Matthew Tysz - The Last City of America

“Oh, just one more thing before you make your decision,” Charlie turned back. He didn’t even glance at the gun that was scratching his nose. “Marcus Rouge takes over in the event of my death.”

Bewilderment hit Wilco first. Then fear. His lips parted, eyes relaxed. He lowered the gun, and Charlie walked away.

It was only when he realized he had no choice that Wilco considered the proposal. Charlie would betray him, or Charlie would keep his promise. Wilco would die, or Wilco would rise.

Situations involving the possibility of death were commonplace for a seasoned commander. Wilco stayed alive by avoiding these as best he could, but that also meant never rising to the top, never gaining respect or power as the other commanders had. It kept him awake through many nights, wanting to take these risks, but wanting to live. But now, this Grakus had left him with no choice. And in a strange way, Wilco felt good about it, sure as he was that it wasn’t going to end well.

Then again, it takes a brilliant man to do what Grakus had done so far. Maybe he really did see Wilco for everything nobody else ever had. Or maybe he was only convincing himself that his place in Grakus’s game was anything more than just that.

A knock at the door startled him from his memories. One of his lieutenants. “I’ve been looking all over for you, sir. Dinner’s ready.”

Wilco got up from the sofa, put his cap back on. “Thanks.” He followed the lieutenant out the door, the underhost still clinging to his thoughts. Wilco still didn’t like him, savvy as he was. But maybe, in time, if Charlie didn’t betray him, he would. Who knows?

He was not a sentimental man.

He had a goal in life. Desperate as he reached for it, he didn’t even know what it was. But he knew that knowledge was the way to achieve it. And knowledge was achieved by anything from scraps of paper to human life. It was all a means to an end.

Many would find it hard to imagine that such a man would have a personal secret. Certainly, there were things he just never bothered to tell anyone, and situations where falsifying information gave him an edge. But no student nor doctor at Rush University would have guessed that there was something this man just didn’t want people to know, that there was something he was ashamed of.

Harold was a sociopath.

He was diagnosed at seven years old. He had the capacity to love whom he chose—that was what the nice doctor told him, for whatever it was supposed to really mean. Seven years old; that’s when they told him that natural love was something he would never understand.

Why was this on Harold’s mind now? Because everyone in Chicago bore the scars of a troubled past. And Harold needed to blend in. Because today he was walking among them.

He had left the university an hour ago in dark clothes, stacks of cash and little bags of drugs stuffed in every pocket of his jacket. He paid a visit to the Kid’s Table, but Teddles wouldn’t tell him anything about a rebellion, saying that the underhost would be displeased.

It sounded like Mr. Grakus was clamping down. Hopefully the commanders were as well. At any rate, Teddles was not an option. But that was what the cash and the drugs were for.

Even with these petty resources, Harold had to figure out on his own who, of the city’s million, would speak openly about rebellion in an absolute dictatorship. It was like any other problem. Sort the data… find the first step…

He needed someone. Someone without children to fear for. Someone the government wouldn’t care to monitor or threaten. Someone nobody would expect to be involved in a rebellion. Someone Harold could have speedy access to.

He needed a prostitute.

He clutched his jacket closed and walked down a busy street of dark, expressionless pedestrians.

Chicago wasn’t shy about its brothels. They made excellent business, being in a city where the one thing everybody wanted to do was forget. Their lights flared with a powerful array of color, usually igniting the entire block. And the ladies were cheap. At least, the uglier ones were, but a fantasy of any world was prettier than the world in which they lived.

Harold kept his eyes in front of him as he searched, though at times he couldn’t help but glance left or right at his “fellow man.” Blank faces, mechanical behavior. Helpless lab rats, according to his elders. But Harold didn’t see the helplessness of lab rats. At least lab rats tried. In the streets of Chicago, he saw the helplessness of corpses. Never to fight back, never to think on their own or question their environment. Never to feel what life is. Corpses.

He passed a large mirror along an office building. Chicago put them in places where Willis Tower was obscured. They ensured that the tower could be seen from anywhere in the city. Sometimes, especially at night, it was hard to tell whether you were looking at the real one or a reflection.

Old music echoed in the canyon of skyscrapers.

Harold was a born problem solver; he never felt guilty losing sleep or missing a conference over an unexpected challenge. But some problems were unsolvable, and he never felt guilty moving on from such problems: like Teddles, or people in general. He often puzzled trying to understand human behavior. But if he puzzled for too long, or became frustrated, he’d conclude that man is simply irrational by nature, an unsolvable problem. Man is a child with no sense of who he is and no interest in finding out, constructing a society around subservience to basic functions and instant gratification. The apocalypse destroyed that society, and man strove fruitlessly to build it back up exactly as it was, never vying for an alternative.

A strip of light from around a corner caught his glance, a concentration of corpses shuffling slowly into and away from it. He shoved his way through and made it to the street that was alive with prostitution advertisement. One building, covered in multicolored lights, blasted the sound of a woman in climax through a giant stereo. The street was filled with naked whores dancing to the music. The front doors of the main building were big. A moderate crowd was walking in. No one seemed to be walking out.

He followed the conveyer belt of horny corpses through the entrance and into an enormous room. A giant, golden staircase. Blood-red carpeting. Black curtains. More women dancing, these ones beautiful.

There were many circular desks in this room, small groups of women standing in the center of them, corpses walking up to them. In the center of the room was a much larger desk with one woman standing at it. Large, older, short hair, cheeks of a pit bull, a lollipop in her mouth. No one seemed to be approaching that one. So Harold did. A small sign on the desk read “MADAM.”

“What d’ya need?” Madam wasn’t in the mood for customer service.

Harold immediately showed her his badge. If this woman knew anything about the city (she was a madam, after all), she should know what it meant.

“Oh,” she set her thick elbows on the desk. “We don’t usually get your cocks here.”

“I need a woman,” Harold put the card away.

“Preferences?”

Harold thought. He tried to think like a rebel. If they were using prostitutes to recruit, what kind of woman would they hire to appeal to young men? She would have to be the best… of the cheapest. He asked the madam for just that.

“Oh, of course! The economy exclusive!” The madam reached under the desk for a book and set it open on the surface. “Name.”

“Odd,” Harold thought out loud. “I wouldn’t think the city would keep such careful track of these things.”

“The city’s not,” the Madam moved the lollipop from one side of her mouth to the other. “We are. It helps us answer their stupid questions.”