Yield (27 page)

“
Jesus,
”
someone whispers. The voice sounds like thunder across the silent expanse.

Swirling winds throw fragments and debris high into the air. Hot gusts peel at what remains of Seattle, scraping its bones with an acidic touch. A layer of chalky white powder covers stone and metal. All across the charred horizons, once massive buildings are simply gone. The stumps of their deeply-rooted girders are the only proof they were ever there, torn off just above the piles of broken asphalt.

Documents rain down upon a shattered society. Once the informational backbone of one of America
’
s greatest cities
, the all-important memos and paperwork now
twist indiscriminately through the sky.

“
Jonathon,
”
a faint voice says. The black man wipes hypnotically at his glasses with the bottom of a blood-stained tie. The obsessively immaculate creative director kneels at the foot of the rubble. His suit is torn and covered in a dirty gray.

Jean Barlow slowly walks toward him. Stepping over pieces of concrete, she looks
back
at the man kneeling almost piously in the chaos. Her thin frame starkly reveals the various plastic surgeries she
’
s used to help climb the television ranks under male superiors. But none of that matters now. Nothing matters at all anymore.

Her attractive Korean features are filled with a confused sort of sorrow. Jean
’
s long black hair and piercing eyes whip around with uncertainty at the heated winds pushing across the flattened landscape.
“
Jonathon,
”
she says more loudly, laying a delicate hand on his shoulder.

He spins, jumping to his feet.

Jean screams,
“
It
’
s me, Jon!
”
She
’
s never seen that look in his eyes before. It
’
s terrifying. Primal. It frightens her enough to step back from the man she thought she knew so well — even loved. But that was like an eternity ago.

Her violet contacts scan down, stopping at the blood that covers the bottom of his tie.
“
Are you okay?
”

The fearful readiness of a caged animal stares back. He clenches and unclenches his fists. Jonathon stares past her, through her
…
i
nto the black opening of death at the stairwell beyond.

“
Jon?
”

He finally turns, looking at the damage all around them.

Jean inventories the handful of people above ground.
“
Where are all the others?
”
her voice shakes. Jean grits her teeth, fighting against the emotions she never allows to crack through. Her eyes fill with tears, but she refuses to let them fall

Traffic coming through the small opening at the stairs has now stopped. Even the moaning sobs of horror have fallen quiet from the black.

“
Are we all that
’
s left?
”
she whispers. Only sadness and disbelief look back at her. No one dares the words.

Pushing her humanity down, Jean switches back into the journalistic detachment she knows so well. It
’
s liberating almost, like wearing a mask on Halloween.
“
The station needs its news director right now. Where
’
s Mitch?
”
Her eyes drift back to Jonathon. A plea for structure and purpose cries out from within them.

“
He, uh
…
”
Jonathon looks down at his scuffed leather shoes. He shivers, feeling cold hands grasping for him through the shadows. The helpless moans of the dead still echo
—
down in the darkness of the newsroom
…

Jean taps her right foot impatiently.
“
That son of a bitch better have an action plan because I am not going to
…
”

“
He
’
s dead, Jean.
”

“
What?!
”
she hisses. She puts a hand to her mouth.

“
I don
’
t know,
”
Jonathon says. The knot of dread in his stomach refuses to go down into the black.
“
We were talking breaking news and promotions on the way to his office, and then
…
”
he stops.
“
Everything just collapsed.
”

Jonathon rubs at the dried blood still on his fingers, looking for absolution in the barren landscape.
“
Mitch is gone.
”

The flattened wreckage of downtown Seattle is eerily silent. Even the birds are gone.

Crumbling debris breaks off from the second story of a building nearby. It smashes to the ground, shattering the deafening silence.

The compulsion to give orders soon silences her own doubts.
“
Then it falls to you,
”
Jean says.
“
You
’
re the CSD. We need to
…
”

“
I don
’
t
care
who
’
s next in command!
”
Jonathon shouts.
“
The city is gone, Jean. We need to get the hell out of here!
”

The rest of the KOMO survivors
’
hushed conversations end. All eyes turn worriedly to their leaders.

“
Are you kidding me?! We don
’
t work at Wal-Mart, Jon. This is the biggest damn story of our generation!
”
She shakes her head.
“
It
’
s our job. People need to know what happened here.
”

“
How are we supposed to tell them what we don
’
t know?!
”
Jonathon asks. He points to the scraps of burnt paper falling through the sky.
“
You see any letters of responsibility floating around
?
”

“
That
’
s what we have to find out,
”
Jean says. She looks at the scared faces of her colleagues.
“
A lot of people died here today. Our friends, Jonathon.
”
Jean puts a hand gently on his shoulder. Her tone softens.
“
The city needs answers.
”

He looks around at the place where he grew up
—
where he raised a family and fell in love
—
lying in ruins.

