Yield (39 page)

“
We couldn
’
t broadcast it out,
”
she says angrily. Missing even self-imposed deadlines aggravates her. Jean pauses, wondering how much she should tell him.
“
This strange alert tone overrode us.
”

“
What?
”
Jonathon
’
s navy blue eyes narrow.

“
Mr. M.I.T. says we may be able to patch around it,
”
she says.
“
But not from here.
”

Her attention drifts back out to the wreckage of Seattle. The stumps of once-proud buildings are torn and blackened, their facades completely obliterated from the ground where they had stood.

She closes her eyes, seeing the glimmering towers as they were. They rise like testaments to man
’
s brilliance before the images fade again into the scorched ruins that are left. Glass and metal blown out of the structures light the ground like glowing sand on a blistered earth. Wires and piping are exposed through massive holes in the skyscrapers. Entire floors catch sunlight for the first time. Row after row of devastated buildings stretch into the horizon.

“
This needs to be documented, Jon,
”
she whispers. The words are not a request. They echo from her mouth, mixing with the sounds of dust scraping across her Emerald City.
“
The world has to know what happened here today.
”

“
What we need is to get away from all this,
”
Jonathon says. He closes the sliding van door in preparation for what he knows is coming.
“
Radiation isn
’
t something I want to experience firsthand.
”
He gestures through the glass at the passengers inside.
“
You think they want to die?
”

Jean dreads the words screaming out in her mind. Her voice drops to a terrified whisper.
“
Have you considered it might already be too late?
”

The thought tears through him. His bare forearms suddenly begin to tingle.

Burnt scraps of paper swirl in the air around them.

“
We
’
ll leave, but we
’
re shooting footage along the way,
”
Jean orders. Her eyes harden as the brashness of her executive producer role suddenly returns.
“
It
’
s our responsibility to the public. Once we get to a translator tower, we should be able to broadcast again. People need to know, Jon.
”

His mind spins. The broad-shouldered creative director can only shake his head. He tries to fight back the new fears growing inside him. But the fear only darkens, twisting into a kindled rage.
“
Keep chanting your journalistic ideals when your people
’
s skin begins to blister,
”
he barks. Jonathon stares deep into her violet eyes. They don
’
t back down. They don
’
t even blink.
“
We need to focus on surviving this,
”
he shouts, storming away.
“
I don
’
t give a shit about anything other than that.
”

“
Jon!
”
she calls after him. Sadness soon replaces her veil of strength. Jean
’
s knees begin to shake.

Scratching obsessively at his exposed hands, Jonathon climbs into the passenger seat of the sat truck and slams the door. Dave looks curiously
over
from the driver
’
s side.
“
What
…
”
the young engineer starts. He takes another look at the brooding black man.
“
Never mind.
”

Jean takes a deep breath. Worry still shakes her.
Pull it together. They need you.
She turns, seeing dirty faces staring back with concern through the front windshield. Jean moves around the front of the news van to the passenger side
…
and an open sliding door.
Shit. They heard everything
.

She stops cold. Embarrassment twists through her. Apprehension flashes color to her tanned cheeks.

Kevin Green leans out from the passenger seat. A mixture of panic and preservation is in his eyes.
“
I think we should follow Jonathon
’
s lead on this one, Jean,
”
the reporter says expectantly.
“
I
’
ve got a wife and kids at home.
”

“
We all have families,
”
his photographer loudly agrees from inside. Heads nod all around.

“
It
’
ll be okay,
”
Jean says to the group.
“
We
’
ll just shoot some quick b-roll as we go, and be out of the city in no time. Dave says we can send a short broadcast once we
’
re far enough north.
”

Their faces look timidly back at her. Their eyes beg only to flee.

“
It
’
ll be okay,
”
she repeats. Jean forces happiness into her hoarse voice. She slides the door closed and walks across the uneven ground to the driver
’
s side. Her hands tremble as they grip the handle. Jean
’
s eyes close tight.

Reluctantly, she opens the door and sits. Even though her entire being wants only to curl up and cry
—
to shriek up into the fiery heavens
—
she turns and weakly
smiles.

“
Here we go, kids. Play nice back there.
”

Both news vehicles slowly pull away. They begin driving over the wreckage-covered streets, headed north into the unknown. The tiny vehicles are surrounded by monolithic pieces of a life now lost. Fragments of civilization crumble under their tires as they drive through the city
’
s smoldering ruins.

