Yield (100 page)

Jacob erupts into laughter. A deep, merry laugh rolls uncontrollably out of him, echoing back across the truck cabin. The sound is infectious.

Devin tries unsuccessfully to stop the smile spreading across his own face.
“
The tosser had it coming!
”
he defends.
“
Then the police got involved, and like I said, I was a wee bit drunk. The TV stations had a bloody field day with the story.
”
His face takes on an officious anchor scowl.
“
‘
Out-of-control fire chief. His drunken rampage at 11
…
’
I mean, really!
”

The general
’
s laughter ripples out in another wave. His once lethal hands wipe tears of joy from his eyes.

“
Not my finest moment, mate.
”

*  *  *

Sierra yawns, jogged momentarily awake by a series of potholes along the well-used freeway. The little girl blinks sleepily. She looks around before drifting back to sleep again, safe in her grandfather
’
s arms.

“
Have they hit any more cities?
”
Devin asks quietly.

“
Not that I gathered back at the camp,
”
Jacob says.
“
But no one
’
s even sure how they hit the ones they did. North Korea and Iran have both been testing long-range missile delivery systems. I know our satellite and radar defenses, though. And there is just no way they could have launched those a continent away without being intercepted by command. Maybe the bombs were smuggled in through our seaports or with air cargo. X-rays can be blocked. Security can be bypassed. It
’
ll be a while before they pick up the pieces.
”

“
I just hope pieces aren
’
t the only things left,
”
Devin says, his thick British cynicism returning.

He looks over at a flatbed pickup truck passing on their left. Its bed is filled with refugees. Some nod back to him. Some wave. Most just sit and stare unresponsively before zooming on.

More cars move along the lanes of I-5 as the truck approaches Tacoma. Dead vehicles litter the side of the road. One still has its hood up, pouring out steam into the misty sky. An elderly man with sunken eyes stands in front of another. He holds up a cardboard sign with red lettering: NEED GAS.

Cars zoom past him, humanity
’
s selfishness resuming in greater numbers.

The traffic continues to get heavier. They soon pass Tacoma
’
s last exit and approach Lakewood, then Olympia.

“
Looks like there
’
re still a few of us left after all,
”
Jacob remarks. Cars start to slow in front of them. Vehicles fight their way into the four condensing lanes.

“
Never thought I
’
d be happy to see a traffic jam,
”
Devin laughs.

“
One private I spoke with back at camp said there was an evacuation order for the rest of the state.
”

“
The state?!
”
Devin asks. He whips the wheel sharply to avoid some road debris.
“
Why? Where
’
s everyone supposed to go?
”

Jacob motions behind to the dark storm ravaging the skyline 40 miles away.
“
Remember those clouds in Seattle? All that nuclear dust got blown up into the stratosphere. It
’
s falling now and creating more toxic rain across the state, just like the storm we saw.
”

He leans his head out of the passenger window and looks behind them. The general
’
s graying military cut barely moves in the wind. Almost pure black clouds billow and grow over Seattle, pulsing across the earth with their lethal retribution.

“
We have to find another way south,
”
Devin shouts. The traffic is creeping bumper to bumper. They crawl across the pavement under darkening skies.

Just outside of Olympia, traffic is almost at a standstill. Row after impatient row of motorists tries to merge onto I-5. The rig slowly rolls around a turn, passing under an overpass that blocked their view of the interstate ahead. Devin
’
s eyes go wide.

A sprawling mess of vehicles is parked along the freeway. The glittering metal stretches for miles. Nothing is moving.

“
Shit,
”
Devin blurts before looking guiltily down at the little girl sleeping next to him.
“
Sorry, Sierra.
”

A flipped motorhome lies on its side, trapped between the posts of another overpass far ahead. Flames still burn along the sides of the blackened wreckage. All southbound lanes are blocked. The vehicles closest to it are merging onto the right shoulder to get around, one by one.

Devin glances to the right and signals.
“
Hold on!
”
he shouts. The fireman guns it, moving onto the shoulder towards the coastal Highway 101 cutoff. The rig jumps and bounces under them. One side of the vehicle rolls smoothly along the shoulder
’
s pavement; the other side is forced down onto the uneven gravel and dirt. Other cars and trucks soon fall in behind them, heading up the off-ramp.

Traffic lightens again as Devin drives west into the setting sun. The rays shine brightly through the front glass, illuminating specks of dust dancing around the cabin.

A sole military transport darts in and out of shadows along State Route 8, its evergreen color blending into the trees. Small towns and lush Pacific Northwest forests zoom by the windows.

Out here, everything feels almost normal, like the troubles of the city can
’
t breach the dense tree line. Quaint local stores are open for business. Cars and trucks dart here or there. Life is almost as it should be.

