MaddAddam 03 - MaddAddam

by Margaret Atwood

  “Which may be what they want,” says Rhino. “Lure us out the front, sneak in the back. Make off with the women.”

  “We’re not just packages,” says Swift Fox. “We can fight back! You can leave us a couple of sprayguns.”

  “Good luck with that plan,” says Rhino.

  “We need to move our whole group out of here when we go hunting for those guys,” says Crozier. “We can’t leave anyone behind. Take the Mo’Hairs too. If we’re all together, it’s harder for them to ambush us.”

  “But easier to stampede us,” says Zeb. “How fast can we all run?”

  “I’m not running,” says Rebecca. “And I need to point out here that there are three pregnant women in this crowd.”

  “Three?” says Zeb.

  “Ren and Swift Fox,” says Rebecca.

  “When did that happen?”

  “They told everyone else when you were checking the fences,” says Rebecca.

  “They got knocked up by elves overnight,” says Jimmy.

  “Not funny, Jimmy,” says Lotis Blue.

  “Point is, bad for them to run,” says Rebecca.

  “So, we can’t keep our end of the deal? We can’t go into battle with the pig militia?” says Shackleton. “They’ll have to do it alone?”

  “They can’t,” says Jimmy. “They’re fucking lethal but they can’t climb stairs. If the pigs chase those Painball guys into the city, they’ll just move up a floor and shoot down. The pigoons will be decimated.”

  “Crozier’s right, we should all relocate,” says Toby. “To a more secure place, with doors that lock.”

  “Like where?” says Rebecca.

  “We can go back to the AnooYoo Spa,” says Toby. “I holed up in there for months. There’s still some basic food left.” And maybe some seeds, she thinks: I can collect seeds, for the garden. And more bullets, she’d left some there.

  “They’ve got real beds,” says Ren. “And towels.”

  “And solid doors,” says Toby.

  “Could be a plan,” says Zeb. “Vote?”

  Nobody votes no.

  “Now we must prepare,” says Katuro.

  “First we should bury the piglet,” Toby says. “It would be right. Under the circumstances.”

  So they do.

  Fallback

  It takes them a day to get organized. There are many things they need to take with them: the basic supplies for cooking, a change of daywear bedsheets, duct tape, rope. Flashlights, headlamps: most of the batteries are still good. The sprayguns, of course. Toby’s rifle. And any sharp-edged tools, because you wouldn’t want such things as knives and picks to fall into the hands of enemies.

  “Keep it light,” Zeb tells them. “If all goes well, we’ll be back here in a few days.”

  “Or else this place may be burned to the ground,” says Rhino.

  “So if you really need it, take it with you,” says Katuro.

  Toby worries about her hive of bees. Will they be all right? What could attack them? She hasn’t seen any bears, and the Pigoons have made a no-bees deal, or so she must believe. Do wolvogs like honey? No, they’re carnivores. Rakunks, perhaps, but they’d be no match for an angry hive.

  She covers her head and speaks to the hive, as she’s been doing faithfully each morning. “Greetings, Bees. I bring news to you and your Queen. Tomorrow I must go away for a short time, so I will not be talking with you for several days. Our own hive is threatened. We are in danger, and we must attack those that threaten us, as you would in our place. Be steadfast, gather much pollen, defend your hive if need be. Tell this message to Pilar, and ask for the help of her strong Spirit, on our behalf.”

  The bees fly in and out of the hole in the Styrofoam cooler. They seem to like it here in the garden. Several of them come over to investigate her. They test her floral bedsheet, find it wanting, move to her face. Yes, they know her. They touch her lips, gather her words, fly away with the message, disappear into the dark. Pass through the membrane that separates this world from the unseen world that lies just underneath it. There is Pilar, with her calm smile, walking forward along a corridor that glows with hidden light.

  Now, Toby, she tells herself. Talking pigs, communicative dead people, and the Underworld in a Styrofoam beer cooler. You’re not on drugs, you’re not even sick. You really have no excuse.

  The Crakers watch the departure preparations with interest. The children hang around the kitchen, staring at Rebecca with their huge green eyes, keeping a distance between themselves and her flitch of bacon and her dried wolvog jerky.

  The Crakers don’t seem to fully understand why the MaddAddams are moving house, but they’ve made it clear that they themselves are coming too.

