Yield (64 page)

She lays a hand on Jonathon
’
s arm, pulling him back to the water
’
s edge.
“
If the Washington and Fremont are gone, there
’
s no way the other two bridges are still there.
”
Her eyes glance around to make sure their conversation is private.
“
We can
’
t make it from this side, Jon.
”

“
We
’
ve come a long way just to turn around now,
”
he says. His stomach sinks at the thought she may be right.
“
It
’
s only a couple more miles; then, we
’
ll know for sure. Besides, Dave says there
’
s another translator nearby that may have been shielded from the blast. His scope
’
s reading a low power signal, weak but still pulsing.
”

“
Can we get through?
”
Jean points to the west.
“
It looks like the whole damn industrial district
’
s on fire.
”

“
I don
’
t know,
”
he whispers. His eyes trace out to the flames of hell across their path.
“
But I
’
d rather take my chances with the fire. It didn
’
t end with the explosion, Jean.
”
He looks down.
“
Survivors of Chernobyl died over the months that followed their reactor leak. That was just one reactor. Imagine something hundreds of times greater than that back in the city.
”

Jonathon begins to scratch at his hands.
“
Hiroshima. Nagasaki. Fallout can kill almost as many as the blast itself.
”
He looks out toward the flattened remains of Seattle. Jon tries to picture the compound angles of
its
unmistakable skyline, but the shapes are fuzzy
—
o
bliterated from memory like the structures themselves.
“
This dwarfs them all.
”

Jean
’
s eyes flicker. She stares at the glow of fire on the horizon beside them. The brilliant oranges and reds pulse eerily in the dark. The unnatural twilight crackles against her skin.

“
It
’
ll be okay,
”
he says. Jonathon puts a hand hesitantly to her back.

She jumps, surprised by his unusually public display of affection. Jean sinks back into his embrace. Warmth pours from him like a familiar blanket on a dreary winter
’
s day.

“
Alright,
”
Jean sighs. She turns, putting a hand up to his chest.
“
Let
’
s just take it slow through there. God knows what chemicals are burning in those warehouses.
”

She looks up into his navy eyes. Their certainty and assurance soon becomes hers, pushing away all doubt the way that only he ever could. Just being around him makes her stronger
—
more hopeful
somehow. Jean thinks back to all of the glances at one another around the office and how they tried so hard to keep their passions quiet. She smiles mischievously.

Jean lets her chest rub ever so slightly against his body before spinning away.
“
Lead the way, lover.
”

He exhales loudly. Jonathon watches her body strut back to the KOMO news team, not caring in the least that he
’
s staring like an infatuated schoolboy.

Feeling his eyes still upon her, she grins.
“
Get what we
’
ve shot so far ready to feed to the network,
”
Jean orders her photog. She begins bundling the video cables up around her arm.
“
We should be able to get some sort of sat link from the tower site. Edit together all the b-roll, too. Just make sure they know it
’
s from Seattle.
”

She looks around at the homeland she loved, in ruins.
“
I was born here, and I don
’
t even recognize my city.
”

*  *  *

The KOMO 4 News team loads up and turns northwest onto the six cracked lanes of Westlake. They soon merge onto what
’
s left of Nickerson Street. Huge piles of building and vehicular debris, catapulted out by the city
’
s blast, lie crushed along the pavement. The projectiles score the ground like demonic claws, carving wide swaths into rock, metal and bone as they flee.

The caravan swerves in and out of lanes to avoid the mounds of rubble and cars still smoldering on the pavement. Lines of flame stretch across both sides of the street now. The buildings caught in their path blister as the superheated structures cave and writhe within the fires.

Resuming his spot in the sat truck
’
s passenger seat, Jonathon looks out at the inferno beyond his window. The neon orange radiance of flames to their right rages uncontrolled in the industrial district
’
s warehouses and shipping docks. Random explosions light up inside the remains. Toxic smoke billows out. It glows a vibrant burgundy color, merging with the flashes of lightning in the poisonous clouds above.

Dave flips on his wipers as the rain streaks down again. The usually annoying sound of frayed rubber on glass feels familiar and comforting to Jonathon tonight. It reminds him of all the foul weather promotional shoots he
’
s driven this truck to. Severe weather spots. News investigations. Hard to believe life was normal
just a little while
ago.

Rain pounds onto the truck
’
s metal canopy. The sound is relaxing
—
the roar of nature cleansing the world below. Jonathon closes his eyes, imagining it
’
s the crash of waves against a peaceful shoreline
…

“
Damn!
”
Dave
suddenly shouts. Several chemical tanks ignite in the warehouse right beside them. They send flames launching hundreds of feet into the air. Tank fragments shoot over the tops of their vehicles, ripping through the other side of the street.

