Yield (82 page)

A solitary vehicle rumbles over the ruinous earth. Jonathon sits in the passenger seat, silent just as he
’
s been for hours. He stares out at the blackened scenery moving past his empty life. Jon
’
s eyes are bloodshot, desiccated. They look out the glass with contempt.

Sleeping most of the day after the horrible nightmare of last night, the survivors started out shortly before sunset. They
’
ve headed steadily northward out of the remains that were once their home.

Dave has glanced over occasionally throughout the drive, hoping for some sort of reaction to his questions
—
some response to the loss of their friends
…

The loss of Jean.

But KOMO
’
s creative director just sits, his face stripped of all emotion.

Jonathon stares out into the dark. He isn
’
t interested in freeing the burdens of his mind or talking about pains that are far too fresh. None of that is going to help them. They
’
ll all still be dead, and he
’
ll still be sitting right here. Alone and empty.

The whimpered sounds of those sitting in the cramped box cabin ebb and flow behind them. Their sorrow is scarcely audible, yet it comes in waves as regular as the waters washing over an eroding beach. Grains of sand are lost at first, too small to be recognized or appreciated for all that they are. But as the clumps of rock closest to us are pulled away, the rest begins to crumble and fall. The world caves in upon itself, leaving behind a barren hole that cannot be ignored anymore.

“
You okay?
”
Dave risks again. The silence makes him more uncomfortable with every mile that passes.

Jonathon jumps, having forgot
ten
that there were others here.
“
What do you think?
”

Dave looks over at the once stoic and inspiring man. He
’
s now hunched over in his seat, withering into the darkness.
“
I
’
m sorry, Jon.
”

“
Yeah, well
…
”
Jonathon trails off. His temper begins to flicker below the forced conversation.

“
I know you cared about her,
”
Dave says. He pauses, nervously running a hand through the thickening stubble along his jawline.
“
If you need to talk
…
”

“
Don
’
t.
”
Jonathon
’
s voice pierces through clenched teeth.

“
Jean was
…
”

“
W
hat?!
”
Jon booms. He slams his fist into the dashboard. The blow sounds like a gunshot echoing inside the truck.
“
You don
’
t get to talk about her! Now shut up and drive the goddamn truck!
”

Hushed voices behind him cry out. Fresh tears run down their dirt-streaked faces. The glow of eyes cowers back. They are filled with uncertainty
.
F
ear.

“
Excuse me?!
”
Dave shouts.
“
I lost her, too
…
”

“
That
’
s enough,
”
a voice interrupts from inside the truck cab. Neal scoots forward, positioning himself between their two seats. He glares at both men.
“
We don
’
t need this right now.
”
The photographer rubs the bushy gray hair at his temples, trying to stop the migraine that
’
s been growing all evening.

The cracking sound of stone under the sat truck
’
s tires is like the
breaking
of
lives
in the dark.

An orange glow emerges in the distance. It
’
s flanked on either side by burnt-out buildings. Dark scars cover their brick and metal faces, pulling the structures with them into the abyss.

Jonathon adjusts his glasses, watching the approaching firelight through a split lens. The fractured image somehow looks both welcoming and worrisome.

“
What
’
s that?
”
Dave asks. He squints, trying to focus through the ash-covered windshield.

Neal powers his XDCam up and settles it into its usual home atop his shoulder. The photog switches to telephoto, adjusting focus on the first survivors they
’
ve seen.
“
Looks like some burning cars and transients trying to keep warm,
”
he says. Neal drifts up to the darkened faces standing by the fire. The light silhouettes them in the viewfinder, obscuring all detail except for the shapes of their bodies.

“
Jon?
”
Dave asks, more out of courtesy than respect.

The rising buildings create a long and enclosed gauntlet along the street ahead. The alley mouths between them look like they
’
re blocked with piles of debris. A single row of burning cars in the middle of the road flashes brightly in the dark. Silhouettes standing closest to them look back at the two approaching headlights with growing interest.

“
Keep going. There
’
s room,
”
Jonathon says. He points at the small space to the right of the flaming vehicles.

“
This doesn
’
t feel right,
”
Dave says. His stomach knots as he looks down the narrow spaces on either side of the burning divider. The tapered paths lead up onto the sidewalks, just feet from the broken storefront windows. There
’
s no room to turn, no room to escape if they have to.

