The Last Mayor Box Set

by Michael John Grist

He walked down the road, past another shattered cairn where two cars had been rolled into the wiry brown bushes. His head ached from the cold already. He walked until he reached a home, half-buried in snow and choked with dry brown strangleweed, but as he'd expected all the vehicles were gone. He wouldn't know how to operate them anyway. He wasn't an engineer and hadn't spent ten years learning how to jumpstart a decayed engine. He didn't know how to siphon old fuel and make it usable, or how to generate electricity to charge the battery, and he didn't have the time right now to learn.

  But he found a bicycle. A little WD-40 from a spray can in the garage had it working in no time. It would be slow and treacherous going over icy roads, but he had time enough for that. The ocean would take three to four months to cross the Atlantic, by Anna's own estimate, overheard on the hacked radio. He could cover the distance to her camp at the Portland Jetport in perhaps a week.

  He would find a place to live. He would track them, and watch them, and work to determine how best to accomplish his mission.

  The bicycle wobbled; he hadn't ridden for a long time. Coasting down the drive he almost toppled into a snow bank, but managed to right himself at the last moment, taking a long, gentle curve out across the road's two lanes, cutting a fresh trail across the swathe cut by Anna's convoy of two RVs, a Jeep and a Porsche.

  Their tires had cleared a path for him, for now marking the trail forwards. He wavered and pedaled and pressed on, toward the people who might have killed his best friend, and who might yet be able to save him.

  Farsan.

  The pedals turned. The hours passed. Gradually, hour by hour, he left his longtime prison behind.

  8. WITZGENSTEIN

  Witzgenstein wore jeans and a heavy brown leather jacket over a red check shirt. She had tall brown leather boots and wore her golden hair tied back tightly under a cozy brown Stetson. At her belt she wore a pistol and a walkie. In her hand she carried a bag that didn't bear any resemblance to the bag she'd brought with her from New LA.

  That had been a bright neon fabric, with many pockets and straps; a practical bag for carrying things. This looked like a crudely sewn carpet-bag, all part of her image offensive. In all she looked like a homesteader just stepped out of the Olde American West.

  Shit, thought Anna.

  She looked good. She'd always been pretty, in an office girl/cowgirl-on-the-weekends kind of way. Here she'd plainly embraced it. If ever she was going to sing Country, it was now. Anna braced herself for another blast of Star Spangled Banner.

  Witzgenstein came out of the RV and surveyed the people of New LA who'd gathered for this moment, three days to the minute Anna walked out of the Habitat court hall. They stood in a semicircle on the snowy, sloping field where once a gun turret had guarded its payload below, gathered like the villagers at an execution.

  Witzgenstein's eleven filed out after her. Samuel, as proud as ever. Alan and Lin, Akela, Georgina and Harris, Cynthia and the others. Anna would miss Cynthia most of all, but then they'd always known where her loyalties lay.

  Witzgenstein stopped a few yards from Anna, facing the crowd, with her eleven followers behind her. Shit. There was nothing to do about it now. Janine and her eleven disciples, sent into the wilderness by the tyrant Herod/Amo. The damn narrative wrote itself.

  Janine's eyes shone with a kind of bright joy. She was happy, there was no doubt. She felt like, perhaps, she'd finally won.

  The wind rustled over the hard pack snow. Anna's little toe itched. Janine looked at her, then at Amo by her side, and Lara in her chair, at Jake then Feargal and on down the line in both directions, meeting everyone's eyes. Cursing them? Blessing them? Perhaps she was waiting for Amo to say something, but that was plainly not going to happen. Anna looked to the side. He had his emotionless mask in place, just the same as when they'd killed the Habitat.

  "You've asked me to leave," Witzgenstein said at last. Her voice was resonant in the cold air, carrying over the killing field and the road. She would have been an excellent politician. Her confidence was unnerving. "You've voted, and I have honored that vote. I'm ready to leave. My people are ready to leave, to a promised land in my home state of Oregon. We'll settle in the Willamette Valley, north of Beaverton. I've prayed on it, and we're ready. But there's one thing I need, before I can go."

