Matthew Tysz - The Last City of America

It often bothered Adam how cold the whole system became, and he was gonna bring it up with Morgan then… but maybe not. Morgan just… wasn’t a talker. He ended up just mentioning that he had never taken Morgan’s can of tuna from the back pocket of his pack. Morgan didn’t answer.

For a second, Adam feared that Morgan may have disliked him, but that couldn’t have been it—they hardly knew each other. No… this was just who Morgan was, and Adam would have to figure out a way through it.

Morgan Veil was like a comic book hero: strong, brave, dark. It would take a lot of work to bring him to embrace the brighter side of life, but Adam was confident.

Then that uneasy feeling came over him again. It was stronger than it was last night. Just as it was beginning to fade, it stung him deep in the gut when Morgan said he wanted to go back to the LIM tomorrow. “‘We need food constantly,’” he reiterated Adam’s father’s words.

Adam forced a laugh. “I don’t know if I can keep up with you, Morgan. Maybe we should find another person to go with us this time.”

“If you don’t want to do it, I’ll go myself.”

“Nah, I’m your man!” Adam smiled as he groped Morgan jokingly. “Big, strong handsome man protecting me!”

Morgan seemed to cringe. Obviously not the best joke. Adam backed off and they were silent the rest of the way home.

That feeling… it wouldn’t go away…

The host of Chicago should have been fat, but his insanity gave him plenty of exercise.

Like many throughout the city, especially those with the luxury to enjoy trivial news, the host grew curious about the newcomer named Grakus. After a few short hours of Wilco’s stalling, Chicago’s ruler-for-life demanded Wilco send the newcomer to Willis Tower immediately. Grakus was shoved back inside a truck with a begrudging hand.

He stepped out from the truck in the place where he was wanted; the truck peeled off as soon as his second foot landed.

He was on a marble landing, looking up at the towering black of Willis Tower. At the base of this great headstone to freedom and decency was a quiet lineup of a hundred guards, their guns pointed at him. In the center of the lineup was the curious host, known to many as the dancing man.

Each guard looked on, each as curious as the next, all as curious as all the city, all the city as curious as their host. And for a quiet moment, Grakus stood on the marble landing opposite them, allowing them to wonder what he might do next.

Grakus smiled, and began to move.

It started with a steady swaying of his head, which became rhythmic. A few silent seconds later, his shoulders followed like they were taken up in the same wave. He kept smiling, looking at no one and everyone.

The host and his men looked on, too curious not to pay attention.

His feet gave in, but not to the wave above, but to a rhythm of their own. He spun on his heels and stepped and tapped and spun as his arms swung his upper body with a madness that made perfect sense. Dancing fast, he advanced slowly toward the lineup.

The host did not hide his pleasure. Like a child, he smiled and swayed in place, eyes affixed as though by twine to the dancing stranger.

All of this happened in silence, but not dead silence. Indeed, the silence itself seemed to have a voice, like some subtle pitch hidden deep in the ears, pulsing to the steps of this advancing stranger who danced at the end of a hundred loaded barrels.

He stopped before the host and bowed, and the host clapped with a delighted smile.

“Who is this man so versed and fine?” said the host, his every syllable sharp and forceful, as he looked down from the few steps to the next level of the landing.

The host was an older man, rivers of white in his dark, tangled hair. He wasn’t so old that a sack of wrinkles should have sat beneath each eye, but the sacks were there. He looked like a thinking man whose thoughts were thickly clouded.

“I shepherd the dance, my lord,” said Grakus, looking up. “I came to speak with you.”

The host wore a look of amusement and skepticism. He looked out over his guards, then down over Grakus. “My office is on top of the tower. I will leave you now and you will meet me there.”

Grakus was escorted inside by all of the host’s guards. They entered an elevator large enough to accommodate them all. The lights flickered, and Grakus pondered.

Administrators were always in and out of Willis Tower either conspiring with one another or appealing to the Underhost for an array of things, as it was in politics. The city council—men who tailed their names with words like “esquire” and “the third”—convened daily to decide on what was right or wrong: decisions that would then be carried out by no one. Most politicians had reporters to go out into the city and search for relevant information. They were around as well, either receiving an assignment or completing one. All of this was sprinkled with the secretaries who seldom knew where they needed to be, scolded by superiors who didn’t either. Above this charming bedlam was a weapons factory. Above that, many empty floors. Above those, the office of the host, where Grakus was seated. The guards took place along the windows and walls, their guns still drawn.

The office was enormous at three floors high. The walls were filled with giant posters of dancing people. There were singles, couples, crowds, discos and waltzes, wild rock stars and dignified ballerinas. Windows ran from the white carpet to the vaulted ceiling. They provided a view of Lake Michigan worthy of none other than the host. The only furniture was a desk; on one side was Grakus; on the other, the Host of Chicago.

The host showed strain in his face like he was struggling to think, then seemed frustrated. He looked around. “Get out,” he said to all the guards. “All of you.”

The guards filed through the doors without hesitation.

The host then seemed to breathe a little easier as he returned his attention to Grakus. “They say you are a wanderer. What do you say that you are?”

Grakus smiled. “What do you think, my lord?”

The host sat with his right hand over his heart like he was making a pledge. His other hand sat flat on his desk. He eyed Grakus up and down, who sat patiently. They had been speaking for a while. Grakus explained to the host what it was like outside the cities, how the tribes operated. The host was fascinated by these stories, and asked many questions. Grakus answered every one, whether he had the right to or not. He answered immediately and with certainty, whether he was certain or not.

“You know many things,” said the host at last. “I am sure you knew the perils of Chicago before you came here. So why did you risk it? You could have gone anywhere.”

The government was a lot more in control than this building made it seem, but a lot less centralized. Power did not come from the party going on downstairs, it came from the host. But the host did not control the city directly. He simply adjusted each man’s level of control like a king and his lords. Except that it was only some of these lords who had military power (the commanders, such as Wilco). Others had domestic power (the administrators). The two powers never coincided. Not officially, anyway.

How did Grakus know all this? Observation. From his arrest at the gate, his visit to the Kid’s Table to his arrival here in the office of the host—Grakus already knew everything he needed to know. For now. Could he have been wrong about some of it? Maybe. But Grakus knew that he was a smart man, and this was his best. And the best of a smart man was never a stupid place to start.

“You are wise, my lord,” Grakus wore an admiring smile. “A wanderer travels with no destination other than to learn the world. I know the world. And I have a destination. I am sent by a great city to help you rule yours.”