Yield (40 page)

She stops cold. Embarrassment twists through her. Apprehension flashes color to her tanned cheeks.

Kevin Green leans out from the passenger seat. A mixture of panic and preservation is in his eyes.
“
I think we should follow Jonathon
’
s lead on this one, Jean,
”
the reporter says expectantly.
“
I
’
ve got a wife and kids at home.
”

“
We all have families,
”
his photographer loudly agrees from inside. Heads nod all around.

“
It
’
ll be okay,
”
Jean says to the group.
“
We
’
ll just shoot some quick b-roll as we go, and be out of the city in no time. Dave says we can send a short broadcast once we
’
re far enough north.
”

Their faces look timidly back at her. Their eyes beg only to flee.

“
It
’
ll be okay,
”
she repeats. Jean forces happiness into her hoarse voice. She slides the door closed and walks across the uneven ground to the driver
’
s side. Her hands tremble as they grip the handle. Jean
’
s eyes close tight.

Reluctantly, she opens the door and sits. Even though her entire being wants only to curl up and cry
—
to shriek up into the fiery heavens
—
she turns and weakly
smiles.

“
Here we go, kids. Play nice back there.
”

Both news vehicles slowly pull away. They begin driving over the wreckage-covered streets, headed north into the unknown. The tiny vehicles are surrounded by monolithic pieces of a life now lost. Fragments of civilization crumble under their tires as they drive through the city
’
s smoldering ruins.

Strange and saddened bodies walk with Devin along I-5, their backgrounds and beliefs at odds with the shared circumstance. More people emerge through whirling clouds of dust. They take shattered on-ramps down to join the mass migration south. Rainless clouds remain dark overhead, intermixing with the thick smoke of fires burning unimpeded over the ravaged and broken.

Refugees move slowly across their scarred homeland. Hundreds of timid eyes dart around for signs of help. But no one comes. No compassion is there to meet them. Only the dead surround, stretching far into the distance.

Mile after relentless mile, they trudge on. Angry murmurs soon ripple through the crowd,
s
preading more quickly than any plague.

“
Where the hell are the rescuers?
”
a tattooed 24-year-old asks. Circles of ink are stitched into the skin around his gaunt neck. He pulls down a black bandanna used to block the dust from his mouth.

Heads shake with uncertainty. Several voices respond from the crowd, almost too weakly to hear.

“
Don
’
t know. Maybe the terrorists got them, too.
”

“
They
’
re all dead, probably.
”

“
Terrorists? I heard we were under attack.
”

“
No, the people I met downtown said it was a weapons experiment.
”

“
Not a chance. It
’
s gotta be some crazy terror cell with a dirty bomb or something.
”

“
Shouldn
’
t the military be out here? Or FEMA?
”
another woman asks. Panic shakes in her voice. She holds a shattered left wrist against her body.

“
Our government doesn
’
t care about us!
”
the man wearing the bandanna shouts. Sounds of wrathful agreement rise within the mob.
“
We
’
re on our own now. It
’
s kill or be killed.
”

“
Our rules now.
”

*  *  *

The clustered hopeless shuffle along the freeway, spreading out as the day wears on. Some stop to wait for help. Others slow as fatigue sets in.

“
Alright, guys!
”
Isabel yells ahead. Her feet grind painfully to a stop, refusing to go even one inch more. She adjusts the duffel bag slung across her shoulders. The wet bag feels ten times heavier than it should. She rubs at the line cutting into her shoulder from the strap.
“
I think it
’
s about break time back here!
”

The pregnant flight attendant puts a hand up to Terra
’
s arm for support. The other clutches the bottom of her pregnant stomach to ease the sharp throbbing in her back.
“
Whew!
”
Isabel winces.

Terra stares straight ahead, her face expressionless. Her eyes are glazed. They stare past and through everything around her
—
and have for miles. Unfocused. Barely blinking.

Isabel nudges the teen, trying to get a reaction. Terra
’
s eyes slowly look over.
“
Making a pregnant woman speed walk,
”
Isabel says.
“
His mama needs to revisit that lesson in manners.
”
The feisty Latina stands on her tiptoes to shout at Devin.
“
Won
’
t get much farther without food and water anyways!
”

Devin reluctantly stops. He fights back a spark of agitation at the delay.
“
Fine,
”
he groans. The fireman turns to Chris.
“
Feel like doing a little scouting?
”

Abd strides back to them from the lead. Chris
’
s unwelcoming eyes freeze him in place.

