Yield (17 page)

Terrence approaches a pregnant stewardess finishing her pre-flight rounds from behind. He lays a solid hand upon her shoulder,
leaning close to her ear.

Laughing at one of her fellow stewardesses
’
baby jokes, Isabel flinches in surprise from the touch. Her smile fades. The stocky black man
’
s torso feels like a block of ice against her back, his voice a gravelly whisper.

Isabel slowly turns.
“
Yes, sir,
”
she says just loud enough for those around her to hear.
“
Let
’
s find your seat.
”
She
’
s gripped by the violent resolve in the marshal
’
s pitch-black stare. The eagerness is intense, frightening even. Her chocolate eyes thankfully leave his and dart around the plane. Her stomach begins to churn. She doesn
’
t see him anywhere.

Almost on cue, the unmistakable color leans out farther down the cabin.
“
You
’
re right back there,
”
she says with a trembling voice. Isabel points aft toward a bright blue Seattle Mariners jersey and the fidgeting Arab sitting in 14B.

Terrence follows her eyes to Abd Al-Aziiz. He starts toward his prey without another word. As their eyes lock on one another, the instincts of hunter and hunted ignite,
challenging each other across the withering distance. Discrimination, survival and hate all blur together. Terrence
’
s black eyes burn across the cabin, their ferocity crackling. Begging.

Abd lowers his eyes, distracted by the baby crying loudly beside him. When he looks back up the fierce black man is gone. Abd glances around
, but
h
e
’
s nowhere to be seen. The Arab settles back into his sweaty seat and closes his eyes, muttering a quiet prayer.

*  *  *

Bloody hell I hate this part!

Devin
’
s red hair is thrust back into the headrest. He grits his teeth as the roaring jet engines outside his window rapidly begin to accelerate. The bald businessman next to him shakes his head and smiles back condescendingly. The fat bastard just watches on, entertained by Devin
’
s deathlike grip on both armrests.

The fireman
’
s body shifts and sinks, nauseated by gravity
’
s euphoria. Devin opens his emerald eyes to look out the small oval of glass beside him. The wheels skip and shriek before finally leaving the rough tarmac.

Structures and suburbs quickly shrink under the plane. Clouds thicken around the wings. The rain
’
s fury continues onto the rising aircraft. Drops of moisture slam into the windows then roll off as the plane bounces in the crosswinds. The world soon disappears beneath the vapor, completely erasing humanity and all of its achievements just below.

8:15 a.m.

A monotonous loop of misfortune flashes on the TV screen. Averting his eyes, Devin sits down at one of the round wooden tables toward the rear of the PDX cafe. He carefully takes the plastic lid off his steaming cup of coffee, pouring in two Irish creamers.
If only they were the real thing
…

His hands twitch.

Devin glances at the two lanky teenagers from the check-in area eating breakfast several tables away. Dressed in light blue, white, and red letterman jackets, the two young men don
’
t seem to mind that their conversation is loud enough for everyone in the cafe to enjoy.

Darius throws a playful jab into Chris
’
s shoulder as his teammate tries to type on his laptop. The 15-inch computer keyboard looks like a toy in Chris
’
s massive hands.

“
Come on, D,
”
Chris says, shooting Darius a frosty glare.
“
I gotta get this done!
”

“
Not my fault you left it
‘
til now,
”
Darius counters.
“
Got mine done yesterday before the game.
”
He watches his lifelong friend
’
s agitation with growing amusement. The more Chris tries to concentrate, the deeper the scowl cutting across his face becomes. Veins rise along his temples. The tick-tick-tick of his writing seems to come in fevered bursts, like trying to chase an inspired mirage.

A mischievous smile suddenly plays across Darius
’
s face.
“
Bet you
’
re wishing you woulda
’
put that phone down last night, too. Talking
’
til 1. Didn
’
t do you much good with your girl anyway.
”
Darius leans over in front of Chris
’
s screen and squints his eyes. A thin sprout of a mustache stands out above his awkward expression.
“
Well, that
’
s just bad time management on your part, young Christopher,
”
he says in an authoritative tone, over-enunciating every word.

Chris finally smiles. He shakes his head at the crappy Nixon impersonation.
“
Asshole.
”

“
That was completely unnecessary, young Christopher,
”
Darius continues. He scowls back like all the teachers he
’
s disappointed over the years.
“
You really should work on expanding your vocabulary. Your command of the English language is quite appalling.
”

Still watching from two tables away, Devin smiles. He
’
s faintly reminded of some of his own friendships over the years — masculinity and affection always seeming at odds.

