MaddAddam

by Margaret Atwood

  "Nail polish, painkillers, toothbrushes! Look, tweezers!" she's saying now.

  "Looks like you cleaned the place out," says Lotis Blue.

  "There wasn't that much left," says Swift Fox. "Looters were through, looks like they were interested in the pharmaceuticals. The Oxy, the BlyssPluss pills, anything with codeine."

  "Not much use for the hair products?" says Lotis Blue.

  "No. And the girl stuff - they didn't take that," says Swift Fox. She starts unloading the packages of Heavy Days and tampons and Slimlines. "I made the guys carry some in their own packs. They scored some beer too. Now that was a minor miracle."

  "Why did it take so long?" Toby asks. Swift Fox smiles at her, not snidely. Instead she's too friendly, too guileless, like a teenager who's broken curfew.

  "We got kind of trapped," she says. "We poked around and gathered stuff, but then in the afternoon, right before we were going to head back, there was a herd of those huge pigs - the ones that used to try raiding the garden before we shot some of them.

  "At first they were just lurking along behind us, but when we'd finished in the drugstore and were coming out, we saw they were heading us off. So we ran back into the drugstore, but the front windows were smashed, so there was nothing to keep them out. We managed to get up onto the roof through a little trapdoor in the storeroom ceiling - they can't climb."

  "Did they look hungry?" says Ren.

  "How can you tell with a pig?" says Swift Fox.

  They're omnivorous, thinks Toby. They'll eat anything. But hungry or not, they'd kill in spite. Or for revenge. We've been eating them.

  "So then?" says Ren.

  "We stayed up on the roof for a while," says Swift Fox, "and then the pigs came out of the drugstore and saw we were up on the roof. They'd found a carton of potato chips, they dragged it outside and had a party, keeping an eye on us the whole time. They were flaunting those chips: they must've known we were hungry. Zeb said to count them in case they split up into groups, with some of them creating a distraction and the others waiting to ambush us. Then they went off to the west, not walking but trotting, as if they'd decided on a goal. And we looked, and there was something over there. There was smoke."

  Every once in a while something in the city catches fire. An electrical connection, still attached to a solar unit; a pile of damp organics, going up in a fit of spontaneous combustion; a cache of carbon garboil, heated by the sun. So smoke is not unheard of, and Toby says so.

  "This was different," says Swift Fox. "It was thinner, like a camping fire."

  "Why didn't you shoot the pigs?" says Lotis Blue.

  "Zeb said it would be a waste of time because there were too many of them. Also we didn't want to run out of energy packs for the sprayguns. Zeb thought we should go over there and take a look, but it was getting dark. So we stayed at the drugstore for the night."

  "On the roof?" says Toby.

  "In the storeroom," says Swift Fox. "We barricaded the door with some of the boxes in there. But nothing happened, except rats; there were a lot of those. Then in the morning we went over to where we saw the fire. Zeb and Black Rhino figured it was the Painball guys."

  "Did you see them?" asks Amanda.

  "We saw the remains of their fire," says Swift Fox. "Burnt out. Pig tracks all over it. Also what was left of our Mo'Hair. The one with the red braids? They'd been eating it."

  "Oh no," says Lotis Blue.

  "The Painballers or the pigs?" says Amanda.

  "Both," says Swift Fox. "But we didn't see any two guys. Zeb says the pigs must've chased them away. We did find a dead piglet, a little farther along: spraygun kill, Zeb said. A hind leg cut off. He says we should go back for it later because those pigs aren't likely to throw themselves in our way again, not after one of their young has been killed, so we should make the most of any stray pork. But we heard some of those crazy vicious dog splices, so maybe we'll have to fight them for it. It's a zoo out there."

  "If it really was a zoo there'd be fences," says Lotis Blue. "That Mo'Hair was stolen, right? It didn't just wander off. Those two guys must've been quite close to us and nobody saw them."

  "That's creepy," says Ren.

  Swift Fox isn't listening. "Look what else I got," she says. "Pregnancy tests, the kind where you pee on sticks. I figure we'll all be needing them. Or some of us will." She smiles, but she doesn't look at Toby.

