Matthew Tysz - The Last City of America

“Fuckin’ Dodo bird’s gonna pop out of the trap you make,” said one of the others.

“You know,” said Iggy, the guard with the smart mouth, “I saw a bird the other day. It got hit by a car. How pathetic can you be if you’re a bird and you get hit by a car?”

“Fuck are you saying over there, Iggs?”

“Think about this a second,” said Iggy. “When a villain sets up an easily-escapable situation for the hero, I think that’s brilliant.”

“I bet you would,” one of the guards burped. “Dumbass.”

“No, think about it,” said Iggy. “If a trap is easy to escape and the hero fucks it up and dies, he has no one to blame but himself. I mean, it’s one thing for the villain to get the upper hand but to lure the hero into his own carelessness, like, that’s some serious ownage.”

The other guards looked at him quietly, awkwardly, until one of them said, “Why don’t you trap your tongue in your face,” and the others laughed.

None of these guards noticed the speeding red convertible until the man inside it noticed them. They stood, bewildered as the vehicle roared its way toward them. None of them had ever seen a traveler stupid enough to wander to Chicago’s wall. And this one had a very nice car.

Grakus could see their emotions as he approached the gate. Confusion and desire.

The car pulled up. The guards raised their guns.

Behind the windshield was a monstrous-looking thing with a dark mask as of a witchcrafting tribe.

“Out o’ the car, hot shot! Let’s see those pretty hands!”

The thing inside complied, pushed the car door open and stood still before them, its black, wooden face with white carvings gazing on them, a suit of big colorful feathers shining in the dark red dawn.

A guard pulled out his radio. “Company at the gate. Repeat: Company at the gate. CP squad requested.”

They all planted their feet and gripped their guns harder when the strange thing before them started to move. He spoke a strange chant like some witchdoctor, pat his lap and clapped and danced in this strange, ritualistic, dark step. It grew louder, his dancing more dramatic, until it seemed like he was going to bring the sky down on them.

Then whoever it was inside this strange mask and suit stopped and laughed with a loud and hearty depth. “I’m just messing.” He whipped off his mask and threw off his suit in fluid motion to reveal a man in a brown leather jacket and round, red-tinted sunglasses.

One of the guards laughed.

Another guard stepped up to the man who looked like some retro aviator. “You don’t know where you are, do you?”

“On the contrary,” said Grakus. “I’ve been looking forward to seeing Chicago for some time.”

The soldier eyed him up and down. “Where’d you get the car?”

Grakus smiled like a generous king. “A gift to good soldiers from a city far away.”

“What city?”

“Do you really care to know, or do you just want the car?”

The soldier glanced at the car as others approached it, touched it. Then back at Grakus. “Who are you?”

A powerful sound made the ground vibrate. The gate was sliding open, a pack of soldiers, more heavily armored than the gate guards, passed through. Then came an armored truck with a nice big gun on it. The gun was manned by a soldier with a blue cap. Sturdy-looking man. The others made way for him as he climbed off the truck. The pavement gave a light shake when he landed. He had a short beard with sharp protrusions jutting down like tusks. “Commander Wilco” was printed boldly on his breast pocket. He had the look and attitude of a mercenary. But there was a dimension to this man that didn’t exist in the average merc—the determination in his eyes. He wanted something deeper than a mercenary did. He walked up to the stranger and asked him what his business was in Chicago.

“To speak with the ruler of this city,” said Grakus. “Is he in?”

Wilco shook his head. “You’ve got no idea where you are, drifter.”

The commander seemed to understand the possibility of this being a man not to mess around with. A small possibility, but a risk not worth taking. Not for such an important man as he. But neither would an important man see himself beguiled by a common looter who was too stupid to know where he was.

“Maybe,” said Grakus. “Or maybe I have a message your leader would be very upset not to receive.”

Wilco grabbed the much smaller man by his black scarf. “Drifters don’t speak to the host. I do. Any message you got goes through me.”

Looking up at the bigger man, Grakus, his eyes peering over his red sunglasses. “You’re a lot smarter than you sound. Has anyone ever told you that, commander?”

Wilco glared at him a moment, then let him go, spit on the ground, nodded to his driver. He returned to the gun on the roof of his truck as his men pushed Grakus into the back seat.

Soldiers piled in around him, each with a gun pointed at his head. But Grakus wasn’t looking at them. He looked out the window as the vehicle rolled through the gate. He couldn’t see much at his angle, but he didn’t need much. The shuffling feet of desolate pedestrians was enough to express the atmosphere out there.

There was a lot of work underway to turn those frowns upside-down.

By the time the truck stopped, Grakus couldn’t see people anymore. The soldiers guided him out. They had arrived at a tall building. “American College of Surgeons” was etched on a column near the entrance.

Wilco leapt from the truck as Grakus was cuffed. “We call this place the Kid’s Table,” he said into Grakus’s ear. “It’s where people go when they don’t behave.”

Grakus whispered back, “Leave me with the craziest head of lettuce in this building; I will always be the baddest little boy you’ve ever seen.”

Wilco nodded. “There’s this one guy I know… a couple of months ago, we gave him a prisoner to question. We needed information on a band of revolutionaries who don’t like our host. Eventually he cracked, but… shit, we forgot all about him. And this guy I know, he just kept mutilating him. Even after he screamed that he was ready to talk. He screamed for days. Died a few days after he couldn’t scream anymore.”

The soldiers took Grakus into the building. It was dim and smelly—no place for such beautiful women as these nurses. There were lots of noises aside from their heels clapping. There was screaming and begging all around. And squealing, groaning, gargling, mad laughter and… somewhere down some far corridor, singing. The soldiers took him to a desk. The woman there stood straight.

“Commander Wilco. It’s a pleasure, sir.”

“Likewise, sugar,” said Wilco. He shoved Grakus forward. “One for Teddles. I hope he’s got nothing to do. This is important.”

Men who looked like doctors entered the lobby with a stretcher, and Wilco looked on as Grakus was placed in it, strapped down tightly. A nurse with big breasts began to wheel him forward, trying not to look at him. She seemed sad and ashamed.

Wilco and two of his men followed close.

Grakus watched the ceiling pass above him—light after light down yards of rusty pipes and dangling wires, drops of God-knows-what landing on him here and there.

A few corridors later, they stopped. Wilco opened a door for the nurse. The patient and his followers entered through a wall of cool, refreshing air.

“Feels good, doesn’t it?” Wilco whispered to Grakus. “We like our patients comfortable.”

Grakus nodded. It was a comfortable room indeed. Cozy, in fact. Finished blue walls, a shiny floor, and not a drop of blood in sight. The counters were black granite on oak cabinets with a stainless steel sink. A bright window.