“
Don
’
t need to,
”
Chris says gruffly. His eyes stay locked on the Arab hovering several paces away.
“
Unlike some here, I grew up in this city.
”

“
Glad to have a guide, mate.
”
Devin smiles, trying to soften the intimidating man
’
s mood.
“
Any stores nearby?
”

“
Off the freeway. There
’
s a market just east of that exit up ahead.
”

“
‘
Bout bloody time,
”
Devin says.
“
Finally some good news.
”

“
Shouldn
’
t we stay here?
”
Chris asks.
“
We
’
ll be easier to spot by the rescuers.
”

The sound of exploding glass echoes right behind them.

Car windows splinter and yield under the assaulting blows. They shatter into millions of sparkling prisms as raiders and vandals eagerly set to their work. Devin looks around at all the refugees walking and pillaging nearby, seeing only desperation and anger in their eyes.

*  *  *

“
They ain
’
t coming,
”
a scruffy-looking man whispers to a tall, desperate shadow walking next to him.
“
No one will know. Just take what you want.
”
His eyes begin to shoot around, weighing justification and risk.
“
We have to defend ourselves. Think about it.
”

“
Survival of the fittest, man,
”
the accomplice responds.

“
Exactly,
”
the scruffy man answers. His dirty mouth curls up into a grin.
“
It
’
s time to play.
”

*  *  *

“
Nobody seems too hopeful they
’
re on the way,
”
Devin says.
“
I
’
ve been a firefighter for a lot of years, and the systems are just not designed for something like this.
”
Devin points toward the cracked edges of a massive blast crater, miles behind them.
“
Too big of an impact area. Compromised resources.
”
Thousands of refugees continue to pour onto the freeway.
“
They aren
’
t coming today, mate. Not for a while.
”

Devin turns back to the girls resting behind them, motioning up towards the next off-ramp.
“
We need to head up. You ladies ready?
”

“
Masochistic Brit,
”
Isabel mutters in objection. A hint of a smile touches Terra
’
s face.

Even though her feet beg her not to, Isabel slowly begins to hike on behind Devin and Chris. Her hand moves down to an aching lower back.

Abd slows. He
’
s also tired. But not from walking. His thin runner
’
s build could walk all day and night if he needed to.
A
bd is tired of the expected uselessness and insults screaming back at him from the eyes of the towering black man. He stops.

A crooked but polite smile spreads across Abd
’
s face, trying its best to exude gentlemanly charm.

“
What the hell do you want?
”
Isabel asks as they approach. She wraps an arm protectively around Terra
’
s shoulders.

“
Just to help,
”
Abd sighs. He grits his teeth to stay the words he wants so badly to shout.
“
May I?
”
he asks. A curiously helpful tone rises to his voice as he points to Isabel
’
s duffel bag.

Her chocolate eyes squint threateningly back. Trust is not something Isabel gives easily. Especially not today. The pain in her back finally overcomes any misgivings.
“
It
’
s nothing that valuable anyway,
”
she says, handing her only possessions to him. Isabel
’
s voice hardens.
“
But you
’
d better stay close, Arab.
”

He takes the bag and slings it over his right shoulder. Abd winces as the weight shifts in his separated socket. Pain shoots down his left side. The jolt turns into throbbing then gradually subsides back into the now-familiar ache. He looks up expectantly, but Isabel and Terra have already sped away.
“
You
’
re welcome,
”
he mumbles to himself.

Abd and the rest of his tenuous fellowship break from the other survivors on the freeway, heading up the exit
’
s off-ramp. Several others follow behind them. Most stay on the rugged interstate, continuing south.

When they reach the intersection atop the crumbling overpass, Devin
’
s body stiffens. Husbands and wives, parents and children are all running chaotically through the streets. Their arms overflow with anything they can carry. Panic and skepticism look back from thousands of eyes as the city embraces a new order of anarchy.

Two thin figures kick out the glass from a broken storefront window nearby, carrying out a television set. One of them adjusts the rifle slung over his shoulder.

“
Might want to stay a little closer up here, ladies,
”
Devin says. He motions down to the others still climbing up the steep incline.

“
Let
’
s hurry up, ladies,
”
Isabel echoes, looking back at Abd with a mischievous smile.

Dark eyes flicker under the shadow of his brow. The Arab
’
s jaw tightens. He forces his feet to move obediently, step by step behind the ungrateful infidels.