Kevin clears his throat, forcing himself to regain his usually unshakeable composure.
“
My son
’
s best friend went there. I saw a baseball game at the school with them just last week. Now there
’
s nothing left
…
”
To the southeast, the landscape is completely desolate. It curves down unnaturally inside the massive bomb
’
s blast crater. Superheated pieces of metal scattered inside still continue to glow, lending a yellowish-green tint to the night.
The headlights of the two news vehicles shine into a tangled maze of wreckage. Broken buildings cover the sheared metal of cars. Their silhouettes slice through the light like talons jutting angrily upward from the rubble.
March rains continue down, trying to wash the horrors of mankind away. Minutes turn to hours. Finally, the sat truck
’
s tires ease down from the wreckage pile they
’
d been driving over onto more level pavement. The husks of once huge structures stand almost two stories now. Everything above twenty feet has been completely sheared off, as if a giant scythe simply cut through the city.
“
I don
’
t know where the hell we
’
re at,
”
Dave sighs. He slows the truck, nearing an intersection.
“
We
’
re lost?
”
Jonathon asks impatiently.
Dave runs a hand through his tussled brown hair,
rubbing
at the muscles tightening up along his neck.
“
Well, it
’
s a little hard to navigate when all the landmarks are gone.
”
“
Over there,
”
Jonathon says. He points to a charred sign leaning against a blistered, red SUV. Only the letters W and AKE are visible.
“
I think that might be Westlake. Go left.
”
They turn and head north. Most of the colorful marinas that once lined the avenue are now gone. As they round a bend, Dave looks out past Jon through the passenger window to his right. The black waters of Lake Union stretch out beside them. The wreckage of boats and structures bulges out from within the waters. Thousands of fingers grasp up from the murky depths to the sky. Some are still inflamed, sending smoke upward into the darkness.
“
Jesus,
”
Dave says.
“
Is
everything
gone?
”
Jonathon looks out across the lake. He used to take Chris sailing here. They had a 14-foot sailboat they would take out every summer, one of the few things they both enjoyed and always could find the time for. The warm touch of sunlight. The smell of salt water mixed with the cool spray as it hit the bow
…
Now, the eastern shore is completely engulfed in flames, surrounding a lake filled with
shattered pieces of mortality
.
Fire reflects back from Jonathon
’
s navy eyes. He watches the beauty burning before him with a silent tongue. Words themselves turn to blackened ash, taking with them the treasured memories he
’
ll never again get to make here.
“
I just don
’
t understand how
…
”
Dave says. His calculating mind goes quiet.
“
You can
’
t find reason in evil, Dave
,
”
Jonathon says.
“
We show news of violence in faraway countries and sit
—
invincible in our ignorance.
”
He stares into the orange flames just outside his window.
“
We
’
ve grown complacent. The wars we see are in someone else
’
s backyard
…
someone else
’
s city is in ruins.
”
Jonathon turns, a saddened rage filling his eyes.
“
Violence is very different when it
’
s thrust upon your doorstep.
”
The KOMO news team continues around the battered edges of Lake Union, silent again as the road turns northwestward. Fires surrounding the Seattle landmarks glow violently behind them.
The buildings they pass seem to be increasing in height. The explosion
’
s curving blast wave slices just above the fifth floor now. Pockmarked holes torn through the structures create black shadows across their faces like a plague on all those left behind.
Dave
’
s eyes suddenly go wide.
“
No
…
”
The young engineer eases off of the accelerator, approaching the on-ramps of two of Seattle
’
s major bridges. In the distance, the George Washington Memorial and Fremont Bridge lie crumbled inside the black waters of Lake Union. Perverted metal rails and support wires run into the shallows from the shore line, taking untold captives with them to the deep.
Lightning begins to pulse inside the clouds. The crack of thunder is like a gunshot at a cemetery. As the sky flashes, KOMO
’
s survivors see massive chunks of concrete just above the waves. The dotted colors of submerged vehicles are barely visible underneath.
Dave kicks on the sat truck
’
s high beams. Hundreds of cars sit stacked atop one another in the shoals. Rows of vehicles dip under the water farther out, resting purposefully on the submerged bridge sections. Passengers are still trapped inside, unable to complete their most final of errands.
“
Just going about their life,
”
Dave whispers.
“
Trying to make it to work. Home. Pick up the kids
…
then this.
”
The headlights on the news van behind them turn off, then on again in the side mirrors. Jonathon squints back, shielding his eyes at the summons.
“
Better stop and see what the news queen wants.
