The bones of skyscrapers, which once pointed toward the stars, now stuck out of the ground like the ribs of the Earth's corpse. Skeletons of the old world and its hubris, a dead land with ghosts of past glory and silenced laughter and tears.
Guessing what building a rubble once was was their way of spending the time as they surveyed the ruins, though the distraction was hardly a respite. Some were easier than most. The Empire State Building was now only half-tall. The Chrysler Building was now a jumble of steel and smashed concrete, though much of its toppled spire remained intact. The Madison Square Garden was now nothing more than a huge bowl filled with caved-in debris. The fabled Times Square now looked more like a scrapyard, littered with the remains of automobiles, some piled up on top of the others. Central Park had been turned into an encampment for the Army National Guard. There were mundane ones, too—such as the place that sold killer chilis, or the busiest Jewish deli in the city, or the absolutely seediest bar with the most puke-inducing rotgut, and the list went on.
Midtown Manhattan, the heart of the Big Apple, took the brunt of the attacks, but the city was doomed either way. Only Staten Island was largely spared from devastation, and that was only due to the presence of Naval Station New York, where they had been stationed.
Seeing New Jersey covered in soot and grime was nothing new to him. She was an able fighter despite the occasional bout of outlandish behavior. One of the greatest battleships to ever tread the waters, nine guns blazing with a cheery confidence that never seemed to die.
On the other hand, witnessing the somber countenance and how her shoulders, ones that once never seemed to tire from the burdens of her guns, were now slumping was like seeing the sky turn purple. It seemed so very wrong and almost revolting, even.
"They really did a number on the ol' US of A, huh?" her voice was dry.
"And the world, actually. But we survived...whatever those bastards threw at us. We're stubborn and proud, and it showed, ain't it? But still, the entire thing should've been humbling," Commander Aaron Norton sighed, slinging the M4A1 carbine given by one of the USCG survivors over his shoulder. They insisted that he bring the weapon, though any danger was unlikely. Despite the devastating blow it suffered, the military was still operational, and any rabble trying to take advantage of the situation was put down with terrifying efficiency. The only ones left that could present any threat were probably zoo escapees, and he sincerely wished he wouldn't have to shoot any of those.
"Hey, look, an Escalade," she ignored his statement, pointing towards the black vehicle resting on its roof. "You've always wanted one, right?"
"Yeah, but not one that's a smoking husk," he shrugged, "Actually, I'd like a Lincoln more. And it has to be a Navigator. Also, I want a Hummer for the braggart, irresponsible side of me. I guess that's something."
"And all you have is a '94 beater Accord that seemed to have survived everything, somehow. Even this war," the battleship's tone was a touch more upbeat. "Maybe the next one really should be a Lincoln. That'd make for a good image, especially if you're going to be a big-shot politician after all this is done."
"Secretary Jefferson would have my head for that. She hates having rivals."
"Yeah, I can see that," New Jersey sighed. "She'd probably have mine, too, because mine's prettier. So, where do we start looking? Scratch that; what are we looking for?"
"Anything of use."
"And you volunteer to do that, even though we have, what, a thousand men and women on the job?"
"So what if I do? Rear Admiral Faulkner doesn't mind," the man chuckled, kicking aside a small piece of a car. "I'm starting to think he could actually be trying to get rid of me, but who knows?"
"Or he just likes your initiative," the battleship smirked, kicking aside a broken television from a skeleton's hands. "Though I think it's better if we have some alone time together. Been a while since we could really have a quiet chat without something interrupting it."
"Lighthearted things only, I presume. The last time I said something profound, you preferred talking about cars instead. Yes, that was five minutes ago. I remember. Don't ask."
"It's just that, well..." the battleship hesitated. "It's just that things are different. I'm not exactly the same person I was before. And neither are you. So, spill it. What are you looking for here?"
His eyes went from her to the silent ruin. The whisper of the wind seemed to carry a distant sound of the city's former life—laughter and curses, hoots and hollers, small talks and life-changing conversations, the American Dream and broken promises. A lot more had been lost than just lives here. Extinguished so easily like a candle snuffed out by the gusts.
"A sense of closure, I guess. I've had a lot of time to think about it. About what really matters. Seeing deaths all around was sobering, you know. I've seen people die before. But the scale...the magnitude of it...and how easy it was. It made me feel...insignificant. Small. God, sometimes I wonder why I haven't put that M1911 in my mouth yet," he chuckled darkly.
"Hey," the battleship said gently, touching his shoulder. "We've talked about this before. You can't go doing that. Many people still need you."
"Calm down. I'm not going to be a coward by offing myself. I'm just saying I'd thought about it. A lot."
"You better be. Eh, I'll be watching over you anyway. If you try anything funny, I'll stop you. Probably by socking you in that pretty face of yours. That would be a shame, isn't it?"
If something could be more powerful than the demons of the mind, it was her smile, no matter how much it had changed. It could be audacious or cheery or even tinged with melancholy; the latter had become more common these days, but it always had a way of lifting his spirit, no matter how badly wounded they were.
