Yield (63 page)

“
Bad,
”
Devin answers. A chill shoots down his back. The fireman takes a couple of gulps from his sports drink, part of him
still
wishing for the burn of something much harder.
“
We came in
nine or ten
miles north of here when our plane went down on I-5.
”

“
Jeez. Not many survivahs up that way.
”

“
There are some, then?
”
Devin asks. His eyes probe the Creole
’
s scarred face.

“
‘
At
’
s what I heard. Days like this, tho
’
, everyone
’
s gotta story.
”
The blind man stuffs another handful of chips into his mouth, chewing them loudly.

“
Any mention of downtown?
”
Devin presses.
“
One of the people I
’
m with has family there.
”

“
Well, now,
”
the blind man says. He leans forward. Fiery shadows dance across his scarred smile.
“
It ain
’
t pretty in
‘
dem parts. Can
’
t imagine much left alive. But
…
”
he starts, taking a swig of his water.
“
Damned if people don
’
t defy
‘
dem odds.
”

“
Have people seen any relief aid or rescuers yet?
”

The blind man doubles over with laughter. He elbows the shoulder of the traveler next to him.
“
You hear
‘
dat?
”

“
I say something funny, mate?
”
Devin asks, his impatience growing. His emerald eyes dart around to the other faces by the fire. Their smiles are a mixture of anger and disgust, punctuated with the frightened humility of those now ceasing to hope.

“
Tah hah! Those gov
’
ment types won
’
t come
‘
ere,
”
the blind man snickers.
“
They don
’
t like it when they
’
s netha
’
regions start to burn from
‘
da dust.
”

The Creole takes another long, dripping gulp before wiping a sleeve across his mouth.
“
Did hear one fella
’
, tho
’
. Says he heard somethin
’
was being built down fartha
’
south. Don
’
t much know
‘
da purpose, tho
’
.
”

“
Where?
”
Devin asks. He edges closer, thousands of questions trampling over one another in his mind.
“
What in the bloody hell happened today? All we caught was some rambling news report about the aftermath of all this.
”

“
Bet you didn
’
t hear much,
”
the blind man laughs. His dark smile flickers in the orange light.
“
Did ya hear
‘
da tone?
”

Devin looks sharply back at him.
“
Yeah. What was that?
”

The blind man tilts back. He cocks his head from side to side, checking to see if anyone else is listening. Shadows seem to darken around the warehouse. The Creole leans forward, lowering his voice to a growling whisper.
“
What the gov
’
ment don
’
t want us to hear. People be sayin
’
a war is brewin
’
. And it ain
’
t lookin
’
too good. Outnumbered and outgunned. You believe
‘
dat?
”

“
War?!
”
The word wrenches through Devin
’
s stomach.

The Creole motions for Devin to be quiet before looking around again. A scowl cuts across his face.
“
Most powa
’
ful nation in
‘
da world, and Hawaii fell in minutes. Minutes!
”
the blind man whispers.
“
They swept thru there like a crimson wave. Not long now
…
”
the black man trails. He glances blindly up toward the massive doors.
“
Not long at all.
”

The crackling of the fire trinity bounces through the air, like machine gun blasts ripping across the battlefield. Hope drains from Devin
’
s eyes. He stares into the flames, the blaze consuming refuse and optimism alike.

“
Who?
”
Devin finally asks. His mouth is sanded ash.
“
Who would do this?
”

“
Depends on who you talk to,
”
the Creole grumbles.
“
Some say the Mideast, some Asia. We don
’
t have many friends no more. If ya
’
ask me, country won
’
t last
‘
da month.
”

“
There is no way anyone could be that daft,
”
Devin says. His tone hardens, fear turning to anger.
“
America has allies. Even if we were attacked, Britain and others would rise up beside us. Blooming rubbish, that is. Who
’
d you hear all that from, mate? A leprechaun on a purple uni?
”

