The Jersey Devil Incident

The Whitespring Refuge smelled too clean.

That was always the first thing I noticed.

Outside, Appalachia was wet bark, rust, gun oil, mutated things decomposing in places you preferred not to investigate too closely, and the occasional unmistakable perfume of a Super Mutant who had apparently declared soap an instrument of the bourgeoisie.

Inside the Whitespring?

Polished floors.

Coffee.

Furniture that hadn't been gnawed on.

Civilization, or at least an extremely convincing impersonation of it.

I walked beside you through the Refuge with my hands buried in the pockets of my black field jacket. My boots clicked softly against the floor.

"This place makes me nervous."

You looked sideways at me.

"You've fought Deathclaws."

"Deathclaws are honest."

"What does that mean?"

"They see you, they scream, they try to remove your skeleton."

"Very straightforward."

"Exactly."

You nodded thoughtfully.

"Unlike hotel staff."

"Precisely."

We continued walking.

A Responders volunteer smiled at us.

I smiled back.

Then, once we'd passed—

"See?"

"Babe, she just smiled at you."

"That's how it starts."

You laughed and slipped an arm around my waist.

I leaned into you despite myself.

We weren't here for anything exciting.

That was the plan, anyway.

We needed supplies for Jettyroot.

Coffee.

Cooking oil.

A replacement heating coil.

Some screws...

...lots of screws.

A fuse.

And, because you had written the list, there was an item near the bottom that simply said:

THING FOR CHARLIE

I had already asked you twice what that meant.

You had refused to elaborate.

The screws had already caused problems.

Not because they were difficult to find.

Because the person selling them had taken a liking to me.

The name was Ramon.

Ramon had broad shoulders, cropped blond hair, a work jacket with the sleeves rolled up, and forearms that suggested they could probably tighten a pipe fitting without the assistance of tools.

Ramon's real name was Ramonetta, at least according to you.

You said never to call her Ramonetta unless, that is, I was itching to witness what Viking rage looked like outside the storybooks.

Ramon had the screws.

A lot of them.

Which was the only reason I had tolerated the conversation as long as I had.

"Forty-three," Ramon said, dropping another handful into the tin between us.

Then she looked at me.

"And for you, my love, I found the clean ones."

I stared at her.

You stared at me.

I very deliberately did not look at you.

"Thank you."

"My pleasure, my love."

Your mouth started twitching.

I kicked your boot.

Ramon disappeared beneath the counter looking for washers.

A moment later we heard:

"Ást mín... where did I put—"

Her head reappeared.

"There."

She placed a small box beside me.

"Washers."

"Thank you."

"Anything else, my love?"

"No."

You made a noise beside me.

I turned.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"You made a noise."

"Did I?"

"Ravyn."

"Maybe."

I took the tin of screws and started walking.

You followed.

For perhaps thirty seconds, you behaved yourself.

Then—

"What was her name? Ramon?"

I kept walking.

You started laughing.

"You know they say her real name is Ramonetta?"

I stopped.

Slowly, I turned toward you.

"They say?"

Your face went pink.

"People."

"What people?"

"You know. People."

"Which people?"

"People with mouths."

I stared at you.

"Ravyn."

"Look, I heard it somewhere."

"You asked about her."

"I did not."

"You asked about the woman who was flirting with me."

"I was gathering information."

"Why?"

You gestured vaguely behind us.

"Her chest is bigger than mine!"

Silence.

I tilted my head.

"Oh."

Your expression changed.

"Oh, so you were observing her chest?"

"Yes—"

You froze.

"I mean, NO."

I folded my arms.

You pointed urgently back down the hall.

"Her arms."

"Her arms."

"Her arms were bigger than mine. That's what I meant."

"Of course."

"She does look the Scandinavian type."

"You're doing very well."

"I am."

"Keep digging."

You ignored that.

"What was it she kept saying, anyway? Asmin? Ast min?"

I looked at you.

"You remember that?"

"She said it more than once."

"Not that many times."

"Enough times."

"And that interested you."

"It sounded weird."

"Mm-hm."

You lifted your Pip-Boy.

"I checked the dictionary."

I stared at you.

"You looked it up?"

"It took ten seconds."

"You researched the pet name another woman was calling me."

"I researched vocabulary."

"And her chest."

"ARMS."

I smiled.

You frowned at the Pip-Boy as if it had betrayed you personally.

"Anyway. Old Norse."

"Oh?"

"Ást mín."

You looked at me.

"It means my love."

I closed my eyes.

"Of course it does."

You were already smiling again.

"She was romanticizing it."

"Apparently."

"My love."

I opened my eyes.

"Don't."

"What?"

"Do not start."

"I didn't do anything."

"You did the tone."

"What tone?"

"Her tone."

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"You know exactly what I'm talking about."

You held up both hands.

"Fine."

"Good."

