The Last Zoo

by Sam Gayton

  ‘That’s because you put your zephyr zone inside a damn enclosure,’ Pia mutters. She’s never heard of anything so crazy.

  Urette cackles, and Pia inwardly facepalms. She keeps forgetting that the old witch has amazing hearing. ‘It’s a little unconventional, I know. I’m not really a follower of procedures, though. And since no one ever comes here but me, I thought: Why not give the ’gantulas a little more play space? So I did. I gave them the whole ark.’ She cackles again and gestures around her tiny bubble with its see-through walls. ‘Now I’m the one in an enclosure.’

  Pia fakes a chuckle. The bubble is crammed with junk and dust and that sour old-person smell. For something so full, it feels empty and lonely too. On the shelves, the droopy plants are all in need of watering. The light from the bulb looks brown and wilted. Beads of yellowing cobmist glue cover everything, making each object look like a half-melted candle. A dead babbagantula, clenched up like a huge hairy fist, hangs in a jar of preserving fluid labelled ‘Betty’s clutch #27’.

  Squeezed in amongst all of this is Pia, sitting on a pile of plastic crates. She watches Urette, hunched over by her sink, whistling tunelessly through her teeth. She is making tea.

  Just as the kettle boils, a slip of paper zephyrs in front of Pia’s face and tumbles on to her lap. It’s blue, which means it comes from only one place.

  Stamped on the top are the words: From the desk of Director Siskin.

  Pia snatches it up and reads it as Urette chatters on with her back turned:

  The Director expects you back on your ark in thirty minutes.

  As in, not a moment after.

  Weevis.

  Pia can imagine his smug face as she reads this. She scrunches the scrip up in her palm and stuffs the balled-up note in her dungarees pocket. Facepalm.

  She doesn’t know how he found out she’s breaking curfew, and it doesn’t matter. How is this creepy old spider woman connected to the missing angels? She has about twenty-nine minutes to find an answer.

  Urette potters at the sink, bringing out two brown chipped mugs and plopping a bag in each one. She still wears her coat of giant-spider hair. Now it comes off and gets draped over the back of the single armchair.

  ‘I’m sorry for bothering you this late,’ Pia begins.

  ‘No bother, no bother.’

  ‘I just wanted to ask you—’

  ‘Don’t rush me now, don’t rush me.’ Urette turns and offers Pia a tin of canteen-pilfered biscuits. ‘You breathed in a lot of cobmist. You’ll cough it all up eventually, but we still need to degunk you.’ She smiles sweetly. ‘Don’t want you suffocating in your sleep now, do we?’

  Wow. Even trying to be friendly, Urette still manages to be mega-creepy.

  ‘Drink up.’ Urette hands Pia one of the mugs. The tea is dark green, with scummy bits on the surface.

  Closing her eyes, Pia takes a tiny sip. Ugh, bitter. She forces it down. Take deep breaths, she tells herself. I will not yurk, I will not yurk, not twice in one day.

  ‘Very nice, thank you.’ She forces a smile, hoping it doesn’t look too fake.

  ‘Is it OK?’ Urette says. ‘Would you like it sweeter? I know you kids like it sweet.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ Pia lies. ‘Delicious, thanks.’

  She takes a big gulp to make Urette feel better, and scalds her tongue. In the awkward silence, they both sit and sip their mugs. Urette opens her mouth and shuts it a few times, making her false teeth go clack.

  ‘How does your throat feel now?’ she asks eventually.

  ‘Much better, thanks.’ Which is true. The claggy feeling has almost gone.

  ‘It helps to talk a little too,’ Urette suggests.

  Pia hesitates. She’s totally in the dark. It might be better to make small talk first, see if Urette gives anything away. She might not want to share her connection to the disappearance – especially if she’s involved somehow. And there’s still almost half an hour before the boss’s deadline.

  She looks around for something to make chit-chat about. The dead babbagantula? Yuck, no. How about the old photo printouts Urette has tacked on the walls? Old people love talking about the past. The good old days, when they just hung out on the internet all day, photographing their lunch.

  ‘Are those pre-d?’ Pia points at them. Pre-d is shorthand for pre-detonation: before the reality bomb made the Seam.

