Matthew Tysz - The Last City of America

Desperately, Studebaker sputtered information about rebels. The host never ceased.

“You can’t… I won’t let you… I worked too hard… I gave… Everything….” A gurgle, and then nothing.

The host took his time long after that, leaving Grakus in silence. Then he returned to his desk, blood all over his hands and a splash across his face. He slid the knife back beneath the desk, and placed his hand back over his heart.

Grakus licked his thumb and wiped a smidgen of blood from his jacket. “Why do you do that?”

The host looked down at his hand. “To make sure my heart keeps beating right. It’s a lazy heart. Sometimes it slows down. So I have to speed it up. I can only trust it when I’m dancing.”

“And killing.”

“You figure out many things,” said the host. “It will be good to have you as my second. And just in time, if what he said about the rebels is true.”

“There are rebels in every government,” said Grakus. “I came to this city fully expecting that. I’ll find them before they have the chance to surface.”

“Good,” the host took his hand from his heart. “I will let the administrators know who you are immediately.” He stood, extended his hand across the desk. “Welcome, underhost.”

Grakus stood. Each man used both hands to shake. The host squeezed hard. Not in dominance, but in need. He held on to Grakus for a long moment, just smiling at him, feeling him, holding him.

When Grakus had his hand again, it was covered in the fluids of his predecessor.

It was difficult not to laugh.

It took patience to yield this outcome, but not very much. The ultimate outcome—that would take patience. Something would get in the way, no matter how easy it should have been. But Grakus had time to tend to that. This had been a most savorsome treat. The sweetest part about it was that it wasn’t Grakus or his skills that made it so; this city would have given anything for the love it needed, and anybody could have given it. But the righteous cities far away just couldn’t be bothered. They were afraid. And unsure. And way too busy.

Now they were too late. The Samaritan had arrived.

Part of being the administrator of hospitals meant seeking out and dealing with those individuals and secret institutions practicing medicine outside the authority of the host.

Normally, Rouge didn’t care. In fact, he had special deals with certain underground pharmacies and abortion clinics. So long as open-market drug-trading was illegal, there would be an illegal market for it. Instead of resisting this inevitability, Rouge took command of it, which provided him with influence he could use to advance his career. This resulted in his becoming the notorious “Emperor of Needles,” an unidentified drug lord that all the commanders were trying to impress the host by apprehending.

The insignificant affairs that occurred outside his periphery would usually remain overlooked. But sometimes an affair would take place that could not be tolerated. Such as the one he approached this afternoon with his agents. This operation… call it a beggar’s hospital… ran in the name of one they called a mother. A blessed mother.

The miniature hospital was located in a shipyard warehouse. Chicago criminals did so love their warehouses. They were seldom used, and the government had more interest in controlling their people than in the abandoned facilities on the outskirts of their realm.

Rouge straightened his round glasses and ran his hand down the soft silk of his white scarf. He led his agents inside. They wore black leather jackets and heavy hoods that went from shoulder to shoulder like cobras. People saw them and panicked. Rouge gave the order and his agents got to work immediately, arresting the ones that looked important and shooting everybody else. Standard procedure.

Most of the medical apparatus was set up in truck-sized shipping crates sealed with curtains. Rouge’s agents flushed them out, tossing oxygen tanks, beds and bags of blood among countless other things onto the floor. Illicit doctors, nurses and patients tripped over them as they ran.

Moments like these reminded Rouge of one of many of Chicago’s little ironies.

He might have enjoyed this raid if he were not from Chicago. But if he were not from Chicago, such a raid would not be possible. It was a simple rule: of all Chicago would ever give you, you were allowed to enjoy none. You became a part of Chicago, and you wouldn’t allow yourself to enjoy anything. Not unless you had somehow dodged Chicago’s abuse. Not unless you spent your whole life never having to look over your shoulder and still found your way to worm into power.

Not unless you were Brian Wilco.

Commander Wilco was an acupuncturist of timing. He evaded rationally, struck tactfully. And his sanity, his… normality… was a model for those who wished to emulate it.

Of course, all Wilco knew in regards to Rouge’s opinion of him was that he wanted Wilco dead. This was also true. Rouge’s hatred of Wilco sometimes manifested into physical pain.

The worst part was that Wilco deserved everything he had. The best part was that he deserved more, and wasn’t getting it. Watching Wilco stagnate in that place where he had some but not all power, wrestling with eight other morons, was satisfying to observe. And perhaps, one day, Rouge would give a hand in taking everything Wilco fought everyday for. Every bit of it.

But there were more immediate priorities.

As his agents proceeded their search for criminals and contraband, Rouge began a search of his own throughout the Christian establishment. In the open facility, it didn’t take long to find something interesting. On the back wall of the warehouse was a shrine: a cross with a man on it. Rouge approached. He looked out as the criminals were gunned down or arrested or both. He looked back at the crucifix.

“They would die for you,” he said to it. “But it isn’t you I came for.”

Since childhood, Rouge had been poked in the brain with a premonition. It was so subtle that he sometimes doubted if he even did feel it. And he didn’t know what it was, only that it involved something big happening. Good, bad? He didn’t know. He expected good. Personal, city-wide, larger? He didn’t know. As a young man, he hoped it meant acceptance into Rush. That opportunity had gone, but the feeling only got stronger.

One of the criminal doctors, a brave one, came out of the chaos after Rouge, grabbed his jacket and brought him to the ground. An agent quickly restrained the man. Rouge got up. He dropped the scarf back over his coat and grabbed the doctor by the collar. “This scarf is handmade, dip-dyed, and woven with a design that took nearly five years to produce. If I had another, I’d gladly place it in your coffin, but I don’t.”

“You’ll join your mother soon,” the doctor growled.

Rouge smirked, released his grip and straightened the doctor’s collar. “Take him to the Kid’s Table. I believe Teddles is in.”

The doctor was dragged away, screaming. Rouge waved goodbye.

The premonition was strong today. All day. The newcomer had crossed his mind, but only because of the hype kicked up around him. But hype died quickly. The mysterious wanderer was surely dead by now.

There was a door close to the crucifix. It led to a small office. On the desk in the center was a small statue.

“There you are,” Rouge grinned as he walked inside. He was flanked by a big man with a sledgehammer. He put his hands on the desk, his face an inch from the face of the statue. He studied it. A woman with a blank stare, her hands in prayer, her feet on a snake.

“Look, Bauler,” he said to the big man, backed away from the desk. “She’s stepping on my foot.”