Matthew Tysz - The Last City of America

A retired vet, three street thugs and a very large prostitute named Giselle came to protect and assist him as he led their people onward.

The subway let out to the view of a white city.

Since the Founding, Baltimore kept thousands employed maintaining this place. A quiet project. A station for the government and office for the leader had already been prepared. It was to be populated upon the curing of Hephaestus, or fled to in catastrophe. Most of his people had no idea where the evacuation route let out. The awe on their faces as they poured from darkness to the dawn showed they weren’t expecting this. Aden himself had not beheld it in a long time.

Long ago, it was known as Washington: a city designed in beauty around history.

Aden’s first priority was Brightwood, on the northern edge of town. There, he found the com station and made contact with his daughter. Both she and her husband were safe. Chicago and Pittsburgh had fallen. Those who remained were being gathered, and would arrive in the coming days.

So this was all that was left for all those left alive.

Aden looked out into the white city, watched as a hundred thousand Baltimore refugees poured in. Was there space for a hundred thousand more than that? He could only pray that what was needed would be provided.

He had the employees at the station put him on an emergency broadcast, reaching all televisions and radios of the people who have inhabited this city. He sat at a desk as the cameras fell on him. A countdown. He was on.

“This is Aden Mesa, former skylord of Baltimore.

“For fifty years, you have lived in this forgotten place, so that it would be livable when it had to be remembered. The children you made, had God been so gracious to you, have shared in your life’s work.

“This project came with distant intentions. Clearly, we were looking too far ahead. As you know, Baltimore is gone. As is every city of the East. As is Chicago. The survivors of this merciless destruction now become the beneficiaries of your service. Now is where the real work begins. Now is where I ask you, people of the newest city of America, to guide these people, and the many more to come, to new life.

“Your lord and lady will be arriving in days. Until then, I will coordinate the joining. I will be at the Capitol, where the refugees will be gathered to receive assignment for homes and jobs. The more I am informed as to what and where these are, the better I can help assign my people to them. Thank you for everything.”

The light of dawn seared through the smog, illuminating scattered trash and vacant tricycles.

The streetlights went out, and a woman’s voice filled every avenue. Her face filled every network. She looked battle-hardened and a little scary. But she was beautiful, and her voice was gentle.

“My name is Angela Velys. I am the lady of Baltimore. And I am the woman who led this occupation of your city. I don’t know how to say this… or how to make you understand it… but the host is gone, and he’s not coming back. Neither are his soldiers. Neither is his government. You’re free.”

People came out of their homes as the sunlight pushed harder through the blackness, opening the sky. The buildings turned yellow.

“I know that you’ve been in pain for so long. And no one came to help you. It wasn’t fair. And I’m sorry.”

The people looked at the clearing sky. At each other. At their hands.

“You can leave. You can stay. Start a family in a free world. But no one will return to bring order to this place. And I must leave to build a new home for my people. Come with me. We can make for ourselves a nation the old world could never make for us, one that the hosts could never make for you.”

People started moving in different directions. Everyone had their own place to go.

A nine-year-old girl without a name stepped out of her townhouse. All the nameless children she lived with were running past her. They disappeared into the city. Were they coming back? Sometimes they were mean to her, but she needed them. She was hungry. One of them was nice to her. He gave her a teddy bear. He disappeared too. Was he coming back? The streets were getting emptier. Would they be full again? Should she go with them? Should she wait for them to come back?

“For those who wish to follow me to my city, we will wait at the main road south of the city until nightfall. For those who will not be joining us, I hope you come to change your mind. If you do not, I wish you the best. Farewell.”

Most of the young left as fast as they could. They walked through the opening in the wall and scattered into the country. Some in groups, some on their own. Those with families left with lady Angela to live in peace with her people.

The elderly were the only ones who stayed. Many of them just set a chair in front of their homes, or on the rooftops. They watched the sun rise. Then they closed their eyes and dreamed.

From one of the great sandstones of monument Pass, he overlooked the desert. The road beneath him ran north east, into a horizon on which his enemy would soon be standing. Both armies, his and his brother’s, waited behind the pass.

Grakus had as many scouts as the West did. There was no hiding from him. But he wouldn’t know their plan to beat him until they emerged to reveal their formation.

Chicago was maybe a mile out of sight.

Roger looked to the neighboring sandstone. All he could see on it was the chopper. But he knew his brother was there, looking out onto the desert alongside him.

Jets flew over them. He looked to the sky. It was a beautiful morning. It brought memories of adolescence, when his brothers and friends would bring the camper into the Mojave to hunt, drink, party and explore. But it was even better at night. There was nothing so beautiful as a desert under the stars. He often wished Las Vegas held up through the Founding. Maybe after this was over, he would resurrect it.

His radio buzzed—one of his brother’s officers. “Can we confirm if that’s a sandstorm up ahead?”

Roger’s eyes came down from the sky to the horizon, where dust was rising. He felt the words escape:

“They’re here.”

The radio buzzed again. Francis this time. “No sandstorm. This is it, guys.”

He radioed his men on the other end of the rock. “Are there any signs of Lord Harold?”

“Not yet, sir.”

When they first arrived here late the previous night, Roger tried contacting Harold. Harold did not respond.

“Roge,” Francis over the radio again. “He’s not coming. We have to fall back.”

Roger knew since they arrived that they couldn’t retreat; Chicago had been too close even then and were moving fast. And the West had been marching in the desert for days.

Now, he would only consider retreat an option if he had Harold to fall back on. And he had no way of knowing where Harold was. All of his scouts were focused on Chicago.

He put the radio to his mouth. “If we flee now, Chicago chases us into the Black Mountains and wipes us out. When Harold shows up, we’ll adjust. We still have time.”

Francis didn’t respond. But Roger wanted him to. He would have given anything for an argument with his brother now. All he got was silence.

He looked out to Chicago.

Chicago artillery wasn’t firing yet. They were waiting to get just a little closer.

The dust grew thicker, higher.

Harold was a smart man. Maybe he traveled north from Vegas into the Colorado Plateau, avoiding Chicago’s scouts. He could have been moving out of Glen Canyon right now. He could have been closer than the enemy. He was just waiting for the perfect moment. Harold was a smart man.

The blackness of the army spread beneath the sandstorm. There were so many.