  It’s all the chit-chat Urette needs. For the next ten minutes, she yanks the printouts off the walls and passes them to Pia: group shots of scientists atop the island’s peak; pictures of the mountain getting hollowed out for the r-bomb detonation; a young Urette – just a kid really – by the Free State flag; an i-era helicopter.

  Urette gives a commentary. ‘There’s me. There’s Jobs, our support drone. Very early model. You had to plug him in every six hours. Here’s one of Celeste. She was nice. I lent her my earrings the day she... well, you know. I wonder if they’re still in the Seam, in some way?’

  Celeste Lalande. Despite the gross tea and the filthy cabin and the giant spiders trying to prod her, Pia can’t help but feel a little bit in awe. Doctor Celeste Lalande... The inventor of the r-bomb.

  Urette notices Pia staring at the photo, and cackles. ‘I know what you’re thinking. How can we all be standing so close to the blast radius?! But we really had no idea back then of what unreality did to adult brains. We were all very smart people, but very naive. A little arrogant too, maybe.’

  ‘Like Marie Curie. She kept radioactive test tubes in her desk drawers.’

  ‘Ha! More like those archaeologists that uncovered Tutankhamun’s tomb. They all met grisly ends, one by one.’

  ‘I’m pretty sure that curse was made up,’ Pia says.

  ‘How fitting, then. So is the Seam. It’s pure fantasy.’ Urette sits back, stirring her tea with one finger. She licks it like a lollipop, then looks back to the group shot of men and women in lab coats.

  ‘I think fifteen of those twenty got mind-frayed,’ she says. ‘And of course, Celeste vanished completely.’ She points to the mountaintop in the photo’s background and tut-tuts. ‘We must seem very reckless to you.’

  Pia shrugs. ‘I mean, you guys did blow up the laws of reality.’

  ‘Ha ha, you’re right! How reckless can you get?! But then, who needs reality? Reality sucks! I grew up in San Silicio, so believe me, I know. No genies to wish up all the scrummy canteen food you’re used to. Just slop grown under LEDs. Just rat flu, and doom cults, and ohtwo factories scrubbing filthy air clean. I’m sure my fellow sprawlizen Ishan told you all about that.’ With a little titter, Urette wipes her eyes. ‘And I’m sure he’s told you how pointless it is too. This zoo, I mean. These arks. The whole project. Siskin’s grand search for a miracle. The world’s already dead, and we’re just the worms on the corpse.’

  Pia looks down at her mug, hoping to hide her blushes. She doesn’t want to think about when Ishan told her that. She has spent the last week trying to forget it had even happened.

  ‘That’s just doomsay,’ she mumbles.

  Any obsessive talk related to the end of the world is called doomsay. In the sprawl, it’s technically illegal.

  Urette cocks her head. ‘Did you know there are literally hundreds of sprawl-tung phrases that are doomsay-influenced? Like “nihilishus”.’

  Pia nods. ‘ “Anything that tastes, looks, or feels like nothing.” ’

  ‘Ah, so Ishan’s taught you some, has he? Does he ever tell you to “null it”?’

  ‘Yeah. It’s like a blend of “shut up” and “whatever”.’

  Urette grins. ‘Sort of. Only in a much bigger, more pessimistic sense than both, like: “we’re all going to be a scattering of radioactive ash in a couple of decades, so I really can’t be bothered to deal with you.” ’

  Pia actually laughs. This is sort of surprising. She keeps expecting the
old zookeeper to reset back into her default mode of creepy, but Urette is actually being kind of nice. Even funny.

  Maybe for her, the aura of creepiness she exudes is sort of like a gargantula’s cobmist: a disguise (Pia’s theory again).

  ‘Why is doomsay illegal in the sprawl?’ Pia asks.

  ‘Because it’s powerful. Everyone knows the world is ending, but no one speaks about it. In the sprawl, people just carry on as normal, whilst the ohtwo factories fail around them. So when you doomsay, you have to be careful who hears you. You might start a fight. Or a cult.’

  ‘Don’t they know the zoo will save the world?’

  Urette wrinkles her face. ‘That’s what they’re told. I doubt anyone believes it. Do you?’

  ‘Siskin says we will.’

  ‘That isn’t what I asked.’

  Pia is quiet, and Urette cackles. Then her features relax and she settles back into her chair.