“
We have to get through,
”
Jonathon growls.
“
Can you do it or not?
”

“
Yeah, but
…
”

“
Then drive!
”
Jon yells.
“
Jesus.
”

“
Jonathon,
”
Neal says. Doubts suddenly begin to churn inside the photographer, unsure now if the rage-filled man
—
KOMO
’
s only living manager
—
is still capable of leading his people.

“
No!
”
Dave snaps. The young engineer throws the transmission into park, his hands shaking.
“
Just because they died doesn
’
t mean we have to, Jon. Maybe that
’
s what you
’
d like, but I
’
m not going to let you kill us, too.
”
Dave
’
s eyes go wide, wishing he could take the words back even as they lash from his lips.

The broad-shouldered man beside him wrenches over. Their faces scream through his mind. Their accusing eyes stare back at him, unblinking and still.
I killed them all
…

“
Jon, I
…
”
Dave tries to apologize.

“
Guys!
”
Neal yells. The faces by the fire have shifted several feet closer to the light. Their foreign features and military uniforms are haloed in red. Neal
’
s blood freezes.

Dave slams the transmission arm into reverse and guns the engine.

An explosion rips through the abandoned vehicles in his rearview mirror. Fireballs shoot across the ground just feet behind. Red and orange claws rip through the air toward the KOMO news rig, leaping, like enraged dragons, through the black.

The smell of death lingers in the air. Its stench fills the lungs with a sickly linger, clutching to everything and everyone. The rancid odor steams out from the jumbled piles of structures thrown all around. Human remains are trapped somewhere within, their anonymous graves never to be known or honored.

A solitary vehicle rumbles over the ruinous earth. Jonathon sits in the passenger seat, silent just as he
’
s been for hours. He stares out at the blackened scenery moving past his empty life. Jon
’
s eyes are bloodshot, desiccated. They look out the glass with contempt.

Sleeping most of the day after the horrible nightmare of last night, the survivors started out shortly before sunset. They
’
ve headed steadily northward out of the remains that were once their home.

Dave has glanced over occasionally throughout the drive, hoping for some sort of reaction to his questions
—
some response to the loss of their friends
…

The loss of Jean.

But KOMO
’
s creative director just sits, his face stripped of all emotion.

Jonathon stares out into the dark. He isn
’
t interested in freeing the burdens of his mind or talking about pains that are far too fresh. None of that is going to help them. They
’
ll all still be dead, and he
’
ll still be sitting right here. Alone and empty.

The whimpered sounds of those sitting in the cramped box cabin ebb and flow behind them. Their sorrow is scarcely audible, yet it comes in waves as regular as the waters washing over an eroding beach. Grains of sand are lost at first, too small to be recognized or appreciated for all that they are. But as the clumps of rock closest to us are pulled away, the rest begins to crumble and fall. The world caves in upon itself, leaving behind a barren hole that cannot be ignored anymore.

“
You okay?
”
Dave risks again. The silence makes him more uncomfortable with every mile that passes.

Jonathon jumps, having forgot
ten
that there were others here.
“
What do you think?
”

Dave looks over at the once stoic and inspiring man. He
’
s now hunched over in his seat, withering into the darkness.
“
I
’
m sorry, Jon.
”

“
Yeah, well
…
”
Jonathon trails off. His temper begins to flicker below the forced conversation.

“
I know you cared about her,
”
Dave says. He pauses, nervously running a hand through the thickening stubble along his jawline.
“
If you need to talk
…
”

“
Don
’
t.
”
Jonathon
’
s voice pierces through clenched teeth.

“
Jean was
…
”

“
W
hat?!
”
Jon booms. He slams his fist into the dashboard. The blow sounds like a gunshot echoing inside the truck.
“
You don
’
t get to talk about her! Now shut up and drive the goddamn truck!
”

Hushed voices behind him cry out. Fresh tears run down their dirt-streaked faces. The glow of eyes cowers back. They are filled with uncertainty
.
F
ear.

“
Excuse me?!
”
Dave shouts.
“
I lost her, too
…
”

“
That
’
s enough,
”
a voice interrupts from inside the truck cab. Neal scoots forward, positioning himself between their two seats. He glares at both men.
“
We don
’
t need this right now.
”
The photographer rubs the bushy gray hair at his temples, trying to stop the migraine that
’
s been growing all evening.

The cracking sound of stone under the sat truck
’
s tires is like the
breaking
of
lives
in the dark.