Bell understood. He sympathized. He'd been to zoos like that, too, in towns that weren't dying.
"Do you think they don't know?” he asked.
She only stared at him.
"Do you think, in these other zoos, that the animals don't know they're locked in?"
"A disgrace,” she said, walking away.
* * * *
Low funding required management to get creative when it came to provisioning the animals. In addition to supplies bought on the open market, there were arrangements with local grocery stores, and butchers, and meat processors. A truck was taken around each day to be filled with heaps of food—loaves of bread that had passed their freshness dates, meat that had begun to turn, gallons of milk that had expired. Occasionally there was carrion brought in—deer which had been struck on the highway and then picked up by the county. All of it fed into the bottomless maw of the zoo.
The trucks would drive around back and unload their cargo into the kitchen. It was called the kitchen, but it was not a kitchen. It was a room with several huge stainless steel tables on which food was piled and sorted and divided.
Bell was on his way to the castle when a voice on his walkie-talkie stopped him. “Bell, there's something you need to see."
Lucy, one of the kitchen workers, out of breath.
He got there fast. Came in through the back door.
"It's a bug,” said Lucy, hands at her collar.
"What kind?” he asked.
She shrugged. “It's a bug.” She pointed at a bowl turned upside-down on the counter.
Bell lifted the bowl. Put it down again.
He stood perfectly still.
He lifted the bowl and stole another quick glance.
"Hmm,” he said and lowered the bowl.
The kitchen workers stared. “What is it?"
"I'm working on it,” he said. He looked into the distance. “I think it's a grub of some kind."
"I didn't think grubs got that big,” Lucy said.
"No,” Bell said. “Neither did I."
Bell looked again. The grub was large, fleshy and blood red. Five inches long.
"Where did it come from?” he asked.
She shrugged again. “The table."
Bell looked at the table. There were watermelons, and apples, and bread, and the partially disarticulated hock of a deer. Several bunches of blackened bananas made a mountain in the center, along with a smaller mound of more exotic fruit shipped in from Lord-knew-where.
"It could have come in with anything,” she said. “I found it crawling along the edge of the table there.” She shuddered. “It was moving pretty fast."
Bell retrieved a glass jar from the cabinet, opened the lid, then dragged the bowl across the edge of the table so the strange grub dropped into the jar. He stepped outside and plucked some grass, put the grass inside, and closed the lid. Poked holes.
He took the jar across the zoo to the castle and placed it on a shelf in the back room.
"The castle” was the name used for the entomology building. Bell could only imagine what the structure's original use had been, with its block construction and odd turrets; but whatever that long ago intent, it now housed all manner of creepy crawlers—hissing cockroaches, and ant farms, and snakes, and lizards, and frogs. Anything that required darkness or careful temperature control.
The building was a box within a box. There was an open, central area ringed on three sides by walls and exhibits—and just behind these walls was a space called the back room, closed to the public, which was actually a single narrow hall that conformed to the outside perimeter of the building, a gap space where you could access the back side of the cages. At the far end of this hall, in a dead-end spot furthest from the entry door was a table and chairs, a TV, a desk and several terrariums. These extra terrariums were where the sick were boarded, those unfit for public examination.
Bell did the rest of his chores for the day. In the evening he checked on the grub. It was still there, happily curling up the sides of the glass jar. Bell had studied entomology in college, and he'd never seen anything like it; the insect's sheer bulk seemed to push the cubed-square law to its limit. Perhaps beyond its limit. He hadn't thought insects could be that big. When he opened the lid, the grub reared up at him, strange mouth-parts writhing.
* * * *
Bell was in charge of the castle, the petting zoo, and the convicts. This had not always been the case. He was in charge of the castle because he was the only zookeeper who'd taken college-level entomology. The petting zoo was meant as an insult. And the convicts were punishment.
The convicts came in most weekdays. You could point them out in the parking lot—men and women who were there too early, hours before the gates opened. Bell would feed the insects, drink a cup of coffee, and then walk to open the front gates.
"Here for community service?” he'd ask.
"Yeah,” they'd say.
Sometimes there were two or three. Sometimes none. They handed Bell their paperwork, and Bell passed it to the zoo superintendent at the end of the day.
The number of hours worked was the all-important statistic. Because they all had a number they were working down from; 150 hours, 200 hours, 100 hours.
Sometimes they talked about their crimes, and sometimes they didn't.
Bell never asked. Not his business.
* * * *
Bell often talked to himself in the bathroom mirror.
"In this world,” he said, “you are not an apex predator. Humans are, as a species, but you, yourself, are not."
You do not always win. Problems are not always solved.
There are defeats and surrenderings. Small but important.
Last winter, they gave up heating the bedroom. They sealed off the back of the trailer and slept on the sofa. They learned the science of climbing into the bathtub. The bathtub was metal and descended a few inches through the floor, arctic air right beneath. No matter how hot the water got, your butt and legs would start to freeze if you sat still too long. You had to lift yourself up now and then, let the hot water get under there. Lower yourself. Wait. Repeat.
"It's like not even being part of the food chain,” Bell said aloud one cold night, eating burritos in the kitchen.
They hadn't spoken to one another that morning. His remark about the food chain was one of two things they said to each other all day long.
Sometimes he opened up the bedroom door and exhaled just to see his breath cloud the room.
He wanted her to ask about his food chain remark. Wanted to explain it. Wanted her to understand.
"The food chain—” he began.
"I get it,” she said.
That was the second thing that got said. Her breath made a cloud even though they were in the kitchen.
* * * *
Bell didn't dare tell Lin how much he loved his job, not anymore. He told the mirror instead.
