Matthew Tysz - The Last City of America

Harold took his eyes from the window, leaned forward. “I’m here, Doctor.”

His wall was filled with an incomplete mural of “fuck the world” written over and over again. Drawings of a figure grinding his hips against Earth accompanied the sentiment.

“I was just talking about you.”

“I know, doctor.” The old man had been rambling since Harold got there a half hour ago.

“Take my hand, Harold.”

Harold slid his chair closer to his master.

Only a year ago, Dr. Barnabas Vulcum was walking around like everybody else, active and in good spirits. But science can only negotiate so great a loan. When the body decides it’s due, things fall apart quickly. So here he was on his deathbed, his hand in the hand of his apprentice.

“They say I should have some of my strength back within the week,” the doctor took a deep breath and grumbled. “I’m not dead yet.”

Harold smiled for the old man. “The world is closer to death than you are, doctor.”

Barnabas rolled his head from side to side on his pillow. It was the only thing he could move to keep himself awake. Harold looked down at his shoes, his mind drifting.

“Have I ever told you why I chose you, Harold?”

Harold looked up. The master was nodding at him, his thin lips stretched in a glowing smile.

Harold closed his eyes, still smiling through the fatigue. “You’ve given me many reasons.”

“No…” the doctor slid a long, dry tongue over his lips. “I never told you how I failed. This world was mine to fuck and I let it fuck itself. But now the world is yours. I chose you, Harold, because you are creative. You can do things with what we have that even I can’t imagine. Promise me, Harold, that you’ll do something big in my name… that you’ll take what I’ve given you and condemn humanity in a way no man could have ever seen coming. Promise me to make the world your toy forever. Promise me, Harold.”

Of course, the good doctor had in fact visited these words on Harold a thousand times. Verbatim. So, for the thousandth time, Harold replied, as always with an assuring tone, “Enjoy what remains of your life, Barnabas, and know that I will make our legacy the center of the universe.”

“Oh, my Harold… You make me so happy.”

Harold rose from the bedside as Doctor Vulcum’s eyes rolled back in exhaustion, and the room was suddenly filled with the smell of urine. Harold stepped into the hall, signaled a nearby nurse to tend to the doctor, and returned to his office. His secretary was there.

“Did you want me to send that letter for you, sir?”

Marlena was a good secretary. She was stupid, but she remembered things and that was useful. While Harold could remember events from his infancy, he had completely forgotten the letter he wrote an hour ago.

“Just a moment.”

He sat at his desk. The letter was the only thing on it. Organization was the one thing he and his secretary had in common. He took the letter in his hands and looked it over, and he was satisfied.

Doctor Iris,

I’m glad you found the strength to write to me, but the questions you asked made it seem that you believe you will soon leave this world. I am sure this notion is merely a late symptom of your flu, and I am confident it will pass soon. Still, I am prepared to humor you.

Why am I here? What do I really want from this place?

You were an old man when I was born and now I’m forty, nurtured by men well past a hundred. And I have everything still to learn from each of you. That is why I am here.

But what do I want? I could ask you what you meant by that, and we could go back-and-forth. But you knew I’d know what you meant. You want to know what I’m going to do when Barnabas places the keys to Man’s destruction in my hand.

The answer is I do not know.

This world is uncertain of itself. Variables pull it in all directions when all it wants is to evolve. Into what, I do not know. Sometimes I wonder if the world and I are simply doomed to longing for that satisfaction until the universe takes us.

I worship knowledge, doctor, I pray to it every night like Christians to their cross. I want to know how far this biological manipulation can go, what sort of power can come from it, and use that power to push it even further, perhaps to unlock some great secret of the universe that man was never meant to know just to know it. I want to be immortal, so that I can enjoy this knowledge forever.

Why do I spend my life looking for answers to questions I haven’t even asked yet?

Here’s hoping the many projects to come will lead me to the answer.

He slid his tongue across his teeth in frustration.

Until now, he had only known Adam’s building by its exterior. Ugly. Tonight, he finally saw it from the inside. Uglier. And he was in the presence of over fifty people, trying to finish what his languid appetite would allow. The Mexicans to the left of him were smelly but at least they were neat—the opposite applied to those on Morgan’s right.

And everyone was loud.

There was a guy sitting at his right who had something important to say to him every second Morgan put something to his mouth. He hated talking while he ate, and this guy was almost as talkative as Adam was.

Adam, in a sweater vest and tie, was on the other side of the table bothering Morgan’s mother. Whatever. The only reason Morgan gave a shred of thought to him was because of how annoyed he was at this gathering the bouncy rock climber had apparently put together.

Still, it was a kind gesture. A lot of work goes into providing the volume, let alone variety of food placed before them this evening. Morgan was loath to respond to it with rudeness.

He grunted as he lowered his head and rubbed his temples. The guy on the right stopped bothering him so much after that.

Time passed as people finished eating and just talked, enough time that even Morgan had nearly finished his plate, and a man at the end of the table stood and called everyone’s attention. First, he thanked everyone—on behalf of him, his wife, and his son Adam—for being there. You’re welcome. Then he went on.

“My father-in-law always used to tell me that the key to survival is the self, but that the key to prosperity is others,” Adam’s father turned to his wife, who smiled at him. “Now that we have finally broken the ice among ourselves, thanks to my son…”

Adam’s father was interrupted by a brief applause. Morgan scoffed when Adam smiled humbly.

“…Now that we’re together, I think it would be to all of our benefit to spend more time with, and start looking out for one another… This includes, and I know it’s not something we like to talk about, but this would include our all-too-frequent visits to the LIM…”

The table had been politely silent. Now they were fearfully so. Morgan noted that the latter was far more effective.

“…We always need food here. And supplies as well. We need them constantly. A few families in our building have nothing. My wife and I are trying to cultivate some of the lands around us, growing produce from seeds the landowners have been kind enough to provide us with. It’s… coming along. Some of the food before you—and in you—comes from our garden. But even if we do succeed, we can’t grow medicine. Or clothes. Our only choice is always going to be the LIM. I propose that we begin our travels to the LIM not for one building, but for all of us collectively. And I propose we begin traveling there in groups. In groups, we can carry more food… and there may be less of a risk. Among the three buildings, at least one person travels almost every day. I’m sure someone is available to travel there tomorrow with my son and bring food back to us all. And we will decide as one how it will be rationed. Do we have anyone?”