  “We will help Snowman-the-Jimmy,” they say. “We will help Zeb.” “We will help Crozier, he is our friend, we must help him to piss better.” “We will help Toby, she will tell us a story.” “Crake wants us to go there,” and so forth. They themselves have no possessions, so there’s nothing they need to carry; but they want to carry other things. “I will bring this, it is a pot.” “I will bring this, it is a wind-up radio, what is it for?” “I will bring this sharp one, it is a knife.” “This one is a toilet paper, I will carry it.”

  “We will carry Snowman-the-Jimmy,” one trio announces, but Jimmy says he can walk.

  Blackbeard marches into Toby’s cubicle. “I will bring the writing,” he says importantly. “And the pen. I will bring those, for us to have there.”

  He views Toby’s journal as a joint possession of theirs, which is fine, thinks Toby, as it lets her follow his writing progress. Though sometimes it’s hard to get the journal away from him so she can write in it herself, and he has to be reminded not to leave it out in the rain.

  So far he’s concentrated mostly on names, though he’s also fond of writing THANK YOU and GOOD NIGHT. CRAK GOODNIT GOOD BAD FLOWR ZEB TOBY ORIX THAK YOU is a typical entry. Maybe one of these days she’ll gain some new insights into how his mind works, though she can’t say she’s had any blinding illuminations as yet.

  At sunrise the next day they set out from the cobb-house compound in the Tree of Life parkette. It’s an exodus, a move away from civilization, such as it is.

  Two Pigoons have arrived as escorts; the rest will meet them at the AnooYoo Spa, says Blackbeard. He’s got Toby’s binoculars, which he’s figured out how to use. Every once in a while he steps off to the side, lifts the binocs, focuses. “Crows,” he announces. “Vultures.” The Craker women laugh gently. “Oh Blackbeard, but you knew that without the eye tube things,” they say. Then he laughs too.

  Rhino and Katuro walk ahead with the Pigoons, followed by Crozier and the flock of Mo’Hairs. Some of them have bundles tied onto their backs, which is new for them, though they don’t seem to mind. With their human hair, curly and straight, and the lumpy packages on top of it, they look like avant-garde hats with legs.

  Shackleton stays in the middle of the procession, with Ren, Amanda, and Swift Fox, who are surrounded in their turn by most of the Craker women, attracted by their pregnant state. The Crakers make cooing noises, they smile and laugh and pat and stroke. Swift Fox appears to find this annoying, but Amanda smiles.

  The rest of the MaddAddamite group is behind them, and then the Craker men. Zeb brings up the rear.

  Toby walks near the Craker women, rifle at the ready. It seems a long time since she came this way with Ren, searching for Amanda. Ren must be remembering those days as well: she drops behind to join Toby, slipping her arm through Toby’s free left arm. “Thank you for letting me in,” she says. “At the AnooYoo Spa. And for the maggots. I would have died if you hadn’t taken care of me. You saved my life.”

  And you saved mine, thinks Toby. If Ren hadn’t stumbled along, what would she have done? Waited and waited, shut up inside the AnooYoo by herself, until she went bonkers or dried up of old age.

  They stick to the road that leads through the Heritage Park, heading northwest. There’s Pilar’s e
lderberry bush, covered with butterflies and bees. One of the Mo’Hairs grabs a mouthful of it on the way past.

  Now they’ve reached the eastern gatehouse – pink, Tex-Mex retro – and the high fence that encloses the AnooYoo grounds. “We came here,” Ren says. “That man was inside it. The Painballer, the worst one.”

  “Yes,” says Toby. It was Blanco, her old enemy. He’d had gangrene, but he was bent on murder despite that.

  “You killed him, didn’t you?” says Ren. She must have known at the time.

  “Let’s say I helped him enter a different plane of being,” says Toby. That was the Gardener way of putting it. “He would have died soon, but more painfully. Anyway, it was Urban Bloodshed Limitation.” First rule: limit bloodshed by making sure that none of your own gets spilled.

  She’d dosed Blanco with Amanita and Poppy: a painless exit, and better than he deserved. Then she’d dragged him onto the ornamental planting ringed with whitewashed stones, as a gift for the wildlife. Was the dose of Amanita strong enough to poison anything that ate him? She hopes not: she wishes the vultures well.

