Yield (88 page)

*  *  *

Dozens of dark faces move silently through the city, their eyes scanning for any evidence of the living. The silhouettes spread like black ghosts in the night
.
There is no compassion in their eyes. No humanity. Only their deadly mission glints back from the ovals of white coursing through the shadows.

A deep and rolling sound barely perceptible in the distance makes their feet slow. The sound, almost like the touch of rain on a metal roof, sputters and dies as they approach.

The fading echo is close.

Without a word, the single column of darkness instantly spreads out. Their bodies move like tentacles into the pockets of black along the Seattle streets. Teams of three slip quietly into the buildings closest to the sound, their machine guns taking aim.

*  *  *

Jonathon flips the generator switch off and gently closes the exterior metal door. The dull click as the latch reengages makes them all jump.

“
Did they get the video?
”
Jon asks through the open passenger window.

Dave gives a thumbs-up.
“
Somehow,
”
he nods, pulling the headphones off his neck.
“
That tone is gone, too.
”
Causation and reason race through the engineer
’
s mind.
“
They probably redeployed that frequency sometime after landfall.
”

“
Let
’
s hope not,
”
Jonathon shudders. He glances around inside the truck. Scared faces look back at him. Their eyes are desperate for answers.
“
Just stay put. I need to scout around and see how we
’
re getting out of here. We
’
ll be sipping Frappuccinos again before you know it, alright?
”

His long legs carry him quickly into the darkness on the far end of the parking structure. Empty streets stretch north into the distance as far as he can see. No soldiers or fires, just the darkened and abandoned city lying invitingly ahead.
About time something goes right.

Jonathon
’
s eyes soften as he thinks of getting back to Chris. He doesn
’
t know how, or where, but somehow he just knows his son is okay. The kid has always been a survivor.

Jon smiles. He heads back toward the sat truck with a hopeful jump in his step.

Light flashes first from their muzzles before the sound detonates across the parking garage. The flickering weapons cascade like lightning blasts, one right after the next. Their brilliance illuminates spheres of death around the advancing bodies of the attackers.

Their dark faces betray no mercy. They are carved only with a meticulous and unrelenting precision, showering the KOMO sat truck with their country
’
s wrath.

The screams of those dying inside wrench through Jonathon. He watches the metal rip and buckle as bullets shred through it, cutting into the lives just beyond. They cry out, begging to be spared. But the three North Korean gunmen continue on without hesitation or regret.

Jonathon
’
s feet refuse to move. His body is frozen
—
too scared to help, yet too terrified to run for safety. He stands there for what feels like an eternity, just past the circles of light bursting out with each gun blast. Every lit round flashes on his face. The fiery sparks trace his anguish again and again. Even Jonathon
’
s voice has been stolen away with his courage. He stands transfixed, silently watching the massacre of his colleagues.

Jonathon
, he hears Jean
’
s voice scream out in his mind. Her hand stretches toward the window of the news van before disappearing below the black waters. He thinks of her smile. Her love. How she would lean up expectantly, even in the rain, for that one last kiss
…

The ever-present courage that always filled her violet eyes spreads inside him. His body begins to tingle,
gradually
at first, before flooding him with a calming rage.

Jonathon screams out as he lunges at the closest attacker. His athletic build crosses the distance in an instant, slamming into the much shorter man before he can take aim. The force throws them both into the two other gunmen, sending them all crashing to the concrete.

Jonathon
’
s large hands dig into the sides of the Korean
’
s head. He slams it over and over into the asphalt, feeling the back of the man
’
s skull cave in. Jon takes the gun out of the North Korean
’
s dead hands and rolls just as one of the other soldiers opens fire.

Jonathon
’
s legs churn against the ground, trying to pick up speed, but his dress shoes slip out from underneath him.
Jon
falls to his side and rolls again, aiming the gun back towards the two green uniforms closing in.

The weapon bucks into Jonathon
’
s chest and drifts upward, shooting bullets in an arcing path. They hit the second gunman in the stomach and throat before the glowing knives travel up into the ceiling.

The third soldier leaps to the side. He returns fire at the intimidating black man scrambling away along the ground.

Bullets slice through Jonathon
’
s lower back and shoulder right as he stands. The burning flash seems to tear across his entire body. His legs buckle, the strength to move them suddenly eaten away.

Jonathon collapses to the ground. His navy blue eyes darken.

He blinks over at the rear door of the sat truck rolling upward.
“
Neal
…
”
Jonathon tries to shout. The blurring haze in his eyes makes it so hard to focus.

KOMO
’
s photographer kneels beside his XDCam in the back of the sat truck. Neal
’
s shaking hands are up above his head.
“
Journalist!
”
he shouts.
“
I
’
m a journalist. We
’
re unarmed!
”

The North Korean
’
s eyes narrow, looking from the camera lens up to the trembling man. He hesitates for only a moment.