  "Count me out," says Ren. "Who'd bring a baby into this?" She sweeps her arm: the cobb house, the trees, the minimalism. "Without running water? I mean ..."

  "Not sure you'll have that option," says Swift Fox. "In the long run. Anyway, we owe it to the human race. Don't you think?"

  "Who'd be the dads?" says Lotis Blue with some interest.

  "I'd say take your pick," says Swift Fox. "The line forms to the left. Just choose the one with the longest tongue hanging out."

  "Guess you'll be stuck with Ivory Bill then," says Lotis Blue.

  "Did I say longest tongue?" says Swift Fox. She and Lotis Blue giggle, Ren and Amanda do not.

  "Let's see those pee sticks," says Ren.

  Toby stares into the darkness. Should she follow Zeb? He must have finished his shower by now: the cobb-house showers are never long, unless it's Swift Fox, using up all the sun-warmed water. But Zeb is not in evidence.

  She stays awake in her cubicle, just in case. Moonlight silvering her eyes. Owls calling, in love with each other's feathers. Nothing she wants.

  Weeding

  No Zeb all morning. No one mentions him. She doesn't ask.

  Lunch is soup, with meat of some kind - smoked dog? - and kudzu with garlic. Polyberries that could be riper. A salad of mixed greens. "We need to figure out how to get some vinegar," says Rebecca. "Then I can do a proper dressing."

  "First we'd need to make the wine," says Zunzuncito.

  "I'm all for that," says Rebecca. She's put some arugula seeds into the salad, for a peppery effect. She has a plan for making a saltworks - an evaporating pan, down by the shore. Once the coast is clear, she says. Once the Painballers are accounted for.

  After lunch there's indoor time, undercover time. The sun's high and burning, the storm clouds not yet building. The air is sticky with moisture.

  Toby stays in her cubicle, trying to nap but sulking instead. No sulking allowed, she tells herself. No wound-licking. She can't even be certain that there's a wound to lick. Though she does feel wounded.

  Late afternoon, after the rain. Nobody's around, with the exception of Crozier and Manatee, standing sentinel. Toby's kneeling in the garden, killing slugs. It's an act that would once have made her feel guilty - For are not Slugs God's creatures too, Adam One would say, with as much claim to breathe the air, as long as they do it somewhere else in a place that is more congenial for them than our Edencliff Rooftop Garden? But right now killing them serves as an outlet for her. An outlet for what? She doesn't wish to ponder that.

  Worse, she finds herself editorializing. Die, evil slug! She drops each plucked slug into a tin can with wood ash and water in the bottom. They'd used salt earlier, but there's little of that to spare. Perhaps a swift blow with a flat rock would be kinder to the slugs - the wood ash must be painful - but she's not in the mood to weigh the relative kindness of slug execution methods.

  She yanks out a weed. How thoughtlessly we label and dismiss God's Holy Weeds! But Weed is simply our name for a plant that annoys us by getting in the way of our Human plans. Consider how useful and indeed edible and delicious so many of them are!

  Right. Not this one. Ragweed, from the look of it. She tosses it onto the pile of discards.

  "Hey there, Death Squad," says a voice. It's Zeb, grinning down at her.

  Toby scrambles to her feet. Her hands are dirty; she doesn't know what to do with them. Has he been sleeping in until now, or what? She can't ask what happened with Swift Fox, or if anything did: she refuses to sound like a shrew.

  "I'm glad you came back safe," she says. And she is glad, more glad t
han she can say, but even to herself her voice sounds fake.

  "Me too," he says. "Trip was more than I bargained for. Wiped me out, slept like a log, must be getting old."

  Is this a coverup? How suspicious can she get? "I missed you," she says. There. Was that so hard?

  He grins more. "Counted on that," he says. "Brought you something." It's a compact, with a small round mirror.

  "Thank you," she says. She manages a smile. Is it a guilt gift, an apology? The roses for the wife after the husband's furtive tumble with the office co-worker? But she's not a wife.

  "Got you some paper too. Couple of school notebooks, drugstore still carried them, I guess for pleeb kids who couldn't afford the Wi-Fi tabs. Couple of rollerball pens, pencils. Felt markers."