Devin
’
s green eyes drift across the rich mixture of microbrew handles on display behind the bar to his left. Each stands ready for the parched vacationer or nervous businessman
’
s enjoyment. As the familiar urge swells, his mouth is suddenly very dry.

He swallows hard.

Devin forces his eyes away, glancing back up to the morning
’
s news on the television set. Masked Middle Eastern gunmen wave machine guns brightly back from the corner-mounted LCD screen above him. The flickering video strobes throughout the cafe, momentarily pushing back shadows before giving ground again.

“
Several I.E.D. attacks in the Middle East early this morning killed 11 Americans,
”
a news anchor says calmly. The imagery of ash and charred remains is anything but.
“
The violence against U.S. citizens and military personnel continues to mount in the region amid new instability concerns.
”

More masked Arabs fire into the air over a downed helicopter. They dissolve into burnt husks that once were tanks along the road. The U.S. flag decal on one of the doors is blistered and peeling.

“
Six soldiers died when their Blackhawk helicopter was shot down Sunday morning,
”
a British reporter with a flak jacket and helmet barks into his mic just in front of what used to be a chopper.
“
Their bodies were later found mutilated. The attack came on the heels of a call for peace by leaders of several Islamic groups.
”

Video from a destroyed mosque fades to pictures of bodies inside an Arab hospital. Their beds create long rows of pain down the dirty hallways.

Armed riots soon erupt on screen. American troops fire into the air above the clustering people as the reporter
’
s voiceover continues.
“
Sectarian violence had de-stabilized much of the region, but renewed calls for the U.S.
’
s complete departure have seemed to encourage more unified violence against
both
civilian and military targets. Estimates for total troop withdrawal have been pushed back several years.
”

Clouds of tear gas hide thousands of protesters teeming along Middle Eastern streets. Several shadows emerge quickly from the billowing gas. They cover their mouths with bandannas, throwing fire bombs back into the troops.

Devin shakes his head.
Such hate,
he thinks. Flames shoot through the clustered bodies.
How the hell did we let it get to this?

Mankind
’
s cycle of violence spreads into the ranks, its retribution feeding. Consuming. It attacks bodies and minds with an equal passion.

Flickering colors from an explosion catch Chris
’
s deep brown eyes. His fingers pause. Just above his name on the computer screen, the essay title reads: GLOBAL THREAT.

The paging system sounds loudly above them. Its cold female voice sounds almost robotic, trying to impose order on the morning
’
s frenzy.
“
Flight 661 to Seattle now boarding passengers in groups one and two.
”

*  *  *

Passengers board the slender Embraer E75 aircraft through an oval door behind the cockpit. Some lift luggage into compartments too small to fit much more than a backpack or handbag. Others push past in search of cramped seats and strange company for the next hour.

Devin looks familiarly over at Chris and Darius as he walks toward 12A, four rows behind.

“
No damn leg room,
”
Darius mutters.
“
These planes are made for midgets! Knees all up in my chest. I mean, come on!
”

“
Sometimes, D, you
’
re worse than a woman,
”
Chris grumbles back.
“
You give me all the bitchin
’
, but none of the benefits.
”

Darius squints suggestively.
“
Didn
’
t know you swung that way, big boy. Give me some sugar.
”
The tattooed hoops star leans over and throws his arms around
Chris
.

“
You best back off me, D,
”
Chris growls. He pushes Darius off and glances around. Color rises to his cheeks.
“
And don
’
t let me catch you grabbin
’
my leg again,
”
he says in a lowered voice.
“
Or we
’
ll have some words.
”

“
Hey, man,
”
Darius says. He puts his hands up innocently.
“
That turbulence don
’
t mess around. You know I get claustrophobic in these things.
”

“
Claustrophobic,
”
Chris scoffs.
“
Gonna turn me homophobic if you grab my leg again.
”

*  *  *

Devin looks out his window from just in front of the left wing. Rain streaks down. It blurs the rhythmic motions of the ground crew as they make their final checks. Lights pulsing from the wings and equipment burn a fiery orange, bathing the side of Devin
’
s face in flame.

His thick shoulders and fireman
’
s build spill over into the next seat. Devin tries to scoot closer to the glass as a 300+ pound, balding man in a dark gray business suit squeezes down next to him.
Jesus, friend. Have a little respect for the rest of us.
His own seat rocks as the obese man works his body between the slender arm rails.

Devin smiles and forces a welcoming nod. A small part of him is glad to have some company. At least that may quiet his racing mind. But the round businessman doesn
’
t even acknowledge him. He immediately pulls out his PDA and seeks the comfort of emails instead.

Two rows behind Devin, a young mother holds her 9-month-old baby against her shoulder. She gently pats her child
’
s back. The baby
’
s attention is captured by a bearded face sitting next to them.