Matthew Tysz - The Last City of America

Morgan wasn’t a morning man himself; he never reached his peak until the sun went back down. But Adam never gave himself a break, he’d just… talk. And talk. And when Morgan wouldn’t talk, Adam would ask him something, like if he was scared. A lecture was probably waiting on the other end of whatever answer Morgan gave, so he ignored him.

Rats passed beneath their feet as the two men came to the end of an alleyway that opened to the sight of the LIM. They crawled from all directions toward it, just like the people did. Morgan stood still and watched them, the people and the rats.

Adam touched him on the shoulder. “You scared?”

Morgan stomped on one of the rats. He wiped its guts from his boot onto the road.

Adam grimaced, then smiled wryly. “Why that one?”

Morgan looked at him. “Why not?”

Adam shrugged.

They started across the pavement. A gull came down to rest on what remained of a chain-link fence. It flew away as a man with a colorful, puffy jacket rode in on a bicycle. Morgan watched the wheels crush small boxes and cans as they held balance toward the store.

Adam started talking again. “We’ll get the essentials first, then worry about the minor stuff. My parents would really like some coffee back in the building.”

“Are you kidding me?” Morgan’s first display of emotion since the two met. “A can of coffee takes up half the basket.”

“Well, like I said, man, we’ll see what we have when we’re done.”

“Any room I have left goes to more food. I’m not turning one trip into two because mommy and daddy want a cup of coffee.”

Adam’s face changed. Now he looked like a man prepared to defend himself, but not wanting to. “It makes things easier on everyone.”

Morgan stopped as they came to the entrance. He looked Adam sharply in his eyes. “And food makes everyone live. Which do you prefer?”

Adam frowned, turned his head down, avoiding argument. Morgan led him inside, walking fast. Adam rushed to catch up so that they could be side-by-side when they reached the courtesy counter. When they did, they saw that the associate who should have been standing there was behind it—on the floor—selling food to a woman in exchange for a service. The woman was silent and humiliated, the associate uninterested in discretion.

Morgan stood still, watching them. Adam tried to avoid the sight, almost as disgusted and embarrassed as the whore beneath them.

It wasn’t unbearably long before the transaction was complete and the associate withdrew from his half-naked partner, who grabbed her purse and stumbled to her feet.

“Ginger cunt,” the associate growled.

Clutching her purse to her chest with one arm and holding up her torn pants with the other, the woman scurried out. The associate put his hands on the counter before his two customers. Morgan and Adam presented their permits, and the baskets were distributed.

“Thank you,” said Morgan.

Adam said nothing.

They walked shoulder-to-shoulder through the darkness of the LIM, their path illuminated in some spots by a lit sign or that every-so-often working light. They held a tall posture but were startled by the slightest sounds. Adam jumped to a gunshot that rattled the shelves from the other side of the store. They kept walking.

They came to the cereal aisle. Adam’s eyes lit up when he spotted a box of corn flakes. He turned the box over to check the expiration date. His expression deflated.

One aisle over, and the two were surrounded by cans. They began the search. Morgan took the opposite side as Adam to hasten the search, but then Adam came and followed him. Morgan grimaced but he didn’t feel like arguing again.

When they were halfway through, having found only one tiny jar of tomato paste, a woman entered the aisle with items in her arms. She stood straight, head up, like they were. Then a little girl with a big, pretty dress walked in behind her. The woman turned quickly and knelt beside the girl. She began to store the small bit of items she held into her daughter’s big dress.

Adam left his place beside Morgan, approached them, looking out for the associates. He set his basket to the floor and knelt. “They’ll kill you both if they catch you.”

“Then my baby will die quickly,” the mother calmly and matter-of-factly replied. “I won’t watch her starve.”

Adam paused, looked around. He took his jar of paste out of the basket and snuck it into the girl’s dress. The aisle became darker when he finished. An associate guard was standing over them, his rifle pointed at Adam.

“So what’s going on here?” the way the guard asked, it sounded like he already knew.

Adam stood slowly. His demeanor changed. His eyebrows rose casually as he looked the guard in the eyes. He smiled with half of his mouth and said, “Hundred bucks to touch her kid. Pretty little piece o’ toddler, aint she?”

At first, the guard seemed disgusted. But then he just turned away, shaking his head, chuckling.

Adam slipped the woman, still on her knees, a hundred dollars, and rejoined Morgan, glancing at him as though for a reaction. But Morgan gave him nothing; that was a stupid fucking thing to do, and he would not encourage it.

The search through the aisle marked “CANS” yielded nothing after that jar of paste. It was unusual. Everyone knew the LIM was not a buffet. Still, just one can? So early in the day?

A few full boxes came out of the snack aisle, and they found a can of chopped meat there. Adam was overjoyed as he laced his fingers around it, his smile beaming in that dark place. But they had nearly exhausted their options and their carts weren’t nearly full.

“How is this possible?” said Morgan. “It can’t be like this every day.”

“Every once in a while,” said Adam. “But look at it this way… at least there’s room for coffee.” He smiled sweetly. Again, Morgan gave him nothing.

They started in the direction of camping supplies for one final shot at food, cutting through the furniture department: collapsed sofas stained black with dirt, splintered tables covered in dust, crooked shelves adorned with empty beer cans. The only thing anybody got from the LIM’s furniture department was a joke about actually buying something from it. The only ones who ever used it were the associates on break. A guard was sitting on it now, a gun pointed loosely at two people: a man and a woman, on their knees in front of him. Morgan and Adam stopped. The kneeling pair were throwing money onto the floor.

The guard finished what was left of his beer and stood up. He dropped the gun midway between himself and the kneeling man. “You’re not gonna take a stand for your woman? If you’re fast enough, you can shoot me before I even pull my rifle out.”

The kneeling man looked away from the gun. He was crying.

“Are you always so afraid?” the guard walked over to the kneeling woman. “Even when you leave this place?” He yanked her by the hair, making her face the ceiling. “I hear you people hide under the bed when you fuck.”

Morgan turned his head to Adam’s as the guard played with the woman’s hair. “Where’s your chivalry now?”

Adam stammered. “What do you expect me to do?”

Morgan stepped forward. Adam tried to stop him, grabbed Morgan’s jacket and pleading in a hushed but desperate tone. It was too late; Morgan was already there.

Adam retreated.

The guard turned.

Morgan threw his fist against the guard’s face. He felt a crack. The guard fell to the floor. Morgan turned to the kneeling couple. “Get out of here, cowards.” He picked up the pistol as the two crawled and scattered away. He put it in his belt.

Adam ran up to him, trying to keep quiet in a violent panic, looking all around for witnesses. “Someone could have been watching!”