Lightning flickers inside the yellow storm clouds closing in over the city. The slow boom of thunder rolls across the warlike landscape.

“
Can we even broadcast?
”
Jonathon finally asks.

“
I don
’
t know. There were a couple of sat trucks down in the parking garage for servicing. We may be able to send out a radio signal or something with the low-power antennas.
”

Jonathon
’
s navy blue eyes scan pile after pile of nothingness as far as they can see. Only the wind moves, sending shredded debris across a rusty sky. Jonathon turns. His voice drops to a whisper.
“
Who
’
s left to hear it?
”

The question slams into Jean. It forces the breath from her lungs. The faces of her friends and family roar through her mind. Everyone she ever cared about lived within her Emerald City.
They
’
re all dead.
A single obliterating moment took everything, erasing millions of unspent lifetimes in its path.

“
We have to try,
”
she whispers. Her lip trembles.

Jonathon sees a virgin sadness in her purple eyes. The deep and unfamiliar naivety forces him to look away. His arm twitches, wanting to reach out comfortingly and pull his former
mistress
to him. But his own comfort is absent, dying somewhere within the darkness of KOMO
’
s grave.

A piece of metal flashes on the ground. Jonathon picks up a blistered steel name plate from the rubble where their receptionist had once been.

WENDY AIKEN.

I walked by you for almost two years and didn
’
t even know your name
…
He kneels. Jonathon closes his eyes and lays the burnt gravestone back onto the pile of wreckage.
“
Alright.
”

He looks around at the remaining KOMO employees. Their bodies are tattered and caked with dust, their expressions stunned. Heads in their hands, several openly weep under girders ripped from the earth.

Jonathon spots one of his engineers examining the destruction. Dave Jenkins
’s
blue polo shirt is grease-stained, his jeans recently ripped in the knee caps. In spite of his appearance, intelligence sparkles from the analytical 26-year-old
’
s eyes. Reporter Kevin Green stands next to him in a dusty Columbia rain jacket.

“
I just spotted Dave,
”
Jonathon says.
“
If he can fix the generator, you should be able to power up the last Associated Press feed.
”
He looks back at the lifeless wastelands as more clouds near. Diagonal slashes of rain cut across the horizon, carving their way through the dead city.
“
Something
’
s gotta be on the wires by now.
”

Battered KOMO employees climb out of their stairwell
’
s narrow opening, pushing chunks of rock and dirt aside. They walk out on either side of a kneeling body covered in dust. Ash blankets his broad
shoulders. The newsroom survivors move around him, squinting up into the stinging rain. Light from a blood-red sun does not warm them. It does not calm. It
’
s as if the very heat has been sucked from it, leaving only the seeping color of the lost.

“
Jesus,
”
someone whispers. The voice sounds like thunder across the silent expanse.

Swirling winds throw fragments and debris high into the air. Hot gusts peel at what remains of Seattle, scraping its bones with an acidic touch. A layer of chalky white powder covers stone and metal. All across the charred horizons, once massive buildings are simply gone. The stumps of their deeply-rooted girders are the only proof they were ever there, torn off just above the piles of broken asphalt.

Documents rain down upon a shattered society. Once the informational backbone of one of America
’
s greatest cities
, the all-important memos and paperwork now
twist indiscriminately through the sky.

“
Jonathon,
”
a faint voice says. The black man wipes hypnotically at his glasses with the bottom of a blood-stained tie. The obsessively immaculate creative director kneels at the foot of the rubble. His suit is torn and covered in a dirty gray.

Jean Barlow slowly walks toward him. Stepping over pieces of concrete, she looks
back
at the man kneeling almost piously in the chaos. Her thin frame starkly reveals the various plastic surgeries she
’
s used to help climb the television ranks under male superiors. But none of that matters now. Nothing matters at all anymore.

Her attractive Korean features are filled with a confused sort of sorrow. Jean
’
s long black hair and piercing eyes whip around with uncertainty at the heated winds pushing across the flattened landscape.
“
Jonathon,
”
she says more loudly, laying a delicate hand on his shoulder.

He spins, jumping to his feet.

Jean screams,
“
It
’
s me, Jon!
”
She
’
s never seen that look in his eyes before. It
’
s terrifying. Primal. It frightens her enough to step back from the man she thought she knew so well — even loved. But that was like an eternity ago.