"I would never."

"Good."

"Not even once."

"Excellent."

"Especially not in her voice."

"Ravyn."

Your mouth twitched.

I pointed one finger at you.

"Do it and I will hurt you."

"Understood."

We resumed walking.

I should have known better.

We were passing the hallway toward Giuseppe's when you suddenly stopped.

I took another two steps before realizing I was walking alone.

I turned around.

You were staring into Giuseppe's shop.

"No."

You hadn't said anything.

"No, Ravyn."

Your eyes remained fixed on something inside.

"I don't even know what you're looking at, but I recognize that face."

"What face?"

"The face you make immediately before spending currency on something we absolutely do not need."

"I don't have a face for that."

"You bought a broken desk fan because you said it had 'character.'"

"It does."

"It doesn't turn."

"That's part of its character."

I stared at you.

You stared back.

Then you pointed.

"Babe."

I followed your finger.

And saw it.

Sitting among Giuseppe's collection of curiosities was a Jersey Devil plushie.

It was hideous.

Not frightening-hideous.

Worse.

Cute-hideous.

Its wings were absurdly small.

Its horns leaned slightly to one side.

Someone had given it enormous red eyes that suggested it had just discovered taxes.

One leg appeared shorter than the other.

I stared at it.

You looked at me.

I looked at you.

"Don't."

"You like it."

"I absolutely do not."

"You made the face."

"What face?"

"The Sable-likes-something-but-doesn't-want-anyone-to-know face."

"There is no such face."

You picked up the plushie.

I immediately took it away from you.

You grinned.

I realized my mistake approximately half a second too late.

"Put it back," I said.

"It's in your hands."

"I was inspecting it."

"Of course."

"For structural defects."

"Naturally."

I squeezed its stomach experimentally.

It squeaked.

Both of us froze.

You slowly looked at me.

I slowly looked at you.

Then you pressed its stomach.

SQUEAK.

"No."

SQUEAK.

"Ravyn."

SQUEAK.

"Stop."

SQUEAK.

I slapped your hand away.

Giuseppe was watching us.

I cleared my throat and placed the creature carefully back on the counter.

"How much?"

You turned toward me with the most unbearable smile I'd seen all week.

"I thought you hated it."

"I hate you."

"How much do you hate me?"

"Potentially enough to leave you here."

Giuseppe told us the price.

You paid before I could stop you.

"Babe."

"Too late."

"We need screws."

"We have forty-three screws."

"We need more screws."

"We always need more screws. That's Appalachia."

He handed you the plushie.

You immediately handed it to me.

I stared down at it.

Its enormous red eyes stared back.

One horn remained crooked.

Goddammit.

I tucked it underneath my arm.

You said nothing.

We resumed walking.

After perhaps twenty seconds, you glanced over.

I caught you.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"You were looking at me."

"I wasn't."

"You were."

"I was looking at the hallway."

"With that stupid smile?"

"Beautiful hallway."

I tightened my arm around the Jersey Devil.

“Say one word and I’m feeding you Snallygaster for dinner.”

“I hate Snallygaster. They’re… stringy. And slimy.”

“I know you don’t like it.”

“And too many rads.”

“That’s the point.”

You nodded solemnly.

"Wouldn't dream of it, my love."

I stopped.

You kept walking.

Three steps later, you realized I wasn't beside you anymore.

You turned.

"What?"

I was staring at you.

"What did you just call me?"

You blinked.

"What?"

"Just now."

"Babe?"

"No."

"Sable?"

"No."

"Former caravan guard with severe hotel-related paranoia?"

I narrowed my eyes.

Your mouth twitched.

Then I knew.

You knew exactly what you'd done.

I walked toward you.

Slowly.

You began backing away.

"Now, babe—"

"You did the voice."

"What voice?"

"Her voice."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Ravyn."

"Maybe it slipped out."

"Like ást mín?"

Your mouth twitched again.

"Possibly."

"You said you wouldn't."

"I said I wouldn't dream of it."

"You just did it."

"I was awake."

There was a beat.

Then you broke.

You laughed so hard you had to grab the wall.

I shoved the Jersey Devil plushie into your chest.

"You bastard."

Between laughs, you managed:

"She really liked you!"

"She had screws!"

"Forty-three!"

"Exactly!"

You raised the plushie between us.

Then, in an absurdly deep imitation of Ramon's voice:

"My love..."

I lunged.

You ran.

Two grown adults tore through one of the last functioning luxury resorts in post-apocalyptic Appalachia while one of them carried a deformed Jersey Devil plushie above his head.

Our footsteps hammered across the polished marble floor, much louder than either of us seemed to realize.

“GET BACK HERE!”

“YOU’LL NEVER TAKE ME ALIVE!”

“GIVE ME THE PLUSHIE!”

“HE CHOSE ME!”

“HE DID NOT CHOOSE YOU!”