  She let that hang. Amo's face was a stone.

  "Say it," Anna said. "You have your moment, Janine."

  Witzgenstein's poise didn't slip an inch. She focused her bright eyes on Amo.

  "Our Mayor," she said, as if presenting him to an audience for applause. "Last Mayor of America, Amo. I want to hear it from you. I want you to tell me why I have to leave, when we were in the middle of a Council-agreed court, hearing testimony on your many crimes. I want you to tell me, and everyone here today, why I'm the criminal. Not your yapping dog," she gestured to Anna, "but you. Then I'll go."

  The air grew thick. All eyes turned to Amo. Here was where the fulcrum could crack under the pressure. Was the reason strong enough? Had Janine really done enough to deserve it?

  Amo gazed back at Witzgenstein with his dead eyes, using his dead, stony face. He would pay a cost later, Anna knew. He would never forget this.

  "I don't want you to go, Janine," he said eventually, in a warm and mournful voice that sounded strange coming out of that impassive mask of a face. "Believe this or not, despite everything, I like you. I respect you. I was moved when you sang with us in Pittsburgh. You were as brave as anyone in the face of that. Throughout your nine years with New LA you've fought for what you believe countless times, and I respect that too. Yet you've also done things you should not be proud of. You've campaigned to split New LA, Anna was right about that. You've spread stories about me that can most charitably be called half-truths. Anna called them lies, intended to discredit me and allow you to assume the leadership of our group. She may be right. You may have some valid points. I am the duly elected mayor, but I am not under the illusion that I am perfect, or that every choice I've ever made was right. I've made mistakes, but I am not a murderer, and you cannot expect me to stand by while you and your people brand me one falsely."

  He took a deep, measured breath.

  "I don't want you to go, Janine. But ten years ago I faced a similar choice with a man named Julio, and I made the wrong decision. I let him stay. He was punished, but not enough. The seeds of a deep cruelty were in him then, and we didn't stamp them out, and I've regretted it ever since. There's a line here. I don't say that you are like Julio, Janine, but I see some of that same cruelty in you. You are ambitious. You do want to rule, and you were willing to cut me down to do so. You were willing to break New LA to do so. Now, here, New LA is broken regardless. I am sorry for that, but I can't stop it. I wouldn't try to force you or your people to stay. But I wish you well. I hope that in leadership you will become just and kind, and that you and your people will thrive. I hope that someday lines of communication and perhaps trade will open again between our peoples. I hope we can both find success and happiness in our own worlds, though for now, that must be apart."

  Janine looked at him. He'd taken the sting out a little, as Amo always did. He'd even left the door open a crack, hinting she may be able to return at some point. Anna didn't like that, but then that was why he was Amo and she was Anna. His judgment was good, and she trusted him, because this was a message not only to Witzgenstein, but also to his own people.

  Still, it was a wound. Anna felt it already. There'd been strength in unity, but to lose twelve people in this way? It was a wound that would take a long time to heal.

  Witzgenstein nodded.

  "You speak well," she said at last, projecting her voice so everyone could hear. "You always did, Amo, for a comic book artist. You say you like me? You say you don't want me to leave. So know this. I deplore you. I deplore the sloppy, faithless, morally abject way you have run this community for too long. You have brokered for power with the best of them. If I learnt manipulation, misrepresentation and t
he power of half-truths, then I learnt them from you. You are a murderer. You have committed genocide. How many living people have I killed? None. How many of the ocean have I slaughtered? None. You cannot say the same. Your hands are bright with their blood. How many false idols have I created, marked with my own name so that my legend might be crowed back and forth across the rooftops of the world? None. You call me power-hungry, you claim I have some deep-seated drive to rule over others, but who here forced an election in the middle of our escape? Who else here toyed with our very survival so cravenly, just to satisfy his urge to be the constant center of all our lives?"

  She looked around at the people of New LA. There was compassion in her eyes now, a well-acted warmth Anna had rarely seen before.

