Reborn

"It was an old monster," Grampa always began as the children all rushed up and huddled around him in front of the fireplace, "a dark and foul creature locked away in the depths of the earth for millions of years. And when it woke up, it was angry!" He made a wide face and jumped and growled, causing all the little ones to squeal and giggle. "And it came through the cities, STOMP STOMP STOMP, and all the buildings fell down." The kids all held up their hands and screamed and slumped to the floor. "And then the monster was never heard from again. Poof!"

I'd heard the same tale since I was little - as had everyone in New America, told by countless grandfathers in front of countless crowds of wide-eyed little ones. Some embellished more than others, but the basic story was always the same: The story of humanity's destruction.

I couldn't help but think back on it as our helicopter touched down in the ruins of New York City. For fifty years it had stood untouched, before the government determined it was safe to go in and see what we could recover from our broken past.

Safe, but not too safe. We still had to wear radiation suits, and everything we gathered had to go through a thorough cleaning process before it could even be touched by human hands.

I remember it was a Wednesday, and we were somewhere near a place once called "Grand Central Station." There were bones everywhere, clothes, briefcases, backpacks, just like every other place in Old New York. The commander had something very specific for which we were searching - a silver metal briefcase. Chances were against it still being silver after decades in the dust and rubble, but that was all we were told. For three weeks we had been searching, to no avail.

"Hey guys," one of the anonymous yellow suits squawked into the intercom, "I think I've got something." An ash-covered skeleton barely clad in a tattered green military uniform sat hunched against what had once been a stairwell. Its bony arms cradled an aluminum case, which appeared to be handcuffed to the man's wrist. Aside from a couple of dings and scratches, the case was none the worse for wear, even after the collapse of the city. Pleased to be finished with tomb duty, we crawled out the tunnel to the surface and radioed for airlift back to Catskill Command.

We switched off with cleaning duty for the recovered goods. This day, it was my turn. I took the case, sealed inside a radiation sleeve, to the decontamination room right next to the helipad. The Geiger counter was off the scale. Grand Central Station must have taken a direct blast from the monster.

As I picked up the case to move it to from the scanner to the irradiator, the locking mechanism gave way, and the contents spilled all over the floor. It looked to be mostly paper ash, but there was also a metal card wrapped in a long-since-melted plastic casing. The only words still legible were Security Level Five. Was this what the commander were seeking?

“Well I'll be damned.” the voice in the intercom said. “Private, were you instructed to open that case?”

“No sir,” I replied. "It was in pretty bad shape, and it came open on its own."

“No matter. Let me see that.” I held the card up to the glass wall of the observation booth. “That's it alright. Private, irradiate that card, and dispose of the rest.”

“Yes sir,” I barked like a good little lapdog. I certainly wasn't going to argue with the commanders. Everything in New America revolved around their rule. It was all supposed to be temporary, of course. New America had been founded as a republic, but it was difficult to maintain any sort of democracy with people dropping like flies from radiation poisoning. For years we had been nomads, moving from place to place, finally settling in the mountains high above the monster's reach.

I placed the card into the irradiator, shut the door, and started the process. In an hour, it would be clean enough to eat off of.

"Private Graves," the commander said from the control booth, "take off that suit and come out here." I, of course, complied.

"We have a problem here."

"What problem is that, sir?"

"Well, we were trying to involve as few people as possible with this." He nodded toward the irradiator in the decon room. "Time is a crucial factor here. I need you to take care of the next part of the operation yourself."

"Operation, sir? I was under the impression that this was routine salvage work. I'm a rubble crawler, not a military operative."

"That badge says 'private,' the same as most everyone else's. Until we get back on our feet, America is under martial law, which makes everyone subject to military orders. Now, your orders are to take this package to Rocky Mountain Command and deliver it directly into the hands of General Killian."

"Yes sir," I enthusiastically replied with a salute. I had been on salvage duty since I was sixteen. This was the first time I'd ever stood out as more than another digger.

"Good then. You'll leave as soon as the package is clean. Keep it on your person at all times, and tell no one of your real mission. As far as anyone needs to know, this is just a routine transfer - and you'll have the papers to prove it."

"You're a good man, Graves. I know you won't let your country down."

It was a nine-hour flight to Rocky Mountain command. They'd stuck me in a military transport vehicle alongside several dozen other nameless, faceless soldiers in cute matching hats and boots. I spent the first two hours looking down at the ground so far away. Of course, flying was nothing new, as I rode in helicopters to and from the salvage sites daily, but I'd never been up this high before. The sun was so much clearer, more concentrated, and the ground (what I could make out in areas of sparse fog) was scorched, blackened, dead.

Eventually, looking at the corpse of my country started to get to me, so I closed my eyes and imagined, as I always did, what it must have been like before the monster. Green fields, green trees, everything was green in my fantasy world. I kept one hand over my chest at all times, making sure the package was still with me.

When the transport landed, a pair of armed guards was waiting to escort me directly to General Killian. They took me to a huge mountain fortress. Monolithic steel doors slowly slid open to allow our Jeep passage into a long tunnel, then closed with a bone-shaking thud.

We reached the end of the tunnel, and I found another, smaller door flanked by two soldiers. They never even questioned my credentials, admitting me with just a nod.

They took me even deeper into the base, to a giant room filled with activity. Men running all over, hunched over computer stations. The front wall of the room appeared to be one giant screen displaying a map of the entire world. This one chamber must have contained more electronics than the rest of America combined.

Down at the front of the room, I spotted an old man in uniform, far too old for active service.

"I believe you have something for me."

His confidence betrayed his age, and caught me off-guard. "Ye-yes sir." I fumbled with my shirt buttons for far too long, finally getting my hand inside and pulling out the package. When I handed it to him, his lip started to quiver, and a small tear formed in his eye.

"Finally. We're finally going to get you bastards," he muttered under his breath, choking down a sob before regaining his composure. "Commander, go to launch status."

I just backed up and tried to stay out of the way. What had once been a busy room had picked up to a frenetic pace. The general walked to the top of the stairs and took up a place dead center behind a console.

"Entering secondary code. All launch," he said triumphantly. "All launch."

And the monster was reborn.