  ‘This...’ she says. ‘I’ve missed this.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Being listened to.’

  Oh Seamstress, that is actually pretty sad. Pia thinks of Urette on her own at the canteen, day after day. When was the last time she talked with someone? Actually talked? An appraisal with Siskin? That’s mainly being talked at.

  Urette and Pia sit in the bubble quietly for a while. From outside, there comes the soft pat, pat of gargantulas tiptoeing through the ship. When Urette looks up again, her expression has changed. It is less soft, somehow. There is a knowing glint in her eye. ‘OK, Pia.’

  ‘OK what?’

  ‘Ask me.’

  ‘Ask you what?’

  ‘Whatever you came here to ask, of course.’

  Pia lags, the way she usually does when surprised. ‘I, uh. Um, well—’

  ‘Oh, come on, girl. You didn’t break curfew and come halfway across the zoo just to mumble at me, did you?’

  Pia blushes. No, she hasn’t. She takes a deep breath.

  ‘The angels told me something about you.’

  Bagrin has been quiet all this time, but suddenly he speaks up. Don’t tell her any more than that. Not yet. Feed her the story bit by bit, and wait for her reaction.

  Seems like good advice. Pia takes it, grudgingly. She stays quiet, and she watches.

  So far Urette’s eyebrows are raised, and that is about it.

  ‘And?’ says the old zookeeper.

  ‘And it was about Narnia,’ Pia says, remembering the words from Threedeep’s dream. ‘And the wardrobe.’

  With a plop-clink sound, Urette’s false teeth drop out of her open mouth and into her tea.

  Et voilà, Bagrin says.

  Shut up, Bagrin, let me handle this.

  ‘What do they mean?’ Pia asks.

  ‘Kidsth theeth dayth.’ Urette shakes her head and fishes out her teeth from the mug and sucks them back in. ‘Ask your nanabug. What else did the angels say?’

  Pia shrugs. ‘Answer my question, and I’ll answer yours.’

  Spoken like a true infernal. Bagrin sends her a chimera: an image of Pia on a stage in a glittery ballgown, applauding tuxedoed devils all around her, accepting a golden award shaped like a pitchfork.

  ‘The Chronicles of Narnia are children’s stories I used to read,’ Urette says. ‘There’s a wardrobe in one of them.’

  That’s only half an answer, Bagrin says. She’s not telling the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

  One side of Pia’s face is uncomfortably hot. Should she really let the devil sit in on this conversation? She doesn’t really know how to stop him. And he is proving to have his uses.

  ‘Narnia is what Celeste and I called the Seam,’ Urette grumbles after Pia prods her a little more. ‘Back before it existed, when it was only theoretical. And before the detonation, when we were building the r-bomb, we both worked in a government facility called the Weapons Research Development Bunker. WRDB. Wardrobe. You see?’

  ‘Only sort of.’

  Urette clicks her teeth in annoyance. ‘Narnia is a fantasy land full of made-up creatures,’ she snaps. ‘You climb into the wardrobe to get there. Get it now?’

  And now it is Pia’s turn to spill her tea. The mug drops from her hands and rolls across the floor. Urette glares at the stain spreading across her carpet, then gets creakily to her feet, muttering under her breath.

  Pia barely notices.

  She knows where the angels are.

  Back inside the Seam.

  18

  THROUGH THE WARDROBE

  Urette scuttles around the kitchen for a tea towel, and Pia holds an emergency discussion with Bagrin in her head.

  How interrrrresting, says the devil.

  Interesting?! Pia’s thoughts shriek. They’ve gone into the Seam, Bagrin! Anything could happen to them. Literally anything. That’s the point of glitch. What if they come out, and they’re not angels any more, or they can’t do miracles, or they don’t want to help?

  The devil chuckled. Angels will be OK. They are hard to kill. Bagrin tried many times.

  That was in the real world, not in the Seam. Do you know how many imagerations of angels Mum created before these two, Bagrin? Hundreds.

  She is babbling, she knows it, and babbling to devils is a very bad idea, but in her panic she ploughs on regardless.

  It took Mum hundreds of trips to the Seam, and each time she came out the angels she’d imagined didn’t last. They floated away because humans weren’t interesting to them, or were too weak, or only lived for minutes, or turned into devils.