The weapon lets loose from the soldier
’
s grip, firing over and over again. Blasts of light cut across the Korean
’
s emotionless brow. They flicker violently in his eyes.

Neal recoils and tumbles over onto the twisted limbs of his friends.

After the weapon
’
s sentences are complete, the soldier turns and leaves without a sound, checking neither his fellow servicemen nor the enemy bodies that lay bleeding inside the garage. He simply stalks down the curving walkway and out into the black.

The soldier slams another clip into his machine gun, readying it again to fulfill its fatal purpose.

Silence fills the parking structure. The dim starlight weakens under the cloak of new clouds. Rain begins to fall, the tears splashing gently onto the hood of the sat truck.

The sound grows and calms Jonathon even as he lies dying on the asphalt. Fog spreads across his eyes. His lids grow heavier with every forced blink.

“
Jonathon,
”
a voice whispers in the distance. He turns toward it but sees only frayed darkness.

“
Jon!
”
it says more intently.

The black man opens his eyes again, slowly bringing them into focus.
“
I
’
m here
…
”
Jonathon gasps. He soon sees stubble-filled shadows lining both sides of a young face.

Dave leans over him, pushing on the wounds to slow his bleeding.

Jonathon fights back the weariness in his eyes, trying to smile up at the engineer. Even as he struggles to stay awake, Jon drifts off again to the sounds of rainfall echoing and fading all around.

The low hum from the on-board truck generator might as well be a homing beacon. Its mechanical rumble, its very function, is out of place now inside the deadened city. KOMO
’
s survivors cringe. Their eyes stare fearfully back. The unmistakable sound of life bounces all across the concrete parking structure. Right-angled corners throw the noise back through the garage, amplifying it as sound waves find and feast on every echo.

Jonathon glances over the side of the split wall, looking down at the foreign activity below. Green uniforms seem to be fewer in number now, but it
’
s hard to tell for sure. Deep shadows crouched at the base of each surrounding building could be hiding hundreds more.

The broad-shouldered man feels his stomach tighten. He glances across the garage, seeing uncertainty in every sha
p
e. Jonathon holds his body deathly still as he listens for approaching noises from below.

*  *  *

Dozens of dark faces move silently through the city, their eyes scanning for any evidence of the living. The silhouettes spread like black ghosts in the night
.
There is no compassion in their eyes. No humanity. Only their deadly mission glints back from the ovals of white coursing through the shadows.

A deep and rolling sound barely perceptible in the distance makes their feet slow. The sound, almost like the touch of rain on a metal roof, sputters and dies as they approach.

The fading echo is close.

Without a word, the single column of darkness instantly spreads out. Their bodies move like tentacles into the pockets of black along the Seattle streets. Teams of three slip quietly into the buildings closest to the sound, their machine guns taking aim.

*  *  *

Jonathon flips the generator switch off and gently closes the exterior metal door. The dull click as the latch reengages makes them all jump.

“
Did they get the video?
”
Jon asks through the open passenger window.

Dave gives a thumbs-up.
“
Somehow,
”
he nods, pulling the headphones off his neck.
“
That tone is gone, too.
”
Causation and reason race through the engineer
’
s mind.
“
They probably redeployed that frequency sometime after landfall.
”

“
Let
’
s hope not,
”
Jonathon shudders. He glances around inside the truck. Scared faces look back at him. Their eyes are desperate for answers.
“
Just stay put. I need to scout around and see how we
’
re getting out of here. We
’
ll be sipping Frappuccinos again before you know it, alright?
”

His long legs carry him quickly into the darkness on the far end of the parking structure. Empty streets stretch north into the distance as far as he can see. No soldiers or fires, just the darkened and abandoned city lying invitingly ahead.
About time something goes right.

Jonathon
’
s eyes soften as he thinks of getting back to Chris. He doesn
’
t know how, or where, but somehow he just knows his son is okay. The kid has always been a survivor.

Jon smiles. He heads back toward the sat truck with a hopeful jump in his step.

Light flashes first from their muzzles before the sound detonates across the parking garage. The flickering weapons cascade like lightning blasts, one right after the next. Their brilliance illuminates spheres of death around the advancing bodies of the attackers.

Their dark faces betray no mercy. They are carved only with a meticulous and unrelenting precision, showering the KOMO sat truck with their country
’
s wrath.

The screams of those dying inside wrench through Jonathon. He watches the metal rip and buckle as bullets shred through it, cutting into the lives just beyond. They cry out, begging to be spared. But the three North Korean gunmen continue on without hesitation or regret.

Jonathon
’
s feet refuse to move. His body is frozen
—
too scared to help, yet too terrified to run for safety. He stands there for what feels like an eternity, just past the circles of light bursting out with each gun blast. Every lit round flashes on his face. The fiery sparks trace his anguish again and again. Even Jonathon
’
s voice has been stolen away with his courage. He stands transfixed, silently watching the massacre of his colleagues.