Matthew Tysz - The Last City of America

Teddles went on to become a celebrated torture master, collecting information from those unfortunate enough to be found in possession of it. Harold decided a visit to the Kid’s Table would probably be a waste of time. Any useful information Teddles had, the city had probably already used. He’d figured something out.

Harold turned his head up to the screen. Grakus’s speech would circulate until morning.

Adam spent most of his breath chatting with this fat guy Dennis on their way to the LIM. Lucky—Morgan wasn’t in the mood for small talk himself, neither was he in the mood to uphold his code of good manners.

So far, this had been his fastest trip to the LIM. At least it seemed that way. Hours of walking were swallowed in moments of thought and there it was. The Long Island Market. Silent. Dark.

They stopped. Morgan debated whether he should give Adam or Dennis his spare pistol. Would either of them even think to use it? Morgan shook his head slowly.

Adam grabbed him by the shoulder. “I feel it too, man. It gets worse every day. Something bad’s gonna happen soon. We should get this done as fast as we can. And not come back for a while.”

“Adam’s right,” said Dennis, squinting in the sunlight as he caught his breath. “This rat trap’s getting edgier by the day.”

Morgan looked at the other people crossing the cracked, weed-ridden lot of asphalt. There was a larger number of them than there had been during Morgan’s past two visits. And very few of them were women. None of them were children. They didn’t look as helpless as they usually did. They stood straight. They were focused.

Morgan followed Adam and Dennis. They got their baskets and started into the archive of empty cans and boxes.

Morgan observed every customer carefully. They acted normal, wandering about for something worth purchasing. But they were focused on something more than the scraps displayed in front of them. Every sound seemed to spook them. One man was browsing a sparse selection of glasses on a rack near the pharmacy. Every time he tried a pair on, he wiped his face of sweat. A woman stared at a can with no label. Hauntingly still. Just staring. People were scanning shelves over and over again. Waiting.

Some of the guards looked like they detected the ambient nervousness. They whispered among themselves, glancing at the customers as they did. Some of the customers tapped each other on the shoulder, glancing at the guards.

Morgan stopped when he came to an aisle where a young guard was flirting with a busty blond associate. He walked into the aisle and stared at the couple conspicuously.

“Hey man,” Adam rushed behind Morgan. “What are you doing?”

Morgan watched the blond associate point in their direction.

The guard turned. “You cats got a problem over there, or what?”

“No, sir,” Adam called back. “We were just looking around.” He pulled at Morgan’s shoulder.

Morgan reached into his open coat and drew the shiny pistol from his belt. He pointed it at the guard, aimed at the guard’s head. He fired. The gun launched from his hand and onto the floor. He scrambled after it. He picked it up and pointed it back at the guard. The guard was lying on the floor, gargling blood. Morgan had missed his head and struck his chest, the bullet punching straight through the Kevlar. The pretty associate screamed.

Morgan barely heard Adam’s voice, terrified behind him. “Morgan…”

Morgan turned slowly, eyes to the ceiling, as gunfire started popping, lighting the store from corner to corner like a thunderstorm at night. The rusty shelves vibrated. Empty casings fell to the floor in a sound like wind chimes. People screamed words of independence and vengeance and panic. Morgan barely noticed he was facing his companions as he reveled in it. This must have been the first time Adam saw teeth in Morgan’s smile.

A voice echoed through static over the loudspeaker. “All associates—all guards—kill everyone who isn’t wearing blue! Repeat—kill everyone !”

A guard ran into their aisle. He pointed his rifle at Dennis’s back. Opened fire. Blood splashed through Dennis’s obtrusive belly.

“Dennis!” Adam caught him.

Morgan raised his gun and fired at the guard. The guard went down and so did Morgan’s gun once again. More guards were coming. Morgan drew his smaller gun. He didn’t even feel himself pull the trigger. The gun just fired, hit one in the neck almost right away. The other one took a few more shots, and probably wasn’t even dead when he hit the floor.

Morgan picked up the gun. He ran to the end of the aisle, a gap before another set of aisles began. His head swung rapidly left and right. To the left, a customer threw a can at two guards and was split in half by shotgun fire. Sparks flew from the shelf protecting Morgan.

Adam tackled him back into cover, landing on him. Morgan tried to push him off. A Molotov swung from another aisle across theirs, smashed against the top shelf directly over them. Adam covered Morgan again. Morgan hardly noticed the flames. He had to get back up. He had to get back out. He threw the bigger man off and ran back to the edge.

Adam grabbed his shoulder tight and shook it fiercely. “Morgan! Tell me what’s happening!”

“Shut up!” Morgan didn’t wipe the spit that flopped against his chin.

His shiny gun was holstered, his smaller, tamer one gripped tightly in both his hands. He peered around the shelf. The two guards with shotguns were firing down another aisle. He took one of them out and hid. He peered back out. The other had already fallen. A woman ran frantically past his aisle, disappeared into another. Morgan shot the guard who ran into view after her. The guard slid to the floor at Morgan’s feet, tried to crawl away. Morgan shot him in the head.

The sound and flashing lights of gunfire began to slow. Morgan feared what that might have meant. He left his barricade and Adam followed. His only chance of survival was to kill every blue-shirted man or woman he saw. He encountered one in an aisle filled with tupperware containers of all colors, a ten-yard smear of blood behind him. He grabbed a shelf with one arm, trying to get to his feet. He fell, bringing the shelf of containers with him. When he saw Morgan coming, he tried to fit his extra clip into his gun.

Morgan tore the clip out of the associate’s hand and kept running. It fit into the smaller of his own pistols. The shooting was minimal now but his head was spinning. He couldn’t draw enough air into his lungs and he couldn’t silence himself as his throat heaved for it. When he finally found his breath, there was silence. No gunfire. No shouting. Even Adam wasn’t making any noise.

Morgan looked around, standing in a clearing toward the back of the store near the furniture department. No survivor, associate or rebel, was in sight.

A voice sounded throughout the store once again. This one was different.

“Alright guys—the manager is dead. Check every aisle and make sure no associate ever fires a weapon at you again. To the first shot—if you’re still alive, thank you. If anyone sees one of our own injured, or in need of—” the message was cut off by gunfire, and a handful of armed customers rushed confidently passed Morgan toward the ASSOCIATES ONLY doors. There was a concentrated gun fight. It ended fast. Customers were still standing. Others were gathering in the electronics department, checking under the counter there. Some were climbing the shelves around the store and looking out.

Morgan turned and walked down the nearest aisle back toward the front of the store, vigilant of any hostile survivors. He heard two shots in different parts of the store before Adam begged once again to know what was going on.