”
Dusty brakes shriek out and shudder to a stop. Even before the news van
’
s sliding door is all the way open, Neal and Kevin are out. They examine the shots, working their way across the scene in their detached, journalistic way. Somehow the horror and loss always filter down into just a story when it passes through the camera lens. The photog shoulders his XDCam and starts spraying b-roll of the crumpled bridge sections.
“
Get some shots by those supports,
”
Jean directs. She points out to where the six-lane George Washington slips into the water.
“
It
’
ll be grainy, but crank up the gain to pull something usable in this light. You
’
ll have to cut the package as tight as possible so we can broadcast the raw from our tower.
”
The rush of news pushes back her own feelings as she looks around. It steels her, forcing away the pain of caring. Coping is a whole lot easier when tragedy is just a headline.
“
And run a cable to the van
’
s generator if you need a bigger light kit for the stand-up,
”
she yells behind her. Jean walks away, rubbing at her temples. She circles around to the sat truck to check framing.
The passenger door opens and Jonathon
’
s 6
’
4
”
frame stretches out. He winces as his formerly athletic joints pop and grind in their sockets.
“
I thought I was the tyrant directing shoots,
”
he says. There
’
s a hint of admiration in his voice.
“
This is important, Jon,
”
she snaps. Her eyes are shielded in shadow, locked on her crew. Jean feels his reprimanded silence behind her. She pauses for a moment before leaning her body back against his in apology.
“
Besides, you know how forward I can be when I want something.
”
“
Yes, I do,
”
he says. His eyes drift down to the locks of shimmering hair resting gently on his chest. The smell of her Bulgari perfume fills his nose. Its scent is like a passionate memory swirling around them.
“
And so does my ex-wife,
”
he blurts without thinking. Jon
’
s weight shifts nervously, feeling the attention of the others now burning into him.
“
Ex?
”
Jean pulls away and turns, an exaggerated innocence betraying her face.
“
I was going to my lawyer today to sign the papers.
”
She
’
s silent as her normally forward impulses struggle with the right words.
“
Sorry it didn
’
t work out.
”
“
Bullshit,
”
Jonathon says. His eyes pierce into hers.
“
You couldn
’
t stand her either.
”
“
I never meant to end your marriage, Jon,
”
she whispers,
“
but life
’
s too short to apologize for the past. Eyes forward. Remember?
”
A grin spreads across his face. She
’
s recited those two words to him countless times before. Her irrepressible optimism and infectious sense of adventure have always been addicting. That
’
s what he loved most about her, even more than the physical attraction. Pulling him up flight after flight of stairs in random skyscrapers just to steal an intimate moment together. How she loved carnival rides on hot summer nights
,
umbrella-less splashing under thick Seattle rains
…
The memories with Jean somehow feel more happy and fulfilling than most of his 18 years of marriage.
“
I remember,
”
Jon smiles.
“
Don
’
t laugh. It helped my great-granddad get through the depression, both World Wars and three heart surgeries,
”
she says, a glow returning to her violet eyes.
“
‘
The only way to live,
’
he
’
d say.
‘
Eyes forward.
’
”
Jean
’
s smile fades as she looks back out to the bright, orange flicker of massive fires along their path to the west.
“
I
’
m glad he didn
’
t live to see all this, though.
”
The gentle curves of her face are silhouetted against the glow of flame, her strength somehow even more beautiful amidst the chaos.
* * *
“
In 3, 2, 1
…
This is Kevin Green, standing in front of all that remains of the George Washington Memorial Bridge in downtown Seattle,
”
the KOMO reporter begins. He points to the edge of the cracked asphalt, where the roadway enters the water.
“
The only thing you can see now are the stumps of the great structure behind me. Casualty numbers are unknown at this time. The explosion occurred during the peak of rush hour traffic within this densely-populated metropolitan area, so casualties could be well into the millions.
”
The reporter begins slowly walking down the split pavement. He gestures down into the water while his photographer tracks the shot.
“
Below me I can see cars, trucks and a significant amount of wreckage down in the waters of Lake Union. At least two dozen or more submerged vehicles are
…
”
Kevin suddenly fades off.
“
Jesus. There are still bodies trapped down there.
”
A silver Ford Focus lies on its side close to the shore, resting just under the waters. Lightning flashes again overhead, illuminating a silhouette inside. Dead hands stretch toward the glass for help that never comes.
Kevin kneels. He lays a hand on the cracked concrete, several feet from the tail of the submerged vehicle.
“
Our prayers are with all of the families that lost loved ones here today
…
”