  "You call me a liar. But is it a lie if I believe with all my heart that what I've said is true? If I fear that it is true? Masako is dead. Julio is dead." She pointed at Amo. "His rivals die, and here he is still, last mayor of America, still. That is the brand of a dictator. And now he sees Julio's cruelty in me? Julio was a rapist, a murderer, a torturer of women and children; do you see those things in me? Of the two leaders standing before you now, in whom do you see those things the most? Who has killed and who hasn't? Who has murdered to eliminate a rival? Who has sacrificed others to stay alive? Who is responsible for the deaths of three thousand people in the bunker below us?"

  Her eyes were bright. She looked at each of them in the crowd as if they might give an answer. Nobody spoke. Anna was dumbfounded. This was good, better than she'd expected. Janine would have been an inspirational mayor, and no mistake.

  She stabbed a finger at Amo.

  "He saw those terrible things in me. In me! So I warn you all, be careful, for some day he may see them in you too. He saw them in a man named Don, and now Don is dead; become one of Amo's many boasts. Murder is a sin, Amo, have you never learnt that? He saw them in Masako when she attempted to flee his terrible threat, and now Masako is dead; victim of his cruel, calculating command. He is a cold and ruthless killer, and despite all his attempts to veneer himself with civility, to appear more gracious and humble than he really is, to masquerade as a good, gentle soul, the truth shines through and I have seen it all along."

  She looked around a final time, staring at them each for a good, hard-eyed few seconds. "I pity you. I pity the choices you make and the life that lies ahead. How many more thousands will die for Amo to feel safe? How many more living people will be murdered, how many more of the ocean slaughtered, how many more families torn apart?" She looked to Alan and Lin. "I won't have it. If he wants to label me like Julio and write that into his myth for you to spread around the world, then let him. If you wish to stand by a man who does such things, I can only let you. If, however, you are keen to find a better way forward, my door will always be open. You will be made welcome. There is a place for you in Oregon, no matter your race, creed or faith. I am not the demon he has painted me as. I am, and always have been since even before he brought the apocalypse down on all our heads, a public servant. I have been seeking to remove from our body the single original sin that has stained us and condemned us all for so long."

  She pointed.

  "Amo. This man. So no, I don't like you, Amo. I don't respect you. I don't wish you well, nor have I any desire to feel your infecting, murderous touch again. I am glad that I have finally escaped from your grasp. To all who remain, I wish you good luck. Watch your tongue, lest you find yourself accused of speaking mistruths. Watch your back, lest you find a gun pressed against it, compelling you to leave, branding you another Julio. And remember that always, whenever you are ready, my door will be open. The land is fertile in Oregon, the winters and summers are mild, it is the perfect place to begin to rebuild. I lived there all my life before the world ended, and my family lived there for three generations. It is a good place, not like that cradle of sin, Los Angeles. Your home base is a movie theater. I feel sorry for you all, to follow this false messiah. Goodbye."

  She turned and walked back to her RV, leaving a stunned silence behind. Her eleven disciples cleaved smoothly to allow her through, as if they'd practiced the motion, then followed her to their three RVs. They filed in, silently, seriously, with intent. The engines started, and in a moment they were driving away.

  Anna turned to Amo. He was pale but stony still. She turned to the people. They were all pale, all weaving in place. She could say something like, 'Imagine how bad this would have been if we'd waited a few years? Imagine the pain of that separation?' but she didn't. It would be trying to patch up a raw wound with sticking tape; completely insufficient. Every thing Witzgenstein had said had a grain of truth at its heart. Those grains would sink deep and take root. She'd feared it and it had happened, and she'd played her own part in bringing it about.

  There was nothing to say now, nothing to do but to stand back, to allow the Council to do its work, to avoid any semblance of behaving as Janine had charged, lest one of their people take her up on her offer.

  Oregon. Anna kicked herself.

  Witzgenstein was clever, choosing a neighboring State, close enough that the flight from New LA would only take a single day's drive. She was clever to stand behind her lies, not allowing her rumors to be dismissed as just her personal ambition. Now it was all a question of branding. She was on a holy war against Amo and anyone like him. He was a demon and she was an angel.

