Matthew Tysz - The Last City of America

“Pass the soap.”

Adrian reached for the bar without thinking, handed it to Francis, who started washing his hands. It seemed like he was doing the same thing Adrian was.

When he really thought about it, the only thing he disliked about Francis was that Francis disliked him. What was there aside from that? Francis was honorable and it showed in every manner of his appearance—from his thoughtful expression and steadfast posture down to the way he wore his clothes. The man hungered for a better world, and the hunger showed in his eyes. He knew in what direction he was facing. Anyone could tell, just by looking at Francis Mercado, that he was a great leader, and a great man.

“I want to create a world where everyone can make their own path to happiness,” the words seemed to come from nowhere. “Where there’s a place for every desire. Where success can come from being true to yourself. How do I accomplish this?”

Adrian looked around. He presumed Francis was talking to him, but he couldn’t be sure. The words fell on every tile in the room.

“You can’t,” said Adrian into the sink. “It takes the world to choose how the world should be.”

The sink didn’t respond, but after another minute of washing, something did.

“How did you become friends with Del Meethia?”

Adrian began to wash his face again. “He saved my life.”

The response was immediate. “He did that for himself.” Francis didn’t have his hands in the sink anymore. In fact, Adrian could see on the edge of his vision that Francis was facing him now.

Adrian took a towel and dried his face. He leaned on the sink and looked at the mirror. “People love telling me that. But they never seem to understand, or even try to understand my answer. Let me give it one more try.” He took his hands off the sink and faced Francis. “My parents gave me life because they wanted happiness. But as they got to know me, it was me they wanted happiness for. Harold gave my life back for his own sake. But he took responsibility for me as any father would.”

Francis crossed his arms and leaned forward. “And we should start a war for the sake of this man?”

“No,” said Adrian. “But we shouldn’t turn away from him for the sake of ourselves.”

The two men stared at each other in silence for a long time—Francis leaning toward Adrian, Adrian standing straight, his hands in his pockets.

Francis leaned back. His expression changed, completely rid of pompousness, replaced with curiosity, even wonder. “Did you mean to kill all those people?”

“No,” Adrian looked at the floor, closed his eyes. “But I did mean to kill their skylord. So it doesn’t matter. I chose murder. And murder came. One. One million. The number doesn’t matter. Murder is murder.” He waited for a reply, but Francis just stared coldly. Adrian couldn’t tell if he was withholding a response or trying to think of one.

Adrian sighed and left the bathroom. Francis followed. They crossed the now empty lobby toward the large doors.

All the politicians and VIPs were gathered in the courtroom, but they weren’t seated, weren’t talking. They looked far more serious now than they did in the lobby. They were looking at the large screen above the governor’s desk. A news anchor was speaking from a sheet of paper in her hand. The sheet was trembling.

“California Broadcast has been instructed to inform America that the following announcement is to take effect as soon as the world has seen it. California Broadcast has worked in conjunction with Eastern Eye to warn the American People. God help us.”

Adrian came and stood by Harold as the face of Grakus filled the screen above them.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” said Grakus with a charming flick of the brows. “Skytakers and Shadowpastors. Tribals and Mercenaries. Young and old. Rich and poor. Black and white. America,” There was absolute silence between every resonating sentence. “Four score and seventeen years ago, our world changed. The chaos of overpopulation ended, and the individual was recognized. Each of us was given the opportunity to find happiness on our own path, to help one another find their happiness, to heal the wounds of the past. We have tried to live in peace, but you wouldn’t allow it.” His expression changed, darkened. “All this world needed was someone to be good to it. But you were all too busy for compassion. Too insecure for love. And now, my tolerance is spent. The time has come. You want Chaos. You shall have it. I have already ensured that the Wizard of Seattle will never terrorize the world again. Now, for the sake of my people—for the future of their children—I hereby declare war on the city of Sacramento… On the city of Los Angeles… On the city of San Francisco… On the city of Baltimore. They say Hephaestus was the apocalypse…” A brow slowly rose. “I am the apocalypse.”

The signal was lost, and the assembly hall was filled with a faint hum from the screen. Everyone stared at it. Then they started looking to one another, as though for answers. But the only words uttered came from the governor.

“Skylords,” Karen stood from her chair. “I am prepared to begin the coordination of war. Are you prepared to follow me, or will you return to your cities and wait it out?”

Adrian stepped forward. “If you would lead us to victory, your honor, my wife and I will gladly follow your command.”

“Lord Harold and I are ready,” said Roger.

Karen turned to Francis. Francis looked back at her and there was silence.

Julian stepped forward. “Your honor. The army of Los Angeles is ready to accept your orders.”

Francis did not resist.

“All skylords and their officials will remain in this building as we plan,” said Karen. “Contact your armies. Let them know we are at war.”

Peace was a fantasy—an outdated one at that—an ancient ideology nurtured in the diplomatic era between the end of World War II and the outbreak of Hephaestus. Now was the age of realism. Peace, like perfection, had become an arbitrary goal. Men like Roger were the strength; men like Francis served as quaint reminders of the past—when war was at least contained in places that didn’t matter.

He really thought he could change them. Maybe their stubbornness was well placed. Maybe peace truly was as far away as Heaven.

The map sat on a table before the leaders of the world. The scientist cast a shadow over it, his shoulders darkening the country from sea to shining sea. His fingers slid over every road, tracing every border, his head rising to those around him, one after the other, drawing them in.

Maybe he was right as well.

“Grakus is going to use the Unity Link to advance his army undetected,” the scientist asserted, his head scanning the faces around him. “I don’t know where all the westbound lines end, but I know they don’t come close to the California border. Protect it. When his army rises, we’ll find it. The biggest obstacle is that until the army surfaces in the west, we won’t know it ever left Chicago. Baltimore won’t be able to lay siege on the city until we do.”

It wasn’t the fighting that Francis read in Del Meethia’s casual exposition. It wasn’t a simple battle or even a war. It was the children wandering in darkness, tears dried on their faces, swearing vengeance in blood to their murdered parents. It was the cycle. It was eternity.

Then Del Meethia’s finger landed on Pittsburgh—the only place in the country not involved in this war. “Grakus is getting all his metal from somewhere,” he said, once again making eye contact with those around him. “Pittsburgh wasn’t on his hit list.”

“Pittsburgh is defenseless …” Francis felt the words fly out of his throat more powerfully than he intended. He closed his eyes, took a breath. “Why wouldn’t Grakus be protecting them if you’re right?”