"Yeah, because you will be put in the brig for assaulting your superior," he snorted, returning her smile.
"And you would just let them?!" New Jersey feigned horror, which was just as convincing as a C-list celeb telling the press their latest boob job was natural.
"Don't worry, I'll visit often," he laughed before the hand on his shoulder clamped harder, much harder, and he winced.
"Sorry, hon'. But I'd rather you join me in there. Then we can live happily ever after!"
"...In the brig."
"Aw, does it matter where? We'd be together!"
"Right. Oh well, we could always escape any time and skedaddle across the border to Tijuana or something."
"Gee, too far, hon'. We are better off going to Canada because it's closer. How 'bout that for a honeymoon, hm?"
"We're not getting hitched, are we?"
The hand squeezed even tighter, but he had expected it.
"Not yet."
The grin was not one of hope but not one of despair, either. She was content with the moment and its possibilities, and that was a comforting thought. At least she didn't look so downtrodden now, and he felt stronger for that, too.
"You...serious about that...?" he managed, a little breathless, a little hopeful.
"...Hmm...Maybe," New Jersey giggled and let go. "Anyway, the point is, you have something to live for. Lots of it. No more brooding. Gets me down, and I don't like being down."
Of course she was just being playful. And he was just playing along.
Or rather, got strung along.
But this was what New Jersey was all about. What she should be. Braving, inspiring, inviting, living the moment, treasuring. Not a shell of a former self, not a shadow of a ghost or a wreck.
Because if she was any of those, she would eventually drag him
down,
down,
down.
"Gotcha. I...will try. Cross my heart and hope to die."
Their fists met, battle-worn skin against the other's.
"That's my honey."
Glimmering like the sun-struck Atlantic, those eyes.
They must never go dim ever again.
"...I guess I could let not addressing your Commander properly slide for now, Jersey. You deserve it."
"Riiiiiiiight. Permission to speak freely again, sir?"
"Granted."
"Get used to it, though, honey."
"Haha. Not in front of Faulkner, please."
"Sheesh, look at us, keeping bigger secrets than the NSA. Aight, what he doesn't know won't kill him. Or us. So..."
"Let's get moving. Who knows what else we can find in there."
"Aye aye, Commander Norton, sir."
Norton identified spots that the Seabees could scour for materials along the way, which he tagged with signal beacons. They were mostly metals, ranging from scraps to sheets. Some were usable, and others could be melted down into new materials for shelters.
Even with the efforts of the FDNY, NYPD, and whatever's left of the state government, there were occasional bodies to be found. Many had already been recovered by their families, but the rest were unclaimed. Most had been laid to rest in a makeshift cemetery in Flushing Meadows. For those he found, he could only notify authorities through the radios.
New Jersey lingered before the dead couple who were found holding hands, their heads mangled by a falling slab of concrete. She then looked away, and he wondered if she was morose again or if she somehow knew the two women, though that seemed unlikely. He decided not to ask. For now.
The twilight had set in as they arrived at a checkpoint just before SoHo. It was run by the Coast Guard, to his relief. He didn't really want to deal with the leathernecks. The officer in charge was of the same rank as him, and it didn't take long for them to be cleared to stay and stretch their legs.
The makeshift camp was set up around a ruined apartment that had been mostly gutted out by the fires, but a few pieces of furniture had been left intact and repurposed. It also afforded a view of the Hudson, which was littered with wreckage of various sizes and shapes. A Coast Guard cutter was visible on the water, patrolling the area.
A group of civilians, waiting to be taken to Staten Island or further west, were huddled around a fire lit in a steel drum. They were dirty, but they were alive. Some looked understandably shaken, only staring listlessly at the flames; a few were trying to keep the morale up with their own stories. Others were occupied with tending to children, making sure they were fed and warm.
One of the coasties, a female petty officer, offered them coffee and stale bagels. Not the best, but he wouldn't complain. After all, rations could only do so much.
"You're tuning in to American Forces Network, and this is the Oldie Goldie Hour...Yeah, yeah, maybe they're old enough to be your grandpa, I know—but the songs are bangin' all the same! Anyway, I'm your host, USS Guam, coming to you live from Naval Station Norfolk. And before I give the list, I'd like to thank our listeners for sticking with AFN despite everything that's happened. And to the good folks in the NPR, I hope you all can return to air soon 'cuz you guys rock. All right, let's get the show on the road...here's Jerry Lee Lewis' Whole Lotta Shakin' Goin' On to hopefully liven up y'all's evening. The Killer's really killin' it on this, folks, so get up and shake, shake, shake, baby!"
The rockabilly tune started blaring through the speakers, and an officer grinned as he cranked the volume.
"Damn, that lass started with a bang," a coastie laughed. "Guess she wants to get us dancing."
"She sure does. And she's good at it," another one smiled, nodding.
The civvies didn't share the enthusiasm, so they stayed put—except for a lone grandma. She stood up, swayed his hips, and started singing along to the tune.
"Screw this, babe. Get your ass over here. We're dancing, dammit," the old lady laughed.
