Matthew Tysz - The Last City of America

“How does it feel! How does it feel! How does it feel!”

“How does what feel?”

The chanting ended. The prisoner’s head rose slowly, his mad eyes into Harold’s. “You killed my mother. And my brothers. And my wife. Now your home is gone and your people are dead. How does it feel?”

“Son,” Harold came to his knees. “How stupid do you think I can possibly be? San Francisco’s been empty for days. My people are miles on their way to a new home. This attack accomplished nothing.”

Violence left the young soldier’s eyes. He lowered his head once again and wept.

“My lord,” Harold’s general called. “Are we moving out?”

Harold stood, faced him. “Catch up with our people. Guide them safely east. Then you will pledge these men in my name to the lordship of Adrian Velys.”

The general nodded. “What about you, my lord?”

One of the men pulled up in Harold’s red convertible, stepped out.

Harold stepped in. He found his duffel bag beneath the passenger’s seat. He brought it up top. “To collect my pension.”

For many years, the city lie, waiting for the chance to save the country it once served as its capitol. Now, Obadiah was the capitol of the world.

Thousands appeared daily, answering the wide-reaching broadcast of Obadiah Radio, following the signs set up across the country by Angela’s mercenaries.

Many of these thousands were what remained of the tribals and mercs, tired of the endless wars they were forced to wage on one another. Many were wanderers lost in change, stuck in the past, looking for a future.

All were given a home in Obadiah, and there were many houses and apartments left to fill. Everyone was fed, and there was enough food in supply to last the winter. Jobs were being handed out—health, education and safety to start. Many volunteers were recruited to interview these people.

All of this, and everything that had to do with the city infrastructure, was being conducted at the building called White House. As for the forming of the government itself, a mass of applicants were being interviewed in the rotunda of the Capitol for various positions under Adrian, who would be called lord.

From the perspective of the renewed government, it was a shaky start. It seemed that at any second, something could go catastrophically wrong. But it wasn’t, and the nervousness soon turned to optimism. Factories were making noise. People were shopping. Children were playing in the streets. Officials worked tirelessly to make sure things continued this way, but everything just naturally seemed to be moving in the right direction.

Adrian sat with his hand on his chin, gazing into the tongues of flame in the massive fireplace.

It was a lavish abode on Capitol Hill: silk cushions, oak furniture, a grandfather clock, a tank filled with fish even Harold probably wouldn’t recognize. And that was just the living room.

Angela was next to him, scanning a binder of reports from her scouts across the country. Aden was at a small desk, reading the paper, jotting notes.

It seemed so perfect as to have been engineered by Heaven, and that Heaven’s work was finished. But Adrian couldn’t bring himself to that serenity. He didn’t share the optimism of his colleagues. He strained to figure out why.

The room was so quiet. Like all were waiting for bad news.

He stared deeper into the flames. They crackled loudly.

Maybe getting rid of Grakus was the easy part.

The phone rang.

Aden picked up.

“Mesa here… Oh, good evening, Giselle, how’s the… what do you mean…? When did this happen…? How bad is it…?”

Adrian looked over his shoulder at his father in-law. Aden looked back for a second, then down on the receiver.

“Alright… I’ll see to it. Thank you, Giselle.” Aden set the phone down, kept his hand and eyes on it.

“What happened?” Angela shut her binder.

Aden looked at Adrian, uttered, barely audible, “Turn on the news.”

Angela got up, reached for the television that hung on the wall above the fireplace.

Armed civilians were storming around the White House. They were screaming, firing into the windows and hammering their fists against the sky. Guards and police who were there when the fighting began had locked themselves inside the building with everybody else.

A news crew was beckoned onto the lawn by a stationary cluster of these troublemakers. The camera man asked them why they were doing this.

“Because the man who killed half my family wants to rule the other half,” one of the men cried. The others cheered. “Velys killed more people than all the hosts of Chicago combined!”

Another spoke up loudly, straight into the camera. “This is a call to the people of this city—all you Manhattanites who suffered, and the rest of you smart enough to know you’re next—Adrian Velys shouldn’t just be overthrown, he has to pay.”

Angela shut the television off.

Frustration only made him more ashamed. What right had he to be frustrated? What right had he to be afraid?

“We’ll surround the area,” said Aden. “They’ll tire eventually.”

“More will come,” said Adrian.

“There are always going to be people who despise their leader.”

“I murdered their children,” Adrian snapped back. “Is that not a good enough reason for you?”

Aden walked across the room, looked down on Adrian. “You fucked up and people are mad. Do what you can to rectify it and move on. This city doesn’t need a boy who pouts all day about the things he should and shouldn’t have done and neither does my daughter.” He turned to leave. “Deal with your mistakes like everybody else or get out.”

When Aden was gone, Adrian sat in silence with Angela until he felt her leave him too. And he was alone.

It was difficult to decide what to do. Her instinct was that staying to comfort him would have emasculated him or whatever. A lot of men seemed to undergo that phenomena, so she let him be.

Everything had to have a face. Every good thing, every bad thing. Somewhere down the line, man lost the ability to look inside himself. Or maybe it was that he never could. Religion lost its potency because of this.

So many lives could have been saved had Baltimore seen past Adrian’s hatred and reached out to him. Had she.

What happened to Manhattan was everybody’s fault. And what fascinated her the most was that not a drop of evil was required. All it took was an angry kid. And stupid people.

Angela stepped down the stairs of the front side of the Capitol, onto the plaza. She walked a path between two long rows of trees, yellow and red.

She was wearing her old leather suit. It had arrived as one of her last shipments from Battle Mountain. She only wore it on her motorcycle, which had turned to scrap when she was twenty. Something made her think she’d grown out of it. Something made her long to return to it. She had packed her .44. Force of habit. Plus it looked nice on the leather.

She reached the street. A merc was waiting for her—one of her personal guards—next to a motorcycle, handed her the key.

“Thanks, Mike,” she said.

“You sure you don’t need a wingman?”

She straddled the seat and put her helmet on. “You know me better than that.” She started the bike and shot forward.

She had forgotten what riding did for the mind. Every bad feeling laid to rest, every good feeling accelerated. For a time, she toured the city freely.

Children were usually finished with dinner and playing in the streets at this hour, drawing what little energy was left from the day. Street hockey, hopscotch, cycling. There was none of it now. She passed one small cluster of boys on a stoop. A woman came to herd them in.