  "How did you know I wanted those?" she says.

  "I worked with a mind reader, once upon a time," he says. "Cursive's a Gardener skill, right? Figured you'd want to be keeping track of the days. Hey, what about a hug?"

  "I'd get you all muddy," she says, relenting, smiling.

  "I've been dirtier."

  How could she not put her arms around him, despite her slug-slippery fingers?

  And the sun is shining, and there are bees, among the yellow squash flowers. "You know what I really need?" she says to Zeb's smoky beard. "Some reading glasses. And a hive."

  "Consider them yours." There's a pause. "I wanted you to look at this."

  From inside his sleeve he pulls out a shoe: a sandal. It's handmade, with recycled materials: tire-tread sole, bicycle inner tube straps, silver duct tape accents. Although earth-stained, it's not very worn. "Gardener," Toby says. She remembers the fashion well, or rather the lack of it. Then she qualifies: "Or maybe it is. Not that other people didn't make those, I guess."

  Already she has a picture in her head: Adam One and the surviving Gardeners, hunkered down in one of their Ararat hidey holes - the old mushroom-growing cellars, for instance - cobbling away by candlelight at their handcrafted sandals like a burrowful of elves, nibbling on their stores of honey and soybits while above their heads the cities flamed and collapsed and the human race melted away to nothingness. She wants so much to believe it that it can't possibly be true.

  "Where did you find it?" she asks.

  "Near the piglet kill," Zeb says. "I didn't show the others."

  "You think it's Adam. You think he's still alive. You think he left this for you - or for someone - on purpose." These aren't questions.

  "So do you," says Zeb. "You think it too."

  "Don't hope too much," she says. "Hope can ruin you."

  "Okay. You're right. But still."

  "If you're right," she says, "wouldn't Adam be looking for you?"

  Blacklight Headlamp

  The Story of Zeb and Fuck

  You don't need to tell them a story every time. Come with me, instead. You can skip a night.

  I already skipped one night. I can't disappoint them too much. They might leave here and go back to the beach, and then they'd be easy to attack. Those Painballers would ... I'd never forgive myself if ...

  Okay. But make it short?

  I'm not sure that's possible. They ask a lot of questions.

  Tell them to piss off.

  They wouldn't understand that. They think piss is a good thing. Like fuck - they think there's an invisible entity called Fuck. A helper of Crake's in time of need. And of Jimmy's, because they heard him saying Oh fuck.

  I'm with them. Fuck! An invisible entity! A helper in time of need! Dead right!

  They want to hear a story about him. About him and you, actually. The two of you, having boyish adventures. You're both stars at the moment. They've been pestering me about it, that story.

  Can I listen in?

  No. You'd laugh.

  See this mouth? Virtual duct tape! If I had some Krazy Glue, I could ... Hey, I could glue my mouth to your ...

  Don't be so warped.

  Life is warped. I'm just in synch.

  Thank you for the fish.

  See, I am wearing the red hat, and I have listened to the round shiny thing I wear on my arm.

  Tonight I will tell you the story of Zeb and Fuck. As you have asked me to do.

  Once Zeb had left his home, where his father and his mother were not kind to him, he wandered around in the chaos. He did not know where to go next, and he did not know where his brother, Adam, was, who was his only friend and helper.

  Yes, Fuck was his friend and helper too, but he could not be seen.

  No, that is not an animal over there in the dark behind the shrub. That is Zeb. He is not laughing, he is coughing.

  So, Zeb's brother, Adam, was his only friend and helper that he could see and touch. Was Adam lost? Had he been stolen away? Zeb did not know, and that made him feel sad.

  But Fuck kept him company and gave him advice. Fuck lived in the air and flew around like a bird, which was how he could be with Zeb one minute, and then with Crake, and then also with Snowman-the-Jimmy. He could be in many places at once. If you were in trouble and you called to him - Oh Fuck! - he would always be there, just when you needed him. And as soon as you said his name, you would feel better.

  Yes, Zeb does have a bad cough. But you do not need to purr on him right now.

  Yes, it would be good to have a friend and helper like Fuck. I wish I had one too.

  No, Fuck is not my helper. I have a different helper, whose name is Pilar. She died, and took the form of a plant, and now she lives with the bees.