Almost.

Grocery stores and gas stations overflow with unfamiliar customers. Columns of vehicles heeding the statewide evacuation order stretch out into long lines for fuel and supplies. Station signs are filled with hastily scrawled numbers, having run out of enough zeroes to properly gouge. The ones still with gas proudly display signs of $30 per gallon. Or more.

Approaching the turnoff for Highways 107 and 101, Devin banks the truck to the left. The 23-footer rolls over the rumble-stripped center line just to make the sweeping turn.

Sierra is bounced awake. The little girl squints up at the setting sun, glancing around at the strange scenery.

“
Welcome back,
”
Jacob smiles.

His granddaughter
’
s small mouth opens into a gaping yawn. She rubs the sleep from her eyes, coming to life for new adventure.
“
Where are we, Papa?
”
she asks excitedly.

“
Tough to say. We
’
re getting close to the coast, though. You can smell it.
”

The
5
-year-old sniffs at the air. Her nose quickly wrinkles, turning questioningly towards her grandpa.

“
No, not that,
”
Jacob laughs.
“
I guess we
’
ll have to work on our hygiene when we get back to your mom
’
s. We did have to walk a ways, you know, and I seem to remember having to carry some little girl whose legs were just too tired to move. Ring any bells?
”

“
Hmph,
”
she mumbles defiantly.

“
Hmph? Is that even English?
”
Jacob shouts. He turns to Devin.
“
Kids today.
”

Jacob pulls his granddaughter close, working his trained hands over her sides.
“
I
’
ll show you some hmph!
”

The sound of her laughter brings with it an aspiring peace. The fireman smiles. His eyes sparkle with another hint of jealousy, wishing he were already home to hear the laughter of his own children.

The truck pulls away from the stop sign and merges onto 101 South.

“
Remember the last time I took you to the beach?
”
Jacob asks, finally letting the little girl catch her breath.

“
Yeah,
”
Sierra pants.

“
And it took me all day to put together that darn kite?
”

“
Uh-huh.
”

“
That thing sure was bass-ackwards. But damned if it didn
’
t fly.
”
Jacob leans closer to her. Looking around, his voice drops to a mysterious whisper.
“
You know why it was so hard to put together?
”

She shakes her head. Her auburn eyes open wide for the secret.

“
Made in China,
”
he declares.
“
That
’
s right. They had this all planned out from the start. Fatten us up with all-you-can-eat buffets. Then make us all feel stupid trying to figure out their directions. Can you believe that?
”

“
No,
”
the little girl giggles.

“
No?
”
he gasps incredulously.
“
Well, hmph.
”

“
Hey,
”
she laughs.
“
That
’
s my word!
”

“
You own the patent, do you?
”

Sierra giggles louder as he starts to tickle her again and again.

“
Is it still your word?
”
Jacob challenges.

The little girl
’
s face is bright red.

“
I don
’
t think you
’
re old enough to have your very own word.
”

Laughter echoes across the cabin from her Papa
’
s unrelenting attack. Their voices reverberate through the metal, its tinny sound rolling south along the coastal freeway.

*  *  *

All twenty-three feet of the military truck seem to squeak or rattle along the two-lane scenic road. Its very joints groan out in protest to the forced reenlistment.

The vehicle is soon followed by many others, creating a caravan of refugee vehicles reaching back into the distance.

Sierra looks out her window, her small eyes lighting up.

Sunlight sparkles in the waters of Grays Harbor, ten miles inland of the Pacific Ocean. Glistening waves push and flow from the sea. Small islands dot the surface, artfully breaking up the expanse of blue-green inside the bay.

The setting sun kisses the water, dipping into the space between heaven and earth. Very slowly, its light begins to fade
—
first to orange, then a vibrant red.

To the west, dark storm clouds blanket the peninsula lips along Washington
’
s protruding coastline. Their rains begin down into the landscape. Thick droplets hit the truck with fury, splashing into the harbor and rippling up across the glass.

The ocean comes in and out of view as the truck winds slightly east along the highway. They pass the bay and move through hilly roads flanked on either side by evergreens.

Once the caravan passes Willapa Bay at the southwestern tip of the state, the sounds of thunder begin to grow louder. The fierce booms rattle screws and loose metal inside the truck cabin. Flashes of forked light fire within the charcoal clouds.

Devin flicks the wipers and headlights onto high. Rain smashes into the windshield like bullets.

The road twists away from the water as another peninsula juts out from the irregular coastline.

Lightning flashes again, much closer to their truck this time. Bright white silhouettes their bodies,
the light flickering for only an instant.