeway.

“
There have been reports of men of Arabic descent on planes bound for those cities,
”
the national news anchor returns.
“
But there has been no confirmation of whether terrorists were the cause of today
’
s events
…
”

Chris
’
s eyes drift coldly down to Abd. Flickering images of Darius flash through the teenager
’
s mind. His dead friend
’
s eyes stare back into his soul. The dazed look of invincible finality is carved into his face.

“
What?
”
Abd shouts. His sunken eyes shoot around, returning stares from the survivors now turning at him.

In an instant, Chris is on the Arab. He swings vengeful fists like lightning through the air.
“
Son of a bitch! You did this!
”
he bellows. He catches Abd
’
s chin with a hooking blow and sends him reeling backwards to the ground. The towering basketball player lunges down at him.

The crowd is silent. They watch the ferocity with a vicarious thirst, eager for equal blood.

“
You killed them all!
”
Chris
’
s dark hands tear upon flesh and pavement, feeling neither.

“
We don
’
t know that!
”
Devin shouts. He reaches out and tries to grip the huge teenager around the chest. The pulsing, sinewy body continues on, refusing to slow his advance. The firefighter
’
s arms tighten and lift, arching his entire body back. Veins strain to the surface of his arms.

“
Stop it, Chris!
”
Isabel scream
s
, stunned by the normally gentle boy
’
s fierce and insatiable fury.

Slowly at first, the surging athlete inches away. The brief distraction allows the jarring blows to finally miss. Abd rolls from under the black man, his wild eyes looking like game in the mouth of a lion. The Arab
’
s right hand darts out for traction to pull himself along the rough asphalt. Instead, it finds a sharp metal remnant from the plane. Without hesitation, he whips it up and into the stomach of his attacker.

“
You will not touch me again, black dog!
”
Abd spits. Blood and words both spew from his mouth as he stands.

“
Easy!
”
Devin barks. Chris falls backward into him, sending them both to the ground.

Abd turns, brandishing the weapon at all the other eyes still upon him.
“
I didn
’
t do this!
”
he yells.

They slowly back away, unsatisfied. Hungry for vengeance.

The radio signal begins to
pop
in and out. The shrill roar of noise cuts through the crowd. Their attention turns to the tiny radio speaker, the hissing sound like a siren
’
s call.

Abd drops heavily to a knee. He tucks the shiv into a frayed pocket, wiping the blood from his face.

“
This
…
”
a staticky voice fades in. The words are broken and choppy through the interference. The survivors edge closer, information now their only solace.
“
This is Kevin Green reporting
…
from the ruins of the KOMO newsroom
…
I
’
m not sure how long
…
we
’
ll be able to broadcast, but we
’
ve just received
…
new details about the tragedy that struck Seattle this morning
…
”