  The heavy wrought-iron gate is wide open. Toby had tied it shut when they’d left, but the rope has been chewed apart. The two Pigoons trot through first, snuffle around the walkway to the gatehouse, nose their way in. They come back out, then trot over to Blackbeard. Subdued grunting, eye-to-eye staring.

  “They say the three men have been there. But they are not there now,” he says.

  “Are they sure?” Toby asks. “There was a man in there earlier. A bad man. They don’t mean that one?”

  “Oh no,” says Blackbeard. “They know about that one. He was dead, on the flowers. At first they wanted to eat him, but he had bad mushrooms in him. So they did not.”

  Toby checks out the ornamental flowerbed. It used to say WELCOME TO ANOOYOO in petunias; now it’s a lush thicket of meadow weeds. Down among them, is that a boot? She has no desire to probe further.

  She’d left Blanco’s knife there, with the body. It was a good one: sharp. But the MaddAddamites have other knives. She only hopes the Painballers haven’t retrieved it; but they, too, must have other knives.

  Now they’re in the AnooYoo grounds proper. They keep to the main roadway, although there’s a forest path: Toby and Ren had taken it earlier, to stay in the shade. That was where they’d come upon Oates, slaughtered by the Painballers and minus his kidneys, strung up in a tree.

  He must still be there, thinks Toby. They should find him, cut him down, give him a proper burial. His brothers, Shackleton and Crozier, will welcome that. A true composting, with his own tree planted on top of him. Restore him to the cool peace of rootlets, the calm dissolve of earth. But now is not the time.

  Dogs barking, off in the woods. They stop to listen. “If those things come over wagging their tails, you need to shoot them,” says Jimmy. “Wolvogs; they’re vicious.”

  “Ammunition’s rationed,” says Rhino. “Until we find more.”

  “They won’t attack us now,” says Katuro. “Too many people. Plus two Pigoons.”

  “We must’ve killed most of them by now,” says Shackleton.

  They pass a burnt-out jeep, then an incinerated solarcar. Then a crashed pink mini-van with the AnooYoo logo on it: kissy lips, winky eye.

  “Don’t look inside,” says Zeb, who has already looked. “Not pretty.”

  And now there’s the Spa building up ahead, solid pink, still standing: no one has burned it down.

  The main force of the Pigoons is milling around outside, probably finishing off the organic kitchen garden, one-time source of garnishes for the clients’ diet salads. Toby remembers the hours she’d spent alone in that garden after the Flood, hoping to raise enough edible plant life so she could keep going. It’s all churned earth by now.

  At least she left the door unlocked.

  Shadow, mildew. Her old self, bodiless, wandering the mirrorless halls. She’d put towels over the glass to blot out her own reflection.

  “Come in,” she says to everyone. “Make yourselves at home.”

  Fortress AnooYoo

  The Crakers are entranced by the AnooYoo Spa. They walk carefully along the hallways, bending to touch the smooth, polished floor. They lift the pink towels that Toby had hung over the mirrors, glimpse the people in there, look behind the mirrors; then, when they realize the people are themselves, they touch their hair and smile to make their reflections smile too. They sit on the beds in the bedrooms, gingerly, then stand up again. In the gymnasium the children bounce on the trampolines, giggling. They sniff at the pink soap in the washrooms. There is still a lot of pink soap.

  “Is this the Egg?” they ask. Or the younger ones do. They have a faint memory of a similar place, with high walls and smooth floors. “Is this the Egg where we were made?” “No, the Egg is not the same.” “The Egg is far. It is more far than this.” “The Egg has Crake in it, the Egg has Oryx. They are not here.” “Can we go to the Egg?” “We do not want to go to the Egg now, it is dark.” “Does the Egg have the pink things in it, like this? The flower-smelling things we can eat?” “That is not a plant, that is a soap. We do not eat a soap,” and so on.

  At least they aren’t singing, thinks Toby. They haven’t sung much on the way here either. They’ve been looking and listening. They seem to know there is danger.