Jonathon shields his eyes from the blast. Intense heat pulses through the window, warming the right side of his face and hand. Brilliant yellows shimmer across the glass. Their lapping shapes twist and swirl upwards into the night.

“
Hold on
!
”
Dave yells. Almost as one, Dave and Jean both punch their accelerators, trying to get clear of the unstable industrial district.

The fires of chaos stretch out. Flames begin to eat into the blacktop. They leap across the spilling chemicals, creating giant rivers of flame.

Dave crushes his pedal to the floor. The windows bubble and steam on both sides as moisture is pulled from the air around them. The sat truck flies like a white speck across a sea of fire.

The heat inside the steel vehicle is stifling. Thick air comes in choked gasps.

“
Faster!
”
Jonathon yells, wiping away the beads of sweat now pouring into his eyes.

Flames attack the edges of their tires, clinging to the rubber with its claws.

“
Gutless piece of
…
”
Dave shouts.
“
Come on!
”

Huge walls of fire fill their windshield and mirrors. The writhing color is all around them
.

The truck shoots out of the fiery grasp,
finally
launching out into the night. Fresh rain sizzles as it hits the vehicles. The drops evaporate almost instantly from the blackened metal.

Pulsing red recedes angrily in the side mirrors. Its opening is quickly erased, the fires along both sides merging into one coalescent bonfire to the heavens.

“
Thought you gave this thing a tune-up, Dave,
”
Jonathon says. He claps the young engineer heartily on the shoulder.

Dave
’
s held breath erupts out of him. His death grip on the steering wheel gradually loosens.
“
Right. Let
’
s not do that again.
”
Adrenaline flooding through his veins makes his heart feel like its beating ten times faster than it should. He wipes the perspiration from his forehead and rolls down the window.

The engineer gulps at the wet air coming in. The water splashing against his face is more refreshing, more sweet than anything he
’
s ever felt before.

Jonathon looks over at the large peak off to their left. Only a few orange glows spread along its black surface.
“
Is that the new translator site?
”

Dave turns left onto west Third, heading directly towards the butte.
“
Yeah. We installed a low power repeater at North Queen Anne before the whole DTV conversion a few years ago. I thought it would be a good idea to bridge our old systems here just in case the high power digitals ever went down.
”

“
Engineers and their back-ups,
”
Jonathon says with admiration.
“
You guys are always three moves ahead.
”

“
Never thought we
’
d need it for this,
”
Dave corrects. He
’
s usually not one to diminish praise with any veneer of modesty. Quite the opposite most days.
“
But it
’
s definitely capable of broadcast. Our tower
’
s on the back side of that bluff, so it probably avoided most of the blast winds.
”

They drive past the ruins of businesses and into an upscale neighborhood. The meticulous lawns and triple-stories of the elite are now engulfed in fire.

Dave takes a right and begins winding up the paved access road to the north side of Queen Anne peak. Grass and trees lining the once scenic hilltop are gone. Fragments of charred ash billowing through the air are now the only signs of their existence. Blackened gravel cracks under their tires. Powdery remnants blow around them as the hot winds begin to gust.

They drive and twist up the road, stopping at a fenced gate blocking their path. Both sides of the fence are crumpled and twisted back, but the gate has somehow held. Dave fishes out a large set of keys from his pocket, sifting through them by headlight. The double gate doors open with a loud and rusty creak.

The vehicles move forward another twenty yards and stop at a small building with no windows. Behind it, the 50-foot broadcast tower rises up, flanked on both sides by outcroppings of rugged hilltop. The tops of the hill are blackened. Just below the crest, a dull green still clings to life.

“
Alright,
”
Jonathon says, jumping out into the rain.
“
Let
’
s go see if we
’
re worth all those big market salaries.
”

“
I think we should turn back,
”
Jean whispers. Her eyes drift across the metal and concrete dotting the top of Lake Union. The bridge fragments protrude like derisive stepping stones from the black water. The north side of Seattle is barely visible, its shadow just out of reach beyond the troubled waves.

She lays a hand on Jonathon
’
s arm, pulling him back to the water
’
s edge.
“
If the Washington and Fremont are gone, there
’
s no way the other two bridges are still there.
”
Her eyes glance around to make sure their conversation is private.
“
We can
’
t make it from this side, Jon.
”

“
We
’
ve come a long way just to turn around now,
”
he says. His stomach sinks at the thought she may be right.
“
It
’
s only a couple more miles; then, we
’
ll know for sure. Besides, Dave says there
’
s another translator nearby that may have been shielded from the blast. His scope
’
s reading a low power signal, weak but still pulsing.
”