Matthew Tysz - The Last City of America

“I’ll tell you when we’re out of here,” said Morgan. “Just stop talking for five God damn minutes.”

“Can you at least tell me if it’s over?” He was almost crying.

Morgan just walked faster. He kept his pistol drawn—maybe the baby would take that as an answer.

Another shot, followed by a cheer.

Morgan heard his name—a call from far behind. He stopped, looked behind him down the narrow aisle. Assistant Manager Rick was walking toward them, casually dressed. Morgan didn’t take a step to close the distance, just waited. When Rick arrived, he gripped Morgan’s hand with a big smile and thanked him for the victory.

“You set this up?” Adam said to the ranking associate.

“Yes,” said Morgan, smirking. “And now he’s gonna make it all pay off.”

Adam’s face was red. “You let those people die so you could take over a store ?”

“You don’t understand,” said Rick. “Things are gonna change around here now. With me in charge, there will be more food on these shelves. No one will be mistreated, however misbehaved they get. Food will be cheaper…”

Morgan let Rick go on as he receded back inside his head. Maybe this guy would do well by the people who rely on this place. Maybe he would not. Either way, things would surely be better. At least for a while. But what guarantees were there? Rick didn’t have to keep his promises if he didn’t want to. And why would he want to?

Morgan had a different idea.

Rick’s speech was cut short as the butt of Morgan’s pistol thrashed against his forehead. The bottom shelf rattled as the back of Rick’s head landed on it. Morgan didn’t kill him right away—he wanted to hear Adam lecture him.

“What are you doing!” Adam shouted.

Morgan pointed the gun at Rick’s face. “With this man gone, we won’t have to take any chances. The LIM will be run by us.”

“Wait, wait! Oh God,” Rick held his hands up as if that would protect him from a bullet. “Please. I understand what you’re doing, but please. You can’t do this without me. I want things to be better. If all the managers are dead, the state will replace us themselves and you’ll be right back to where you started. You don’t want to do this, p-please!”

“If the state tries to take the LIM again,” said Morgan, “we can shoot them too.”

“Morgan,” Adam grabbed Morgan’s arm. “Let’s go. We have enough food at home for a while. If he wants to run the LIM, let him. Don’t get any more involved in this. It’s not who you are.”

A sensation came over Morgan that began behind his eyes, disorienting him, and surged throughout his body. Every word in Adam’s lecture provoked an appetite more ravenous than he ever realized. He felt himself fall deeper into it. He wanted more. “Killing him can save a lot of lives in our land.”

“It won’t,” Rick was shivering. “I understand you. But without me, the state will replace everything. It will go back to the way it was.” He looked at Adam. “Tell him!”

Adam came closer, speaking low. “Even if he’s lying, you can’t just murder him and say it’s for the better. I know you’re angry, and I can help you if you just let me. But it’s not up to you to decide—”

Morgan turned. He put the gun to Adam’s head and pulled the trigger. The clip flashed. The bang echoed. Blood splashed on a shelf. Adam’s eyes rolled back. He landed on the floor.

Morgan threw the pistol away as he turned back to Rick. He took the shiny one from his belt. Plenty of ammo left. Rick’s eyes bulged open, veins spread. Morgan suspected it was the loudest that man screamed in his life. He fired. Rick’s head exploded. This time the gun stayed in Morgan’s hand.

He left the aisle slowly, two bodies spilling blood behind him. He walked out into the checkout lane, where all the Rebels were assembled. They looked to him. Rick must have told them about the one who would begin the revolt, because when they saw the shiny gun in Morgan’s hand, they began to cheer. Morgan holstered it and raised his hands to calm them down.

“Up until today, our only hope for a life free of fear was a dissenting manager who wanted power. His rebellion succeeded, but he will not lead this store. No one from the cities will.”

The rebels looked at one another in a brief moment of confusion.

Morgan continued, “We are the keepers of these lands. Its crops are nurtured by the bodies we’ve taken years and endured countless unaided sicknesses to strengthen. Our factories prosper on the love we have for our families. As of these historic moments, we no longer slave for Manhattan. Now we can work, assured that our relentless labor won’t fade to the unending demands of a city we can never be a part of. Now, all of our production will be consumed by us. If Manhattan is lucky, we’ll have enough left for them. If we do—”

The crowd cheered. Morgan raised his hands. “If we do, we will sell it to them and we will collect the profits.”

Morgan let the crowd cheer for a minute, then continued. “There are lots of guns in this store. Grab the baskets behind the courtesy counter, and take as many as you can. Then come back and get more. Distribute them among your families, your neighbors. I will send a letter to the skylord. I will tell him Long Island is no longer a servant to the state. If he resists, any dog he sends into our lands will meet the same bloody end as every scumbag employee in this building!”

The crowd roared. They raised their guns in the air. Morgan subdued his aggravation as some of them wasted rounds in the excitement.

“I have led you into rebellion. Now I will lead you through the remaking of our Island. We no longer answer to Manhattan. Manhattan answers to me .”

Some of the bigger men came and acted as Morgan’s bodyguards while the crowd mobbed him in reverence.

He looked around, smiling.

Like the poor rock climber whose mess lay in aisle six, Morgan had a feeling he wouldn’t be returning home for a long time.

She looked like a woman from a different time—long before the Seven Cities. She had straight, dark brown hair to her shoulders. Tanned skin, arms embroidered with tattoos. Thick green pants with many large pockets, and a small tank-top that covered little more than her sizable chest. As far as she knew, there was no one to watch her as she walked the desert road. But she still walked like a woman: her back straight, her eyes on the horizon.

Angela Mesa was born twenty-five years ago in Baltimore, the city of doctors and technology. Her father was the administrator of the Medical Establishment—Baltimore’s most powerful seat before skylord. Angela had hardly known him by the time they parted ways.

“He has responsibilities to his people,” her mother, another pioneer in medicine, would dryly tell her.

That was the problem with her parents, they were boring. A cynic would say that’s why she never went back. And the cynic would be right.

When Angela was ten, mom and dad put together a plan with the skylords of Western cities to establish hospitals there, managed by doctors trained in Baltimore. Angela went with her mother on a long drive across the country to oversee the operation. There was a special route they had to take. Angela didn’t understand why at the time.

They were in Nevada when their car was stopped by a group of men with guns. They smashed the windows, dragged her mother out of the car, swept the trunk of all their food and equipment, poked a hole in the gas tank and sped away with mom. Angela still remembered the smell as she sat alone in that car. Mom always came back when she left… eventually.

The sun was going down as she continued to wait for them to bring her back. The water left in her bottle was almost hot enough for tea. She opened the door, stepped out, stood on an empty road that went for miles into nothing. She pushed the door closed and started into the nothing.