Matthew Tysz - The Last City of America

The light turned green.

He drove.

For most of this man’s life, he lived in a tribe far away from the cities. They had taken him in when he was a child, left for dead by bandits who had kidnapped him. Thirty years ago? He was very young, sitting on the curb of an abandoned street in an abandoned town. He believed he had been kidnapped from a woman. His mother? Probably. He had one object on his person when the tribals found him. He kept it for a time, discarded it when he was still young. A lunchbox with “Charlie” scratched into the handle. His name? Probably.

He went by the name the tribe had given him. All the tribes across America, who despised civilization, used their own invented language. They called him “Always Grinning,” which, in their language, was “Grakus.”

They were good to him, the tribe. They taught him many things. But what Grakus was most interested in were things the tribals either couldn’t or wouldn’t teach: psychology (couldn’t), philosophy (wouldn’t), and religion (both). But above all, Grakus wanted to know what it meant to be good, and what it meant to be evil.

His childhood and much of his adulthood passed in that tribe. But soon enough, it became realized that he did not belong among them. So they cast him out, but gently. They told him that he belonged in the cities. For what purpose, they did not know. But the elders were sure he belonged there… in the man world, where freedom and oppression tugged eternally at two ends. That was where they sent him.

All his life, Grakus had a recurring dream. It was still and silent. The vision of a city: a white skyline rising over a smooth horizon, massive and glorious. The city was salvation. It was freedom. It was the future of man. The elders had difficulty understanding his dreams. They had difficulty understanding him. But Grakus knew what these visions meant. That was how in tune with his own mind he was, to have an open dialogue with his subconscious. Every detail of every dream and every thought he ever had—he understood its origin. He knew what he had to do.

And so the wanderer drove.

He pressed the gas as he got onto Interstate 65 out of Indianapolis. After a hundred miles of wasted farm land, I-65 would become Dan Ryan Expressway, then it was straight through to the city gate.

To Chicago.

He leaned on Maggie’s doorway, smiling, waiting for her to notice him. He watched as she folded her clothes, grunting when she discovered a dirt stain on her favorite apron. But it didn’t sound like grunting when she did it. It sounded like an angel thinking deeply about something. She took a pair of shorts she didn’t like so much, flicked it with her tongue and put it to the apron.

“Hey there,” he said when his patience wore out.

She smiled. That wicked gal knew he was there the whole time, didn’t she? Adam shook his head and laughed. “I thought you might want a drink, maybe watch the stars a while.”

“I don’t think I like to drink anymore,” she said, somewhat satisfied with her work on the apron. “There are better things our efforts can go into getting.”

“Booze flows freer than water around here, lady!” Adam made his way into her room. “It’s one thing even the apocalypse can’t kill, my pops always says.”

Adam always lost his breath when he walked into Maggie’s room. It was unlike any other room in the building, probably the world. The walls on their own were as chipped and worn in this room as they were in any other. But even out of nothing, Maggie made her own little kingdom. It was neat and pretty and so innocent, dolls and bears and other stuffed animals of pink and brown and white on proud display all over. It was so Maggie. And he loved it.

“I hear Morgan Veil hasn’t touched a drink in his life,” Maggie tried to look more interested in her clothes than in where she was taking this conversation.

Adam folded his arms across his chest, shifted his weight to one side. He liked doing that—like the handsome people in those old magazines he admired since he was little. It made his chest sharper, and he liked his chest—though he’d never admit it, no less to Maggie. He smiled. “Maybe the poor guy could use a shot o’ the really good stuff.”

“His mother says he thinks it’s purposeless. Maybe he’s right. It does more bad than good.”

Adam could go on talking about how it all depends on the person, that some people just make the wrong choices with what they have, but he didn’t want to turn this time with her into some lecture. And he would rather talk about Morgan anyway. He’d be working with the guy, after all. “His mother didn’t mention him much to me.”

“You didn’t ask.”

“What else did she say about him?”

Maggie put her clothes in a drawer, took a brush and ran it through her hair. “That he hides his feelings well… like he’s afraid of being hurt. He’s creative, but afraid to show that too. He probably has a lot of ideas for us like you do.”

Adam let go of his pose and put his hands to his hips, starting a slow pace around her room. “I guess we’ll just have to wring them out of him, won’t we?”

Maggie set the brush down on her night stand. “I guess we will.” she got up and hugged him tightly around his neck, kissed his cheek. “Be safe, okay? Look after each other all the time, and tell me everything when you get back.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he couldn’t squeeze her tight enough.

Adam left with his hands in his pockets. He crossed the dark hall to the stairs that led to his room on the top floor. The walls were broken, paint chipped, holes all over. The ceilings were gouged to hell by all those times the mold had to be scraped from them. But the furniture was nicely arranged, the shelves in the living room filled with books. The painting of some random landscape hung perfectly straight above the fireplace. And the view was great for watching over his community.

The workshop in the basement was making noise, a hum from where Adam was. It was the buzz saw cutting wood to fix the roof above Adam’s head. He could smell the burning sawdust. The building caretakers had planned on reducing the leaks for some time. But even they had other obligations: to the farms, to their families… to the LIM. They must have found a free hour tonight for an attempt. They worked hard.

As he crossed the hall, a chill came over his bare shoulders, which was normal: he wore that stupid tank top way too often. Always had to show off. He chuckled at himself. But it wasn’t a chilly night.

Adam knew he was a good man, and his father always said that good men can feel things other men can’t, and Adam felt something. And even though Morgan would be with him tomorrow, the feeling wasn’t good. He shook it. Just nerves was all. Any bad thing that could happen tomorrow would only be worse if Morgan wasn’t gonna be at his side. And he’d braved the LIM many times before. There was nothing to worry about now that there wouldn’t be for any other trip. And these trips were unavoidable. Just a part of life. Adam felt better after that.

But still… the chill lingered.

The expressway was high off the ground, but the wall was higher. A solid gate ran across the road. It was a popular post because it had a view. Any place high off the ground was a good place for a Chicago soldier.

The lucky men on duty here this morning were sharing drinks and shooting at birds. Carcasses of all sorts of flying creatures filled the ground beneath their highway. Maggots gnawed the fresh ones. The flies were maddening. All the windows of every building in view were shot out. Elevation was nice, but boredom always crept up.

“We gotta make traps for these fucks,” said one of the guards, aiming at a bird but didn’t fire. “Set up a nice snare and watch them die.”