  And Amo, what did he have? New LA. Movies. His comics, spreading around the world, but could they compare? What could he say now, after she'd damned his message so completely? What comic book could make this all right? It was a question of hope, and that was Amo's area, not hers.

  She looked to him. Now was the time for some uplifting speech, surely? There was nothing she could think of to say that would help. More threats of punishment would do nothing, neither would mocking Witzgenstein's rhetoric, not when she'd clearly moved hearts and minds here today. She had to be taken seriously, even absent. She had been a part of their community for nine years, almost since the beginning, and her dramatic departure would be leaving the deepest, most lasting wound of all.

  Anna watched Amo and waited. If anyone would know what to say, it was him. The sound of the RVs droned steadily into the distance, disappearing down the narrow road and into the snowy forest.

  Amo turned to her, and in his eyes she saw the truth. This was everything he'd feared, and why he'd never done this before. This was why he'd tolerated Witzgenstein's rumors and lies and attempts to secede for so long, because beating her came at too high a cost. The victory was entirely Pyrrhic.

  He didn't speak to any of that. He didn't say anything hopeful, or bright, or inspirational for the future. He didn't say a word. Instead he simply turned and walked away.

  FUTURE

  9. WAITING

  Anna rolled up and down the concourse in her wheelchair, frustrated beyond belief. Ravi had given up walking with her and making some pretense of pushing the wheelchair's handles. She went faster than he could keep up with anyway.

  Amo had been on the call alone with 'Lucas' for hours. Three times she'd checked with Jake, who'd confirmed with Sulman on a secondary frequency that they were still talking. They were. The signal was live, with Amo talking one way and this man, this alleged survivor of Salle Coram, typing the other.

  Fifty times she'd rolled the whole length of the terminal, from the East Terminal and Gate 1 to the West Terminal and Gate 43. Her palms ached from pressing on the wheel rims and her shoulders throbbed from using muscles not used to this demand. Still she couldn't stop and didn't want to.

  She'd been right there, ready to crush his throat. Now he was pouring poison into Amo's ear and she was out here, waiting. It was bullshit.

  She went by Ravi sitting by Gate 23, trying to disguise how closely he was watching her. Feargal passed by, walking his own patrol with an AK47 cradled across his chest. Outside she could see Ollie driving his luggage cart around the runways. Wanda was out by the RVs, watching for other int
ruders with Peters beside her, though Anna was confident there wasn't anyone else out there.

  This man was alone. He'd listened in on their transmissions and now he was trying to manipulate them. She didn't know what his story was, but every second he was spinning it to Amo without her there felt like another layer built of BS she'd have to smash down. It was Witzgenstein all over again, and she should have just let him die at the start.

  Her feet ached. She rolled on.

  At last the walkie in her lap crackled.

  "Anna?"

  It was Amo. She let the wheels coast and answered.

  "I'm here."

  "Come on in. There's a lot we need to discuss."

  She came. Tucked away near Gate 31, the quarantine room was back to working operation, with the lights at full brightness and the clean room air filters running in the background. Inside it was still a mess with blood on the floor and walls, though someone had swept up the glass and the work area around the electron microscope had been tidied.

  Anna rolled over to the man sitting upright on his workbench bed. Lucas.

  He looked back at her. His face was still pale, with bedraggled brown trails of hair on his forehead, but the haunted look was gone from his eyes. Facing him was the screen with Amo sitting on the other side, in the comms room in New LA. He looked to be the haunted one now; weary and sad.

  "There's a lot to tell, Anna," he said, his voice clear but heavy. "The record's in the chat log and you can read that yourself, but here's the summary."

  He gave the summary. Anna listened through it, at first disbelieving, then stunned, then feeling some of the resignation that Amo himself so plainly felt. When it was over she looked at the man on his bench. It was hard to doubt his story; the details were too precise. Somehow he'd survived their purge of the MARS3000 bunker. Perhaps he'd stumbled upon a cure. Now he'd followed them here, looking to recapture the cure he'd lost.