“
Easy now,
”
the blind man growls. His scars flicker in the firelight.
“
Or
‘
dis lil
’
talk is over. I may not look it, but my ties run deep, brotha
’
. Heard
‘
da same story from several people I respect. And
‘
at
’
s saying somethin
’
for me. I don
’
t respect many.
”
The Creole leans toward him. Shadows over his eyes burn away to blistered flesh.
“
Specially no uppity Brit who don
’
t believe
‘
da words I
’
m speakin
’
.
”

Devin stares at the blind man, hoping to find a shred of falsehood on the scarred face. The seriousness of the Creole
’
s conviction is chilling. Devin takes a step back from the eyeless gaze.
“
That just doesn
’
t sound possible, mate. How could we not see something like this coming?
”

“
So quick to doubt now,
”
the blind man says. He leans back into the shadows.
“
Who say
’
we didn
’
t?
”
The warehouse drifts into fractured silence. Only the popping noises within the drums echo in the night.

“
I saw it come down, ya
’
know,
”
the blind man whispers.

“
What
’
s that?
”
Devin sighs, growing tired of the man
’
s riddles.

The Creole moves around the drum closer to him. Flickering darkness deepens one side of his face.
“
The flash,
”
he growls. His blistered eyes look up to the heavens, his crucified arms out wide.
“
Like a ray of God, it was.
”

The black man gulps down the rest of his water, sighing loudly.
“
Closa
’
than I shoulda
’
been. Workin
’
up at
‘
da greenhouse, top o
’
my building. Everytin
’
was fine. And in one instant,
b
oom,
”
he gestures with his scarred hands.
“
Sky turn
’
bright white
…
”
His voice drops to a whisper.
“
Bright white
…
”

“
I try
’
to get a picture,
”
the blind man continues. He digs into his pocket and pulls out a cell phone.

The Creole
’
s dark hands shake with excitement as he passes the phone to Devin. The edges of the small LCD screen are cracked and blistered. The phone
’
s grey body is darkened. Crystals on-screen burn with the last image the man will ever take.

The blurred light of
a
nuclear blast is disintegrating every building in its path. The white areas on the LCD sparkle with the frozen picture, flickering death in the fire
’
s glow.

“
They tell me it
’
s still on
‘
der somehow, bu
’
I can
’
t tell,
”
the blind man says.
“
Last damn thing I saw
‘
fore
‘
da light took my eyes.
”

The Creole looks around as if he were still there, his voice taking on a reverent tone.
“
‘
Da world was white. No shadows. No colors. Just
‘
da purest white
‘
der eva
’
was.
”
He taps his scarred eyelid.
“
Still is.
”

Devin is silent. He stands transfixed by the image of Seattle
’
s zero point.

“
I
’
m sorry,
”
the fireman says. He hands the phone back to the blind man.
“
Keep it safe. People need to be reminded of the evil we
’
re capable of.
”

“
Here, here, brotha
’
,
”
the blind man shouts. He raises his empty water bottle.
“
Here, here.
”

*  *  *

A 12-year-old boy rummages beside them through a growing pile of garbage towards the back of the warehouse. His dirty fingers tremble, looking for anything valuable enough to trade for food. His stomach hurts. He wades through the rotting trash, his hand suddenly stopping on a rectangular wooden box with an inset speaker. The boy pulls the transistor radio out quickly and sits down by a nearby fire.

He takes out his treasured Nintendo DS from a backpack containing the rest of his small world. The boy hesitates for a moment, looking longingly at the device.

His stomach gurgles again. The boy grudgingly takes the four double-A batteries out and stuffs them into the radio. It pops on with a whine. His heart jumps. The boy twists the round dial and turns up the volume, putting the device up to his ear.

Only static and a high-pitched alert tone hiss back from all channels.

His deep blue eyes tear up in disappointment. The orphaned boy snaps the broken radio off. He curls up around it, settling down for a
restless
and hungry sleep.

“
I think we should turn back,
”
Jean whispers. Her eyes drift across the metal and concrete dotting the top of Lake Union. The bridge fragments protrude like derisive stepping stones from the black water. The north side of Seattle is barely visible, its shadow just out of reach beyond the troubled waves.