  Bagrin interrupts. We prefer the term ‘upgraded’ into devils.

  Pia stands up as Urette pats the spilled tea down. There’s about ten minutes before the ultimatum on Weevis’s note runs out, and she has just discovered that the angels are in a place of literally unimaginable danger, and she can do absolutely nothing about it. Not tonight, and probably not ever.

  Don’t be so sure, Bagrin says. There’s always a way. It just depends how badly you want it.

  What does Bagrin mean?

  We’ll explain, the devil says, reading her thoughts. But first, we need to get you out of here.

  Suddenly Pia finds her nose itching.

  Pretend to sneeze, Bagrin says.

  Is she really doing this? Is she really so desperate that she’ll take orders from a devil?

  It turns out that yes, yes she is. Scrunching up her face as much as she can, Pia goes ‘Choo!’ in a high squeaky voice.

  It doesn’t sound particularly convincing. Sneezing feels like tears or laughter: something that requires real talent to fake. Yet the effect on Urette is as instant as the words ‘Narnia’ and ‘Wardrobe’.

  ‘Are you sick?’ she asks sharply, rearing back in her armchair. ‘Do you feel sick?’

  Tell her you think you have a cold. It’ll help, Bagrin promises.

  Pia does as she is told. Urette stands up so quickly her knees make clicking sounds.

  ‘You have to go,’ she says hurriedly, seizing her gargantula coat from behind the armchair and shrugging it on. ‘Gargantulas have very weak immune systems. I didn’t know you weren’t well.’

  ‘I didn’t know myself.’ Pia tries another fake sneeze.

  Urette flings tissues at her. ‘I’ll bring Vizier,’ she says, scuttling out of the bubble. ‘Can’t have you contaminating the ark further.’

  Pia guesses Vizier is the ark’s genie.

  He is, says Bagrin. He will zephyr you out of here. See how Bagrin helped?

  ‘Yes,’ Pia says drily. ‘The Devil just wants to help out. I don’t know why he gets such bad press.’

  Bagrin is a devil, not the Devil.

  ‘Uh-uh. Not true. If you didn’t want to be known as the Devil, you shouldn’t have eaten Gotrob.’

  Gotrob still lives, in a way. We inc
orporated him.

  Pia cocks her head, surprised. So eating Gotrob was more of a hostile takeover for Bagrin. Makes a lot of sense. Devils conduct themselves in a very business-like manner: advertising their services (with chimeras and whispers), finding customers, making deals, and buying out rivals.

  If Gotrob is part of Bagrin, that means Pia is in league with two devils, and in double the trouble.

  Not in league, Bagrin says. No contract. More of a ‘free trial period’.

  ‘Liar. You don’t give anything for free.’

  True, Bagrin admits.

  ‘Why are you even helping me, then?’

  Market research.

  ‘Research into what?’

  His answer gives her chills: You.

  The chimera he sends her now is different to all the others. It has been tailored. Instead of Pia at its centre, there is a plan. A shining diamond of a plan. And in its glitter, Pia sees all manner of wonderful things.

  A way to rescue the angels.

  A way to pass her psych test.

  A way to make Mum and Dad proud.

  Would you like it? Bagrin’s honeyed voice asks. Bagrin will tell you for – oh, almost nothing. It is a perfect plan, you see, but oh so delicate. The slightest flaw will ruin it, and waste all of Bagrin’s hard work.

  Would you like it?

  Do you want it?

  ‘No,’ Pia lies.

  But you want to save your angels.

  Isn’t that what you want?

  Isn’t it?

  It is. More than anything. More than almost anything. But Bagrin’s price—

  Price? Bagrin reads her thoughts. There is no price. It is Bagrin who will be paying you.

  You can have the plan, Pia.

  And in return, you work for Bagrin. You do all you can to make sure Bagrin’s plan happens. You obey everything Bagrin says.

  Pia recoils. ‘Like a slave obeys their master?’

  Like an employee obeys their boss, Bagrin replies. Work for Bagrin, and Bagrin will pay you in angels.

  Well?

  Deal?

  Somehow, Pia manages to turn away from him. Manages to block the door to her thoughts and push the devil away. No, she thinks. No.