Our voices dropped whenever we passed other people, but apparently neither of us understood the meaning of quiet. The argument merely became a furious stage whisper that carried just as effectively through the open halls.

“Give him back.”

“No.”

“Ravyn.”

“My love.”

“I swear to God—”

I lunged again.

You dodged around a decorative table and clipped it with your hip.

A vase wobbled.

Both of us froze.

You caught it with one hand just before it tipped over.

Silence.

You carefully set it upright.

I stared at you.

You stared at me.

“Still alive,” you whispered.

“Keep running.”

You ran.

A Responders woman flattened herself against the wall as we came past. She watched us disappear down the corridor, shook her head slowly, and rolled her eyes with the weary patience of someone who had seen considerably worse things survive the apocalypse.

Then the corner of her mouth lifted.

Just a little.

"Sorry!" you shouted.

"I'm not!" I shouted.

We made it around the corner before you slipped slightly on the polished floor.

I caught your jacket.

You twisted.

Suddenly we were both laughing, pressed against the wall, trying desperately not to attract even more attention.

"You," I whispered, breathless, "are an idiot."

You looked at me.

"Your idiot."

My smile faded.

Just a little.

Because you do that sometimes.

You hide something real inside a joke and wait to see whether I notice.

I always notice.

I stepped closer.

"Yeah."

My fingers curled into the front of your jacket.

"My idiot."

Then I kissed you.

Not dramatically.

Not like one of those ridiculous pre-war movies.

Just slowly.

Warmly.

The kind of kiss that says I'm here.

When we separated, you rested your forehead against mine.

For several seconds, the Whitespring disappeared.

No Responders.

No Raiders.

No Brotherhood.

No Scorched.

No Pura Grid.

No old ghosts.

Just us.

You whispered, "Love you."

I touched your cheek.

「愛してる。」

Aishiteru.

"I love you too."

Something squeaked between us.

We looked down.

The Jersey Devil was crushed between our chests.

SQUEAK.

Silence.

Then you whispered:

"He disapproves."

I lost it.

I buried my face against your shoulder, laughing.

"You asshole."

---

Somehow, despite everything, we eventually finished shopping.

Coffee.

Cooking oil.

The heating coil.

A fuse.

More screws.

You also acquired THING FOR CHARLIE while I wasn't looking and buried it near the bottom of the supply bag before I could investigate.

I considered searching the bag.

You threatened to hide it somewhere in Jettyroot until Christmas.

It was October.

I decided you were bluffing.

Mostly.

We found somewhere quieter near one of the windows.

Rain had started outside.

Appalachia stretched beyond the glass, green and gray beneath the clouds.

You sat beside me.

Our shoulders touched.

The Jersey Devil sat between us.

We had named him Savyn.

That was Sable + Ravyn, and because the little thing needed "saving."

This decision had taken approximately four seconds and involved absolutely no consultation with any known baby names book this side of the wasteland.

You handed me a cup of coffee.

I took a sip.

"Badger Black is better."

"Obviously."

"But this isn't terrible."

"High praise."

I looked outside.

Somewhere beyond those hills was Jettyroot.

Our ridiculous little home.

The diner.

The river.

The broken jetty.

The waiting shed.

Mr. Saxolotl.

K'hraal probably occupying something he had specifically been told not to occupy.

And Charlie behind his counter, wearing that painted smile.

Waiting.

I picked up Savyn.

"We should get going."

You nodded.

"Charlie'll be wondering where we are."

"Charlie always looks like he's wondering where we are."

"He worries."

"He's an animatronic clown."

"With feelings."

I sighed.

"We've had this argument."

"And I won."

"You declared yourself the winner."

"Same thing."

We stood.

You took the supply bag.

I carried Savyn.

At the Refuge entrance, the doors opened and cool Appalachian air rolled over us.

The rain had softened.

You stopped beneath the awning.

"What?"

You looked at Savyn under my arm.

Then at me.

"Nothing."

"Ravyn."

"I'm just glad you like him."

I looked down at the crooked little creature.

Then back at you.

"I don't."

"Of course not."

"He's hideous."

"Absolutely."

"His proportions are anatomically offensive."

"Tragic."

"One leg is shorter."

"Devastating."

I hugged him against my chest.

You smiled.

I pointed threateningly at you.

"Not. One. Word."

You mimed locking your lips.

We started down the steps together.

For perhaps ten meters, you behaved yourself.

Then, very quietly—

"Ast min?"

I stopped.

You ran.

"Oh, you motherfucker—"

Your laughter carried across the Whitespring grounds.

I chased you into the rain, Savyn tucked securely under one arm.

And for a little while, Appalachia wasn't the end of the world.

It was just the place where we lived.

And somewhere beyond those wet green hills was a broken jetty, a pot of Badger Black, an emotionally complicated animatronic clown—

and home.