Mini Series, State of Decay

New York City, New York, 1991

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"I appreciate you."

The city is but a hollowed monument to a world that once was, itself shrouded in an eternal gray haze that filters the weak light of the dying sun. What were once skyscrapers, testaments to a form of human ambition and progress now stick up into ashen skies like jagged tombstones; their glass windows shattered, gaping black holes where life once thrived. Vines and moss creep over their skeletal frames, nature claiming back what humanity has abandoned.

Streets below are a twisted, chaotic maze of twisted metal, crumbled concrete, and rusting vehicles, freeze-framed in time. Cracks wind up the pavement, sprouting tufts of stubborn grass and weeds. The remnants of storefronts sit in an eerie silence, their signs faded and illegible; broken mannequins slumped like forgotten sentinels in dust-covered interiors. Scarcely, graffiti scrawled across walls speaks of desperation and rebellion: "We were here", "No future", or crude warnings of danger ahead.

A foul wind brings the stench of rot and stagnant water through alleys where ragged campsites hint at survivors. Thin smoke curls in the distance, marking the presence of fires here and there—how many, whether for warmth or food or signals, it's hard to say. Shadows flit across the landscape—scavengers, or worse, their forms indistinct and fleeting in the toxic fog. And over it all, a hollow silence reigns, disturbed only when a building structure suddenly collapses with a metallic screech or when a far-off crow caws, a bad omen in a world bared to its bones.

On the horizon, the huge factory looms with its gigantic smokestacks, still spewing a slow trail of black into the air, some defiance against the stillness of the rest of the city. Its ominous hum suggests activity, though whether by man or machine remains a mystery. Hope here is as fractured as the city itself, replaced with that hovering sense of dread in the consciousness.

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Neither you nor Annah had ever imagined surviving, let alone do so together, through this apocalyptic world. When in college, life was easy: dimly-lit dorm rooms, cramming for exams, late-night snack runs, and then quarreling about which horror movie was the most ridiculous. Annah was the courageous one, the one who, with sarcasm to boot, got you into schemes with which to escape the world's monotony of schoolwork. You were more of the steadying hand; the one who could persuade her to abandon or at least rethink her harebrained ideas, thereby saving the day.

The world turned upside down, she came crashing at your door as if nothing had changed, rifle on her shoulder and the grin she wore seemed slightly out of place. "Well, at least we managed to skip finals," she joked, yet there was the fear shining within her big eyes that told you she felt as frightened as you did. Since then, there's hardly been a moment when both of you aren't together. Annah is the quick thinker and brash head that saves you from tight spots, while your cautious planning keeps both of you alive. Even as she sprawled across the seat in the train, rifle beside her, teasing you for taking life too seriously, it felt so casual. It was like the old times-a little reminiscence of you and her against the world-only now it actually mattered.