Yield (29 page)

Swapping the mainline data cable for the fiber back-up, he turns and fires up the generator. It rumbles to life with a growl. Dave leans through the door and shouts down the hallway,
“
You
’
ve got 20 minutes!
”

*  *  *

Back in the newsroom, dim emergency lights kick on. Police and fire scanners scream out scattered hiss and blood-chilling tones. The nightmarish sounds are deafening.

Jean leans over the assignment desk
’
s computers.
“
Get to the truck and patch in the national signal!
”
she shouts.
“
We
’
ll cut in if I find anything else on the feed!
”

The experienced producer shivers, eying the shadows of bodies still lying at the stations where they died. Her hands start to shake. She reaches down to power up the computer, closing her violet eyes.
Please
…

Nothing happens.

She pushes and holds the button.

Still nothing.

Jean pulls the power cord out of the blackened surge strip and plugs it directly into the wall.

The computer
’
s drives suddenly spin up.
“
Yes!
”
Jean opens the Associated Press
’
s ENPS program buried on the system
’
s desktop. She scrolls through the AP wire alerts, double-clicking the script with the latest time stamp.

The seasoned journalist gasps when she reads the headline.

Airline
passengers stumble across the debris-covered freeway, collecting south of the ruins that carried them there.
They are confused. Hollow. The
lives they knew died somewhere up inside the tranquil clouds. Now, they stand on the brink of a hell they cannot comprehend.

The survivors cluster by a ring of what used to be vehicles. Fire inside their empty frames still burns upon the concrete, even as the rain continues down. Scraps of cars rest by blackened skeletons littering the interstate.

Devin looks questioningly toward a group of souls huddled around a blistered truck hood. A national news report teases in and out of reception from the battery-powered radio set on top. Clutching tightly to Terra, Devin quickens his pace and joins Isabel and Chris in the crowd.

Abd kneels next to them. His light blue Mariners jersey is soiled and gray with ash. He fumbles with strips of cloth scavenged from the remains, trying to tie a sling for his separated shoulder. He winces. Pain shoots down his left side whenever it moves. Abd struggles to grip the ends of the ripped cloth
,
but t
he fabric keeps slipping out of his good hand.

“
Here,
”
Devin says, leaning down.
“
This may hurt some, bloke.
”

The Arab
’
s black sockets shoot up with suspicion.

“
It
’
s alright. I
’
m a firefighter. I help people,
”
Devin winks.
“
On my good days, that is.
”

Abd
’
s eyes barely soften. Cautiously, more out of need than trust, he leans toward the redhead. The Arab grimaces as the tightened knot pulls the pieces of his shoulder back together.

“
Most likely dislocated,
”
Devin says. The fireman works his fingers gently over the edges of Abd
’
s clavicle and ball joint.
“
Can
’
t fix you up proper, but this
’
ll hold you a bit.
”

The daggers of pain slowly begin to subside. Not used to thanking strangers, Abd stiffly nods.

“
Any word?
”
Devin asks, turning to the others.

Chris
’
s eyes refuse to leave the burnt truck hood. He just shakes his head, fearing to speak over the tinny sound echoing like prophecy from the small black radio.

The noise and hiss gradually begin to clear. Eager hands adjust the tuning dial, locking in on the only station still broadcasting.
“
…
Reports are now coming in
……
mass destruction all across the U.S
…
.
”

Static and silence follow the words, chilling Devin to the bone.

The news anchor continues in a voice shaking with barely-restrained emotion.
“
We have
…
unconfirmed accounts of widespread damage
……
parts of New York state
…
Washington, D.C
…
.and the West Coast
…
”

“
No!
”
a middle-aged woman next to them cries out. A haunting look fills her eyes.
“
My kids
…
”
she whimpers. Her legs buckle. Another survivor catches her, trying to give the woman what little comfort is left.

“
The whole country?
”
someone asks behind Devin.

“
ABC News has lost all contact
…
with bureaus in the affected areas
…
We
’
ll bring you any new information as it becomes available
…
It is unknown at this time
…
the extent of the damage or whether more cities have been attacked
…
”

*  *  *

RENTON, WASHINGTON - 10 MILES SOUTHEAST OF SEATTLE

Jacob Leder eases himself unsteadily down onto the couch. His grip tightens on the wooden armrest. Conducting a TV interview in the city just a few hours earlier, he shivers,
looking up at the antique bronze clock on his wall. 10:04 A.M.

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.