Matthew Tysz - The Last City of America

Vegas.

There were pictures of it all around, taken during better days and nights. They showed great beauty. And great stupidity. Gambling. Prostitution. Uninhibited drinking. Waste. Ridiculous waste.

A table full of portable air conditioners were just enough to bring the hotel room down to a bearable temperature.

He let his army make camp in whatever comfortable part of the city they could find. “If you can find one.” When he found out that many of them were looting, he told them to make sure it didn’t slow them down. “Don’t let this city’s stupidity take hold of you,” he said to them. And to one small squad, “that mannequin stays.”

Harold had been in Vegas for a few days when he was given the news that Chicago’s army had surfaced, and that Roger and his brother were preparing to move out and meet them. Harold was to follow. He was to send his men into the heart of the black army, where they would take the full force of the enemy while Francis and Roger attacked from the sides.

Did this bother Harold? No. Not really. He wanted it to bother him. Sort of. Maybe it sort of did. He wasn’t sure. It could just as easily have been Francis or Roger’s men… But Harold hadn’t seen their faces, and they hadn’t heard his voice, hadn’t obeyed his every command.

Harold pulled a kettle from his hotplate on the counter, poured a cup. There were other things to worry about.

“Sir,” an adviser came to Harold, who was looking through a window at the city in twilight. “Lord Mercado is online. He wants to speak with you.”

Harold took a sip. “The fascist or the faggot?”

“Er—Lord Roger, sir.”

Harold put the tea on the windowsill and walked into the sitting room. A laptop was set for him on the coffee table. He sat on the couch in front of Roger’s overtly serious mug, crossed his legs. “Your bidding, highness?”

“Did you get my letter?” said Roger.

Harold took a folded sheet of paper from his pocket, waved it in front of the screen. “You want me to throw my army into theirs and let you and your brother clean up the mess.”

“I’m not trying to throw you under the bus.”

“Just my men.”

“Harold, you have a talent for commanding men and I respect it. But you don’t have experience. One of us has to be the one to just send his men in and do nothing else. That has to be you. It’s the most effective way we can destroy that army before it reaches California.”

Harold set the paper down. Stared at it. Why did killing have to bother him now, of all times? He looked at Roger. “We’re looking too closely at his army. He has other things out there.”

“Not as big as that army,” said Roger.

Harold straightened his legs, leaned forward. “Size won’t matter if our cities remain undefended.”

Roger turned his head up to look at someone. Harold couldn’t hear what that person was saying. Roger looked back at Harold. “We can defend our cities in time if we defeat Grakus fast.”

“ You can,” Harold raised his voice. “You’ll still have an army to defend with.”

Roger laced his fingers. “If you don’t help us, Harold, I won’t have an army either. Neither will Francis. Neither will you before long. You have my word that the West will protect you but I need you now in order to do that.”

Harold sat back, looked down. “I don’t have a choice.”

“From a logical standpoint, you do not,” said Roger. “And I know you are a logical man.” The connection was closed. One of Harold’s men came to remove the laptop.

“Do we move out in the morning, my lord?”

Harold shook his head. He already made his decision. Why let it linger any longer? “We move out now.”

It was late at night while mothers wiped the dust from their bibles and prayed for the return of their sons, while young women looked to the stars and asked whatever spirits flew among them to protect their lovers, while Aden Mesa fell to his knees outside the Crown for the safety of his baby girl.

Most of these people didn’t know how to pray. They turned their minds to an awkward, silent frequency and uttered to themselves, to God, to whomever, what was on their minds. What they wanted. What they needed.

I could never find it inside me to commit fully to you… He said in his heart on his knees outside the Crown. To keep you in my thoughts… to put you before everything… to accept your will when it’s not mine… I just couldn’t. But if my wife’s devotion to you can’t make up for my failure, then please protect her child. She loved her so much. And she loved her people. Please protect us. I can’t pretend I have anything to offer you in return. I come to you in desperation, as so many do. And when I’m satisfied, I’ll surely forget you once again. Because I’m a fool. And I have nothing… Please, God, there is no reason I can give for you to save us. Can’t you find one for me? Just one? Do we never make you smile, even in our foolishness?

His meditation was broken by the sound of thunder. But there were no clouds. He stood. He walked around the grand structure, along the railing of its high foundation, to watch the storm arriving from the north. But he saw no lightning as he came around. He saw fire. The distant suburbs on the outskirts of Baltimore were exploding, and the explosions were reaching further into the city. Everything in its path became an ocean of flame.

As the burning city lit his face, an acceptance came over Aden. He acknowledged what was happening. He figured out why. And he knew right away what to do.

He ran into the Crown. The darkened interior of the massive lobby was lit through the glass by the rising flames. The few night staffers were already running out. Aden ran to the cabinet elevator—it would take him right outside the skylord’s office.

The elevator rose. Its glass walls showcased the flames barely two miles away and closing fast. They were higher than the Crown and growing brighter. Baltimore’s jets were swarming at Chicago’s bombers. Chicago’s jets were swarming back. The bombers pressed on undisturbed. The city lights went out. The elevator went dark, slowed to a stop.

For a moment, Aden felt like he was frozen in time, that the only thing allowed to move were the flames. Waves of light glared against his face.

The Crown’s generators activated, and the elevator moved again. It reached the top and Aden ran into the hall, through the doors of his son-in-law’s office and to his desk. He found the city intercom.

“Baltimore,” he said slowly and deeply. “This is Aden Mesa. Go to the sewers. Go to the sewers and follow the orange line. They will take you out of the city, and I will find you. Help each other, and we will survive this night. Move quickly!”

He repeated the message five times. The fire had nearly reached the Crown. Nearly all the city was covered in it. There were many good people out there who couldn’t hear him. But most of the city was educated in escape plans.

He ran back to the elevator, slammed the button with his fist. Descended. The flames were far above his head. They were all he could see. His skin grew hot. He slammed the button again and again. The flames became brighter. The shaft hotter.

Aden was thrown against his back to the floor as the building rumbled. He looked outside. A black jet flew from the flames, passing the Crown. A missile slammed against the building high above him and exploded. The fire rushed down. The elevator dropped. It slammed against the lobby floor. The glass shattered around him. He was dazed.

He crawled across the glass, half-noticing the pain in his back and his skin against the glass. There was more crashing above his head as the building fell apart. He crawled across the lobby. Bleeding. He looked at the door. He tried to crawl faster. He started to notice the pain. His city needed him. The crashing became louder.