"The world's gone nuts, and we're dancing? You mad, woman?"
"Marshall Thomas Booker, you come here and dance with your wife. It's our anniversary, for Christ's sake!"
"You're still the crazy one I married, ain't ya?" the man rolled his eyes but complied. "Ah, what the hell, I'm game."
They laughed and held each other, rocking their bodies to the beat, their eyes only on each other. The coasties cheered, and a few of the other couples joined in, as well as the kids, who were more interested in jumping around like monkeys, except one boy who somehow managed to rope his sister into aping the grown-ups. Those who didn't join clapped their hands.
New Jersey was smiling again, and his heart felt lighter. Just then, before the song began, she had a vacant look that didn't sit well with him.
"Hey, something on your mind?"
"Ah...you noticed?"
"Of course. It's kinda hard not to."
"Those two...in the rubble," she replied, the smile waning a little. "I was wondering if they were happy before everything went to shit or if they perhaps only started being happy as they were dying. Perhaps they realized they could before it was too late."
"I don't know," he shrugged. "Perhaps they did, and maybe they didn't. But whatever the case, they took the chance to, I believe."
"Will you do the same, then? Take it before it's too late?"
The bright blue looked back at him. Daring, inviting.
"If I were to, would you take it, too?"
"I'll take it, damn it. Take it like it's the last thing I can ever take."
The intensity burnishing her voice was reminiscent of her broadside—sure, steady, and fearless, all at once. The Black Dragon knew what she wanted and how she would get it and was ready for the consequences, come what may.
New Jersey's not letting go.
Not now.
Not ever.
He could see it in her eyes.
He was ashamed he had to ask.
"And that was Jerry Lee Lewis, everyone! I bet your butts were shaking all the way from the West Coast to the East. Here's another one of The Killer's bangers, and it's a hot one, alright. Great Balls of Fire, folks. Don't miss it!"
Another song played, and everyone was still at it.
A hand reaching out was a start.
To make it right.
If she would just take it.
Who was he kidding?
Sure as hell she would, and more.
He was faster, and the yelp when he pulled her close was nothing short of delightful.
"Well, hello there, mister," the battleship chuckled.
"Hello there, gorgeous," he grinned.
"You don't happen to have two left feet, do you?"
"If we fall, at least we'll fall together, right?"
"Not with me in the lead, we won't," New Jersey laughed.
Seemingly not wanting to be caught off-guard again, she was quick on her feet. She indeed took the lead and spun them around to the rhythm.
The young night was shining. Without the neons and the flashy billboards and the buzzing cars, the stars shone brighter. The fireflies danced above the river and on the streets and everywhere.
For the people who dared to shine in the dark.
He laughed, laughed so hard he shed tears.
He, an officer, an example of dignity and poise, was now laughing like a fool. He wouldn't hear the end of it from Rear Admiral Faulkner if the old killjoy ever found out, but damn if that didn't feel so good.
And she was laughing with him, a tinkling, chiming, musical sound. Sweet, full, real.
They kept going, only pausing once to share the taste of salt, smoke, and iron.
One song led to another. Johnny B. Goode to Rock Around the Clock to Fujiyama Mama to Shake, Rattle and Roll. Pauses and lulls were a given, but their hands always found their way back.
New Jersey kept her word. She didn't allow them to fall.
Eventually, they had to stop, or so she insisted because she must've realized his legs were giving out. One last spin and it was over. The crowd clapped and cheered, and some even whooped, too.
But he hardly paid attention to that. His head felt like it had been shaken empty and was a hundred times lighter. But his chest felt full, welling, and overflowing.
And that's before he could see her again, standing there, beaming at him, a sheen of sweat across her face.
"Oh, honey. You love that, don'tcha?"
"I...love that..." he wheezed, leaning on her for support. She caressed the sweat-drenched hair.
"Told ya we won't fall."
And not just in the dance.
That much he knew.
The dancers had their fill and had settled down by the fire again, but the music went on.
Just like life.
It was the dawn of a new day.
By the first light, they were already on the road again, the eastern skies slowly being stained orange by the rising sun.
Commander Aaron Norton wasn't sure if it was just him or if the sun was actually rising much higher. It did feel warmer, like a new hope.
The breakfast ration was still stale, and he still wasn't complaining. It was filling, at least, and it didn't take the taste of freedom away. The coffee, too, was as bitter and muddy as ever, but he was grateful for every sip.
The rubble shifted underneath their boots as they walked the ruined streets. She was ever so near.
The Harbor was already teeming with activity when they arrived. The Seabees spilled out of transports, ready to reclaim what can be saved. A hospital ship had pulled into the harbor as well, and a flotilla of barges was ready to ferry the wounded to their care.
On the horizon, the Statue of Liberty stood still, a beacon of hope, a lone sentinel overlooking her ward.
She may have lost her torch arm and a large part of the crown, but she was still there, watching over the brave new world rising upon the corpse of the old, where dreams were made and shattered.
But not theirs.
Especially not theirs.