  Yes, I talk to her even if I can't see her. But she is not quite so ... she is not so abrupt as Fuck. She is less like thunder, and more like a breeze.

  I will tell you the story of Pilar some other time.

  So Zeb wandered deeper and deeper into dangerous places, where there were a great many bad men doing cruel and hurtful things. And then he came to a place where they cooked and ate the Children of Oryx, which he knew was wrong. And when he called on Fuck for advice, Fuck told him he had to leave that place. And then he lived in some houses with water all around, and he came to know a snake. But it was dangerous there; and he said, Oh Fuck! And Fuck flew through the air, and spoke to Zeb, and said he would help Zeb get away safely.

  That's enough of the story for tonight. You already know that Zeb got away safely because he's sitting right over there, isn't he? And he's very happy to be hearing this story. That is why he is laughing now, and not coughing any more.

  Thank you for saying good night. I am happy to know that you want me to sleep soundly, without bad dreams.

  Good night to you, as well.

  Yes, good night.

  Good night!

  That's enough. You can stop saying good night now.

  Thank you.

  Floating World

  One day Zeb woke up next to Wynette, the SecretBurgers meatslinger, and realized that she smelled like grilled patties and stale cooking oil. As he did himself, granted, but that was different, because it always is, says Zeb, when it's your own smell. But it's not what you want the object of your lust to smell like. This is a primate thing, it's basic, they've done the tests. Ask any of the MaddAddamite biogeeks here.

  And the onions, don't forget them, and the gruesome red sauce in squeeze bottles the customers craved so much it most likely had crack in it. When things got energetic and there was a brawl, someone would always go for that red sauce and start squirting it around. Then it would get mixed in with the scalp-wound splatter blood and you couldn't tell whether someone was bleeding to death or had only been doused with red sauce.

  The way that combo of smells would seep into their clothing and hair and even the skin pores was unavoidable, working where the two of them did. You couldn't wash off that stink even when there was shower water available, and it didn't blend too well with the cheap glop Wynette would rub on herself to neutralize it: Delilah, it was called, in lotion and cologne forms both, and it was heavy going, like wading through a sea of dying lilies, or a clutch of elderly church-wome
n of the kind that populated the Church of PetrOleum. Those two smells - the SecretBurgers, the Delilah - were okay if you were really hungry or really horny, or both. But not so sweet otherwise.

  Fuck, Zeb thought, lying there newly awakened that morning and inhaling the dire potpourri. There's no future in this.

  Or if there was a future, it was a negative one, because in addition to smelling funny Wynette was getting nosy. In the name of love and getting to know and understand the real, total him, she wanted to explore his deeper depths, figuratively speaking. She wanted his lid off. If she pried too hard - if she unwrapped one after another of his flimsy cover stories, which he hadn't constructed with enough care, he realized, and he vowed to do better next time he conned someone - if she did the unwrapping, there was nothing very convincing immediately underneath. And then if she kept going, she might make some guesses about where he'd come from and who he'd been originally, and then it would only be a matter of time before she weaselled on him so she could collect whatever greyland reward must be on offer, out there in the word-of-mouth rat networks of the pleeblands.

  Zeb had no doubt that there was such a reward. There might even be some of his biometrics circulating, such as photos of his ears, and animated silhouettes of his walk, and his schooltime thumbprints. Wynette wasn't connected gangwise so far as he knew, and luckily she was too poor to own a PC or a tab. But there was cheap netstuff available on time-rental in cafes, and she might do some identity surfing if he pissed her off enough.

  Already she was beginning to emerge from the initial sex-induced coma created by him through the magic of his first-contact-with-aliens puppy-on-speed gonadal enthusiasm. Young guys have no taste as such in sexual matters - no discrimination. They're like those penguins that shocked the Victorians, they'll bonk anything with a cavity, and Wynette had been the beneficiary in Zeb's case. Not to brag, but during their nightly tangles her eyes had rolled so far up into her head that she looked like the undead half the time, and the amplified rockband noises she made had caused thumping and banging both from the alcohol store on the ground floor and from whatever nestful of mournful wage slaves lived above them.