Yield (36 page)

Chris turns on him, his eyes again filling with violence.

“
I
’
m sorry, Chris. But look around you,
”
Devin says. He holds his arms out, refusing to back down.
“
The city
’
s gone!
”

Chris is silent. He glances back toward the smoldering remains of
Seattle
.

“
If we leave now, we have a chance.
”

“
Leave to where?
”
Chris yells. His insides feel like they
’
re tearing themselves apart.
“
Where the hell can we go?!
”

“
Portland,
”
Devin says. Thoughts of home and his family bring the firefighter instant comfort.
“
Anywhere,
”
he continues in a softer tone.
“
Just away from
all
this.
”

“
He
’
s right, Chris,
”
Isabel adds. The flight attendant walks in front of the teenager she helped raise over so many years of friendship with his mother. She stares up into the proud, brown eyes above.

“
How can you just leave them?
”
Chris begs.
“
You were their friend!
”

“
I love your mom,
”
Isabel defends. Her fiery eyes snap at the accusation.
“
You know that! But I also told her I
’
d look after you.
”

She points to the flattened horizon where skyscrapers should be.
“
There
’
s nothing back there but destruction and death,
”
Isabel says.
“
We
’
re all we
’
ve got right now, Chris. I need you.
”
She takes his hand and lays it on her stomach.
“
We need you.
”

The 17-year-old
’
s eyes go wide, feeling the life inside push against him.
“
Alright?
”
Isabel presses. The crack in his armor shines as brightly as hammered steel.
“
Let
’
s just go with them f
a
rther south. We can try to contact your folks from there.
”

Devin gently touches Terra
’
s shoulder. He follows the beautiful young woman
’
s unblinking gaze down the freeway towards the burning plane. The teenager
’
s pallid face looks on without expression. Her black hair casts deep shadows across her eyes.

“
We need to go, Terra,
”
he says, kneeling.

The words are like crackling in her ears. She stares into the flames as they ravenously feed upon the fuselage.

“
My name is Devin,
”
he says. The fireman slowly moves between her and the wreckage of their plane.
“
I have two kids of my own, and I think your mom would want someone to look after you. I need you to come with us so I can do that. Okay, love? We
’
ll get you back to whatever family we can.
”

Terra blinks, finally looking up to meet his gaze. The sky-blue color of her eyes gradually returns, shifting at the edges from a cool gray to a paling sapphire.

“
Come on,
”
Devin says, helping her up. The two begin walking alongside Isabel and Chris. They look out at hundreds of other troubled souls moving ahead of them into the devastation.

“
In my religion,
”
a coarse voice says from behind them,
“
if you save a life, you become responsible for it.
”

Abd tucks the small black radio into his sling and quickens his pace.

“
Excuse me?
”
Devin asks.

“
Helping others is one of the supreme acts in life,
”
Abd continues. He circles around so Devin separates him from Chris. Abd
’
s eyes glance worriedly up at the huge teenager. His split lip tries meekly to smile.

“
What does an Arab know about helping?
”
Chris says.
“
You just want to see the whole world burn.
”

“
No. Islam is a religion of peace,
”
Abd defends.
“
True followers of Allah would never do something like this.
”

“
But bringing down airplanes on 9-11 and cutting up people is alright,
”
Chris continues, showing the blood-stained shirt over his stomach.

“
Those people twisted my religion to fit their perverted goals,
”
Abd says. He shakes his head, his tone hardening.
“
I thought you were going to kill me. I would have done nothing to you otherwise.
”

“
Whatever.
”

“
This is all very interesting,
”
Devin says, looking skeptically at the Arab.
“
But I don
’
t quite understand why we
’
re having this little conversation.
”

“
I
…
”
Abd mumbles. His black eyes drift to the ground, unable to meet the firefighter
’
s.
“
I need to get back to Portland, too. And I just thought
…
”

“
Are you kidding me?! Find your own way,
”
Chris blurts. He turns to Devin.
“
You can
’
t trust his kind. What if he gets all crazy again? Or decides to carve you up in your sleep? Greasy little son of a
…
”

“
Hey,
”
Devin cuts him off.
“
We don
’
t know who did this. Or why. Skin color aside, all I see is a bunch of people in the same bloody situation we
’
re all in.
”
The firefighter looks back at Abd
’
s scrawny frame. The white sling and
gangly
shoulders might as well have been a bull
’
s-eye. He sighs, pushing down the warnings in his head.
“
Well, come on then, mate. You best not slow us down.
”

*  *  *

On the northbound side of the freeway, they pass a massive pileup of vehicles. Among the mangled metal and fiberglass is a blistered, red Porsche Boxster. Only the crumpled tail of the sports car is still visible, its vanity plate sticking out from under the discarded load of a multi-ton semi-truck.

