Matthew Tysz - The Last City of America

And the world was still.

Aden dropped the microphones and fell to his knees, crying to the sky. “Is hatred so convenient?

The world remained silent.

“We tell ourselves one more death and we can relax.” In tears, Aden started laughing. “Is it in our nature to want just one more of what we never needed? If one more person dies today, this city falls. And all of this has been for nothing.”

A roaring wind came over the plaza. Black flames burst on the top of the stairs, next to Aden. The flames faded, and in their place stood Grakus, looking down over the people.

“Hold your applause,” the former host uttered somberly. But his voice somehow carried in echoes over the crowd. “You know who I am. And so do they,” he swept his hand across the Manhattanites. “They knew who I was when I promised them vengeance. They knew who I was as I helped them organize this revolt that has already killed, raped, orphaned and crippled thousands. Including your lord.”

As Grakus’s voice echoed in that unnatural way, the words themselves changed, split. So faintly. Aden could hear a completely different speech delivered to the Manhattanites.

“You really are fools,” he was saying to them. “It was all of them who took your home and families from you. Not a single boy. It is all of them. And now you allow them to put you to shame. Now you would surrender to their dominion, let them charge you for this crime for generations onward…”

And then to the rest of the city, “Do you allow this man to explain himself to these murderers on your behalf?”

Still on his knees, Aden called, “You all know this man to be evil, but he is not the cause of any of this. Not the virus, not the war. How much longer will we act without a single moment to wonder why?”

“You can end generations of conflict this very hour,” said Grakus to both the Manhattanites and the world. “Or would you prefer your grandchildren end it for you?”

Aden felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned, looking up. Standing at his side was Martin, the oldest man he knew, who spent the last ten years of his life in bed, who had somehow found the strength to rise and be here.

“Don’t look so confused,” Martin smiled down on Aden. “I’ve long outlasted my expiration date to witness this moment through human eyes.”

“Don’t look so excited,” Grakus was grimacing at Martin. He turned to the massive, growing crowd. “Look what they’ve done to your lord—a boy of twenty-five!”

A black and red cloud formed over Grakus, flashing terrible images.

“Look at what dreams were destroyed in the hearts of these Long Islanders who were beaten and raped every day by the oppression of Manhattan!”

Women shielded their children’s eyes as the images grew more and more savage.

“Look at what the skylord of Manhattan did to your lord before his people finished the job!”

Aden was so tired he could barely hold himself up if he tried to stand. He had lost so much in such a short time, and the feeling of losing a lot more was growing stronger by the second. On his knees, he called out, “Look at what was done everywhere! In Chicago, in the West, Hephaestus, the Wizard of Seattle, the hosts of Chicago, the oppression of the shadowpastors, the devastation wrought by fear and foolishness. Look at the torment in your own lives. No one man, nor a thousand men are responsible for all of this. We all played our part. And we can all end it. We can show history how conflict truly dies.”

Grakus called, “This is your chance to found a new world in justice!”

Then there came a heavy silence. The place felt empty. But they were there. Aden was looking at his knees which were sore against the stone. The feeling of everyone losing everything was stronger at that moment than it was when he watched them destroy Baltimore. And the silence was hellish.

Somewhere out in the plaza, something hit the pavement. Something metal.

Aden gasped the freshest breath he’d known in a long time. He knew what that sound was. Grakus knew also as his countenance fell—everything he worked for, everything for which he had given so much was now lost. All of it was written in his face. With sadistic satisfaction, Aden would remember that face for the rest of his life.

Grakus uttered bitterly, “You are nothing without your shepherds.”

Then another metal thing dropped. Then another. And another. Then, on the edge of the once angry crowd that surrounded the Manhattanites, a man dropped his gun onto the ground. The two men next to him did the same. Then everyone along the front line did the same.

Looking around, relieved to tears, the Manhattanites followed.

“We have been asked to make a decision on this day,” said Martin into Aden’s ear. “And we’ve made it.”

The hill was filled with the sound of weapons dashing on the stone. Not a single shot was heard anywhere else in the city. The smoke began to clear.

In silence, Grakus bowed his head and disappeared.

Aden stood. He didn’t know where exactly it began or what had triggered it, but a dim cheer cut across the crowd. It spread. Soon all the people were celebrating, embracing. Relieved. Proud.

Aden rose to his feet. “Now let’s clean up this mess, and rebuild in a new image. Let’s make of this city an example for all who remain to follow.”

Somewhere in the Capitol was a room filled with books and documents many years untouched.

All of them had been thrown from their shelves onto the floor.

In the corner, she brought her shaking hands to her face, suffocating on the rage.

They could have listened. They could have given him a chance. They had to kill.

Deep inside, that’s all men wanted. To be angry. And to take that anger out on someone.

Adrian was the same before he realized he was better. He was the only one. And the pigs surrounding him wouldn’t have it.

Grakus should have won.

She wanted to kill them all. Everybody who killed Adrian, and everyone who didn’t stop it. She deserved to die more than any of them. She could have stopped him. She could have saved Manhattan’s precious city.

She felt something enter the room.

It could have been anybody. A rebel who killed her husband. A loyalist who let him die. A curious spectator, entertained by it all. It could have been her father. It could have been Grakus. Whoever it was, she was ready to destroy it.

“Why are you crying?”

She looked up. It was a child. A boy of eight or nine. The hatred faded. She dried her eyes.

“Did somebody hurt you?”

Another tear slid down as she looked back at the floor, nodding.

The boy stepped closer. But she just wanted to be alone. She just wanted to hate.

Standing over her, he said, “People hurt me too. In a city far from here. They laughed. My friends ran away. They were so scared. Mom and dad had to watch. But I’m okay now. See?”

She felt the boy’s soft, innocent hand on her face, and a cool, steady breath filled her lungs. Her throat was clear. She touched his hand with her fingers, looked up at him. Green, understanding eyes. Too understanding for a child.

“Sometimes people are mean,” the boy continued. “But they don’t always mean it. Sometimes they don’t know any better. They’re so afraid of their own ignorance. They require patience. And kindness. More than most leaders can find it in their hearts to give.”

Angela let her eyes roll back as she fell into a deep sleep. But the voice of the child never left her.

“You will guide this city on the course your husband set. You will guide your daughter. Leave nothing out as you teach her who her father was, for his descendants will rule Obadiah through a glorious future. Be good to yourself, woman. What remains of your life is important, and deserving of happiness.”