Just five miles from the beginning of his son
’
s exodus south, Jonathon Thomas helps his own survivors pry debris away from the entrance to KOMO
’
s underground parking garage. His shimmering silver tie lies beside a pinstripe suit jacket folded neatly on the rubble. He brushes back the short, gray-peppered hair from his forehead. Beads of sweat stand out along it.

Jonathon rolls up his dirty burgundy sleeves, lifting heavy chunks of stone thrown by the blast. As the last remnant pinned against the metal roll-up doors is removed, the grating sound of steel grinds upward. Dave drives out with one of the sat trucks, quickly followed by Jean in the news van. A cheer erupts from the remaining KOMO staff. They stand up as one to gratefully climb into their two chariots.

“
Give that man a raise,
”
Jon says, nodding toward Dave. He helps Jean step down from the news van.

She laughs. A glimmer of hope shines from her twilight eyes.
“
I already told him he could have my paycheck.
”
Her smile, usually so carefree and infectious, quickly changes. She looks back at the news vehicles
and the handful of survivors within.
“
So few,
”
Jean whispers.
“
Unbelievable.
”

Images of the talented people she worked alongside for so many years begin to fill her thoughts. She looks sadly at the faces that are left. They stare back with expectant eyes
,
begging for
reassurance.

“
How in the hell did we let this happen, Jon?
”
she whispers. An unusual tone of insecurity trembles in her voice.

“
I don
’
t know.
”
Questions plague Jonathon
’
s own mind.
“
Did we get anything on the Associated Press feed?
”

“
We couldn
’
t broadcast it out,
”
she says angrily. Missing even self-imposed deadlines aggravates her. Jean pauses, wondering how much she should tell him.
“
This strange alert tone overrode us.
”

“
What?
”
Jonathon
’
s navy blue eyes narrow.

“
Mr. M.I.T. says we may be able to patch around it,
”
she says.
“
But not from here.
”

Her attention drifts back out to the wreckage of Seattle. The stumps of once-proud buildings are torn and blackened, their facades completely obliterated from the ground where they had stood.

She closes her eyes, seeing the glimmering towers as they were. They rise like testaments to man
’
s brilliance before the images fade again into the scorched ruins that are left. Glass and metal blown out of the structures light the ground like glowing sand on a blistered earth. Wires and piping are exposed through massive holes in the skyscrapers. Entire floors catch sunlight for the first time. Row after row of devastated buildings stretch into the horizon.

“
This needs to be documented, Jon,
”
she whispers. The words are not a request. They echo from her mouth, mixing with the sounds of dust scraping across her Emerald City.
“
The world has to know what happened here today.
”

“
What we need is to get away from all this,
”
Jonathon says. He closes the sliding van door in preparation for what he knows is coming.
“
Radiation isn
’
t something I want to experience firsthand.
”
He gestures through the glass at the passengers inside.
“
You think they want to die?
”

Jean dreads the words screaming out in her mind. Her voice drops to a terrified whisper.
“
Have you considered it might already be too late?
”

The thought tears through him. His bare forearms suddenly begin to tingle.

Burnt scraps of paper swirl in the air around them.

“
We
’
ll leave, but we
’
re shooting footage along the way,
”
Jean orders. Her eyes harden as the brashness of her executive producer role suddenly returns.
“
It
’
s our responsibility to the public. Once we get to a translator tower, we should be able to broadcast again. People need to know, Jon.
”

His mind spins. The broad-shouldered creative director can only shake his head. He tries to fight back the new fears growing inside him. But the fear only darkens, twisting into a kindled rage.
“
Keep chanting your journalistic ideals when your people
’
s skin begins to blister,
”
he barks. Jonathon stares deep into her violet eyes. They don
’
t back down. They don
’
t even blink.
“
We need to focus on surviving this,
”
he shouts, storming away.
“
I don
’
t give a shit about anything other than that.
”

“
Jon!
”
she calls after him. Sadness soon replaces her veil of strength. Jean
’
s knees begin to shake.

Scratching obsessively at his exposed hands, Jonathon climbs into the passenger seat of the sat truck and slams the door. Dave looks curiously
over
from the driver
’
s side.
“
What
…
”
the young engineer starts. He takes another look at the brooding black man.
“
Never mind.
”

Jean takes a deep breath. Worry still shakes her.
Pull it together. They need you.
She turns, seeing dirty faces staring back with concern through the front windshield. Jean moves around the front of the news van to the passenger side
…
and an open sliding door.
Shit. They heard everything
.