Chris continues angrily on, walking as far from the Arab as he can. He passes just a hundred yards from the body of his mother as she lies entombed within the wreckage.

Two stories under the street, Jean Barlow and her remaining team sit on the metal floor of KOMO
’
s
news van
. The open sliding door casts a dim light along the garage
’
s concrete flooring. Kevin Green sits just inside, his legs hanging out of the rectangular opening. A stick mic lies across his lap. He stares down at the last update KOMO 4 News will ever receive.

Dave
’
s stubbled face glows from the audio levels of the alert tone overlaid on his waveform monitor. The lines that had continued so boldly across are now weakening. He brings the master slider on the small audio board all the way up until it pegs the top, but the audio just keeps fading as the signal strength wanes.

The emergency lights that straddle the ceiling
’
s large metal girders begin to dim. Jean looks over at the generator. It shudders several times and finally dies. The parking garage lights immediately dim then pop violently off. Several blow on the circuit
’
s edges when the power spikes one last time. The electronics in the van go dark, leaving only the interior light and lanterns to illuminate the black garage.

“
Well, that
’
s that,
”
Dave says. His hands refuse to leave the controls.

Jean sighs.
“
There
’
s nothing more you can do?
”

“
That was all of the generator fuel we had,
”
Dave says.
“
Corporate didn
’
t want us keeping it in the building.
”
He grins, changing to an officious, just because I wear a suit and tie I know more than you do, tone.
“
Insurance felt it was a fire risk.
”

“
Thank you, Corporate,
”
Jean says. An exaggerated smile spreads across her face.

“
Wouldn
’
t have mattered, though. That tone was still overriding our signal up until the jenny died.
”

“
Why couldn
’
t we get around it?
”
Jean asks.

“
It
’
s coming in over the EAS path,
”
Dave says.
“
But here
’
s the weird part. The signal is so strong it
’
s covering up everything else on our other pipelines. It
’
s like the tone is bleeding over into all of our back-up channels on purpose.
”

“
On purpose? Why?
”
Kevin asks.

“
Why indeed,
”
Dave nods. His mind races as it analyzes the possibilities.
“
Maybe to control the flow of information to an attack populace. Or to coordinate messages across a defined target area. Maybe they just want to black out access to unsanctioned news reports. Whatever the why, there really isn
’
t a reason I can think of with good intentions.
”

The three-person
department
sits silently in the dark garage. Dust rises through shards of light inside the news van. Dave
’
s words are like knots in their stomachs. The reality of today still seems like a twisted shade of what should be.

“
So, how do we patch around it?
”
Jean asks. The executive producer
’
s eyes light up at the challenge.

“
Hmm,
”
Dave pauses, rubbing at the growth along his face.
“
I think we
’
d have to hardwire in at one of the tower sites. All the metros are probably gone, but maybe the translators up in Ballard or Victory Heights could send out a burst.
”

Jean lays her hand lingeringly on the engineer
’
s shoulder. The EP found out long ago that a pretty girl can wield physical touch like a weapon.
“
Can you get this thing running?
”
she asks sweetly. Jean shines her flashlight up at the passenger headrest beside her.

“
I went to M.I.T., not Mazda,
”
Dave scoffs. Color jumps to his cheeks. He glances down at her delicate hand.

She slowly releases his shoulder, staring back at him with a cocked head.

“
Look,
”
Dave begins. His mind tries to simplify the explanation. Touching his fingertips together, the engineer forms a circle with his hands.
“
A nuclear weapon just detonated over our heads. When that happened, it sent out an electromagnetic pulse. We
’
re below street level down here, but dispersion is not circular,
”
he says, extending his fingers up and out to form a ball.
“
It
’
s spherical, in all directions.
”