Matthew Tysz - The Last City of America

Angela found the highest mound of rubble near the camp and looked through binoculars at the skyline of Chicago. The wall was solid black. She was still too far to see anything on it, but she knew it was lined with skilled snipers and backed by more than a hundred howitzers. And she could only assume those howitzers had enough ammunition on hand to shell the land for days. Maybe weeks. She lowered the binoculars.

The sky was black over Chicago and its ruined, empty lands. The air was dry. Thunder lit small parts of it in the distance. Too far to be heard, but bright and beautiful in the blackness that surrounded it.

One of her captains joined her on the mound. “Commander,” he said. “We’re out of options. We have to advance now.”

“We’ll lose control of our ranks if we don’t scout the area,” said Angela.

“We sent a squad two hours ago, ma’am. They were attacked by snipers from over a mile away. They already lost six men and the seven left are pinned in the rubble. I understand you, and in any other situation I’d agree. But taking our time is not an option now.”

Her head was already facing the horizon when a stream of aircraft rose from Chicago into the black clouds above it. Her eyes focused on them. They were flying in the other direction.

“They want us to think they’re flying away from us,” said the captain.

“They are,” said Angela, calm as her heart imploded. “They’re going to Baltimore.”

Both Angela and her captain watched the many planes leave the city. He put his hand on her shoulder. “My lady. We have to move. Please.”

Angela took her head from the sky, closed her eyes, and nodded.

One of the few good things about California Broadcast was their upkeep of communications, of which they allowed everyone to partake.

Roger’s army was camped in Reno’s airport; he occupied a control tower with his guards and staff. Through the fuzzy reception of a webcam, he spoke with his brother.

“We stand our ground,” said Francis. “Let Chicago tire themselves out before they reach us.”

“We can’t outflank them if we let them make all the moves,” Roger was leaning back in his chair, trying to balance a ruler on his pen. “We should roll now. Bring your force out to their right flank. I’ll bring mine to the left. Harold will drive his army through their center. If we catch them by surprise, they won’t even have the chance to use their artillery.”

Francis glared at him through the screen. “Neither will we.”

Roger put down his toys and leaned forward. “Two sides recklessly blowing matter out of cannons is no different than the two sides of a coin. Only strategy brings assurance.”

“Well I can assure you that your strategy will kill us all if Del Meethia shows up a second late.”

Roger leaned back again. What his brother said, he already knew. “He’ll be there.”

He had contacted the Pittsburgh authorities ahead of time. The secretary of commons ardently denied involvement with Chicago, and welcomed Skylord Velys to search for evidence to the contrary. “But surely your time is better spent protecting your people, my lord?”

The secretary was right. And the investigation would not take long.

Adrian’s limo was accompanied by six armored trucks, each filled with a Baltimore SWAT unit. They took Penn Lincoln Parkway into the city of steel. It was maybe eight-thirty, nine o’clock at night.

In most of the other cities, many of the skyscrapers were still used as they were in the old days: for business, trade, administration. In Pittsburgh, the metropolitan area seemed mostly residential. There were no suits with briefcases striding across the sidewalks as in Manhattan and Baltimore. Just people in torn work clothes, dirty, run down. He saw Chicago and Long Island in these people.

“Pittsburgh reflects a more traditional time in recent human history,” one of Adrian’s advisers mentioned. “Men work. Women tend to the home. Boys learn from their fathers, girls from their mothers. And all bow to the industry.”

Traditional. Adrian turned his head back to the window. What aspect of it? The oppression, the fear, the rationed food, the endless hours of shit-paid labor? The disregard for life, the destruction of worlds? Which of these could have been a part of the world before Hephaestus?

The vehicles crossed a bridge leaving the urban jungle, landing on the lavish property of Allegheny Palace. Water shot from the ground across the massive lawn. Adrian hadn’t seen a working sprinkler since he was ten. It looked like there were hundreds in this place.

The main road turned into a small street that passed across the property, the sea of sprinklers now on either side of him. Sometimes they splashed water against his window. He couldn’t stop himself from smiling at it.

They came to a circular driveway before the estate. Two large wooden doors and stained glass windows stood over them. Before the vehicles had come to a stop, those doors opened. Servants emerged, stepped briskly down the steps and lined up along the side of the driveway with trays of food and drink. Then came Skylord Larson, a big man in the doorway.

Adrian stepped out of the car before the stairs. He bowed his head. “Skylord Larson.”

The Pittsburgh skylord lifted him in a bear hug. “All the skylords call me Dale!” Upon release, he started picking random things off the nearest plate, grabbed a glass of champagne. “Eat something! Have a drink! My police officers don’t have to be sober to carry on an investigation, why should you!”

Adrian took a glass, took a sip. The soldiers stood solid. The scene was awkward, but Larson immediately led them into his home.

“Forgive the décor,” said Larson as they passed through a hall filled with black and white photographs of factories, steelyards and miners. “This must be very bland for visionaries like men of Baltimore. Simple Pittsburgh has always been about steel. A humble role. But pivotal.”

Larson went on about Pittsburgh, its people and its history… its laws… its traditions… Adrian was sure they passed through the same hall at least six times. Out of politeness, he followed along. As he did, he observed.

Larson didn’t seem in the least bit nervous as he guided the well-known mass murderer on a tour through his home. There was nothing but welcome.

Pittsburgh’s only army was its law enforcement, which would have fallen to the tribals had the city been located a few hundred miles west. Adrian’s task force should have been more than enough to sack the palace if it came to violence. He kept the thought out of his mind. Even if Larson were hiding something, what would it be? Where would it be? With a low voice, Larson still carrying on, Adrian asked these things to his adviser.

“There is a way, my lord,” his adviser whispered back. “If they are supplying Chicago, we’ll know by the train station. They haven’t been shipping to Baltimore or Manhattan. So if there is any activity in the station at all, we’ll see what Larson has to say about it.”

It really was no wonder humanity had pulled itself apart: they were stupid. And this proved it.

Who would ever build a city here? Of all the places in America, here? It was the first city to go vacant after the founding began. It was almost empty even before that. There was no one left to freight supplies across the desert, surprise surprise. And they barely had enough people employed to manage water distribution. What a mess. And this, of course, was where Harold was stationed—the city that had been rotting longer than any other, the most nonsensical municipality on the planet.