  Fortunately there haven’t been any leaks in the roof. Toby is happy about that: it means the beds, despite being slightly musty, are still sleepable. As de facto hostess, she assigns rooms. For herself she picks a Couples room. The Spa contained three of those, in the unlikely event that a husband and wife or equivalent would check in together, to undergo joint facials and cleansings and tweaks and polishes. But this offering was not popular, or not among heterosexual couples – usually women liked to have such adjustments done in private so they could emerge like butterflies from a perfumed cocoon and astound the multitudes with their ravishing beauty. Toby used to run this place, so she knows. She knows, also, about the disappointment felt by these women, when, despite the large amounts of money they’d spent, they did not look very much better.

  In the closet she stashes her belongings, such as they are. Her well-worn binoculars: she hasn’t had much use for them at the cobb house because there were few vistas there, but they’ll be essential now. Her rifle, and the ammunition. She left a cache of bullets here at the Spa, so she can top up her supply now. Once that’s gone the rifle will be of no use, unless she can learn to make gunpowder.

  She places her toothbrush in the ensuite bathroom. She needn’t have bothered bringing the one from the cobb house: there are a lot of toothbrushes at the Spa, all pink; and, in the supply room, a whole shelf of AnooYoo’s guest mini-toothpastes, two kinds: Cherry Blossom Organic, biodegradable with anti-plaque micro-organisms; and Kiss-in-the-Dark Chromatic Sparkle Enhancer.

  The second one claims to make your entire mouth glow in the dark. Toby never tried it out, but some women swore by it. She wonders how Zeb would react if he were to be confronted with a disembodied glowing mouth. Tonight will not be the night to find out, however: she’ll be on sentry duty, up on the rooftop, and a light-up mouth would make an excellent target for a sniper.

  Her old journals; she’s gathered them up from where she’d slept on one of the massage tables, out of some nun-like sense of penitence. Here they are, written in AnooYoo appointment books, with the kissy-mouth logo and the winking eye. She’d recorded the Gardener days, the Feasts and Festivals, and the phases of the moon; and the daily happenings, if any. It had helped to keep her sane, that writing. Then, when time had begun again and real people had entered it, she’d abandoned it here. Now it’s a whisper from the past.

  Is that what writing amounts to? The voice your ghost would have, if it had a voice? If so, why is she teaching this practice to little Blackbeard? Surely the Crakers would be happier without it.

  She slides the journals into a dresser drawer. She’d like to read them over sometime, but there�
��s no space for that right now.

  The toilets still have water in them, plus a lot of dead flies. She flushes: the collector barrels on the roof must be functional, which is a blessing. And there’s a vast supply of pink toilet paper, with flower petals pressed into it. Some of the earlier AnooYoo botanical-items toilet paper experiments had not gone well, as there had been some unexpected allergies.

  She needs to post a Boil Water advisory, however. Seeing water actually coming out of a tap, some people might get carried away.

  After washing her face and putting on a clean pink top-to-toe from the Housekeeping closet, she rejoins the others. There’s a heated discussion going on in the main foyer: what to do with the Mo’Hairs overnight? The broad AnooYoo lawn is now thigh-high in meadow growth, so grazing them in the daytime won’t pose a problem, but they’ll need to be sheltered or guarded once darkness falls: there may be liobams. Crozier is all for herding them into the gym: he’s become quite attached to them, and is worried. Manatee points out that the floor is slippery and they may skid and break their legs, not to mention the sheep-shit factor. Toby suggests the kitchen garden: it has a fence, which is still largely intact – the Pigoons have entered by means of the holes they dug, but these can be quickly filled. Then a sentry on the rooftop can keep an eye on the flock and report any unusual bleating.

  But where will the Crakers sleep? They don’t like sleeping inside buildings. They want to sleep in the meadow, where there are a lot of leaves for them to eat as well. But with the Painballers on the loose and possibly in a hunting mood, that’s out of the question.

  “On the roof,” says Toby. “There are some planters up there in case they want a snack.” So that’s decided.

  The afternoon thunderstorm comes and goes. Once it’s over the Pigoons go for a dip in the swimming pool; the fact that it’s growing algae and waterweeds and has a lively population of frogs does not deter them. They’ve solved the problem of how to get in and out of it by shoving a collection of poolside furniture into the shallow end: the deck chairs make a sort of ramp, which provides a foothold. The younger ones enjoy splashing and squealing; the older sows and boars take brief dips, then watch over their piglets and shoats indulgently, lounging at poolside. Toby wonders if pigs get sunburn.