"I love my job,” he said. His reflection said it, too, it seemed.
Like the zoo, their life at home had been built on various pretendings. Pretending there might be gas money. Pretending they could afford to eat better, but chose not to. Pretending that Lin still thought it was important to have a job you liked. Loved. Whatever.
She had quit pretending. Somewhere behind her mask was the Lin who thought “If you loved me you'd do what it took for me to live a better life,” and that Lin had surfaced. Unmasked. Through fucking around.
Classified ads appeared, taped to the fridge.
Sales. Landscaping. Power-washing trucks. All kinds of things you could do with a degree in biology.
"It's easy,” Bell told her, “to lose track of what's really important."
She didn't have to say that having heat and electricity were important, too. Instead, never breaking eye contact, she grabbed her coat and her vibrator and locked herself in the bathroom.
Library clerk. Barista. All things that paid more than working at a zoo. Mexican cook. Skycap for a Mexican airline
. Didn't matter if you weren't Mexican.
* * * *
It was amazing, thought Bell, how much pretending went on in a zoo.
The public pretended the cages were jungles, savannah, desert, or snow.
The animals pretended that they were not interested in the public. The public and the zookeepers worked together at pretending that the zoo was not, when you got right down to it, just carefully engineered cruelty.
Sometimes the animals forgot to pretend. Like when babies were born and wouldn't eat. Because they knew captivity when they saw it. Felt it. Forgot to pretend life was worth living.
Like when the llama attacked Bria Vagades.
Bell was there when it happened.
It wasn't like an animal attack in the movies, all snarling and snorting, blood and fur. It looked almost comical. One second Bria was lifting the rock-shaped hatch which concealed the garden hose, and suddenly here came Nunez the llama, ridiculous and splendid with his two-tone black-and-gray coat, rearing on his hind legs, waving his front hooves like a boxer. He was on her before she saw him, and she screamed.
"Ow!” she screamed, and “Fuck you, Nunez!” before she got a grip on herself. The zoo was closed, but there were strict rules about losing your cool where the public might see, might panic.
Nunez lost his balance, came down on all fours, still advancing, sniffing the air. Reared up again, hooves waving as Bria covered her head, backing away, feeling behind her for the door.
"He didn't want her in the enclosure,” Bell told John Lorraine, another zookeeper, later on in the cafeteria. “It was obvious."
"It's never obvious. It's sloppy, is what it is, assigning human motives to animal behavior."
"Territoriality is an animal behavior,” Bell answered, chewing peanut butter crackers. “It's an animal motive."
"What's sloppy,” John said, “is pretending to understand why all the time. Why they do anything they do."
"Because it's mating season,” said Bell. “That's why."
John Lorraine's eyes narrowed. “And she went in the enclosure by herself ? That's sloppy, too. These animals aren't pets."
But Bell knew some of the animals were like pets. Bad pets. Pets you couldn't trust. “You should write a fucking memo,” he said.
"You should shut up."
Bell agreed. He said “Yep."
* * * *
The grub wasn't like a pet. The day after Bell placed it in one of the large terrariums, it began to construct a papery cocoon.
During his evening break, Bell sat in the back room and watched the grub work. He checked the zoo's entomology books but couldn't find a match. None of the pictures looked anything like the strange insect in the terrarium. The cocoon only deepened the mystery. Whatever this thing was, it was a juvenile.
There were four main groups of insects that had a larval stage of development: Coleoptera, Lepidoptera, Hymenoptera, and Diptera.
The thing in the terrarium was no caterpillar, so Bell could rule out Lepidoptera. The grub's size seemed to rule out Diptera. Which left Hymenoptera and Coleoptera. Wasps and beetles. But it didn't look like any wasp or beetle grub he'd ever seen.
Most grubs didn't have eyes. Most grubs didn't have mouthparts like that.
At the end of its third day in the terrarium, Bell arrived to find it had sealed itself into its papery chrysalis, and just like that, the grub subtracted itself from the world.
* * * *
The next day, there was an addition to Bell's army of community service workers. A late arrival.
Bell was on one knee, mixing food for the lemurs, when a shadow fell over the bucket. Bell shaded his eyes and looked up.
"They told me to find Bell. 'Report to Bell,' they said. Said Bell was young. You look like you might be him."
The shadow had a voice like raw sand.
Bell stood and shook hands.
Shaking hands, the first thing he noticed was scar tissue. Burn scars splashed across hand and wrist. Both hands, Bell observed. Both wrists.
Leather-skinned. Scrambled white hair. Eyes blue like a cutting torch. If a bomb could explode and come back as a person, it would be this guy. Just looking at him, sunburned and fire-burned, made Bell thirsty. They sat down over Cokes at the Savannah Café, where Bell learned that the bomb's name was Cole. Learned that, at sixty, Cole was by far the oldest community service con to grace the zoo.
Then he put him to work hosing down empty cells in the elephant house, beginning with the Cape Buffalo.
"Bullshit,” rasped Cole, when he saw the cell.
Bell must have looked startled.
"Literally,” Cole explained, waving the hose at the floor. He smiled, revealing teeth like rubble. Smiled and winked.
It was like being winked at by war.
* * * *
Just as the lions were star attractions for the tourists, Cole became a star attraction for the staff.
He was scary, like the lions. Like the lions, he seemed to keep most of his energy bottled up in some soft, invisible engine. It was an uneasy feeling, locking eyes with a lion. Same with Cole.
You couldn't talk to a lion, though. Couldn't ask him how he came to be at the zoo. But you could ask Cole, if you were nosy enough.
Bell didn't ask.
Bell stood in the dark tunnel with Cole. “The baboons are smart,” he said. “You have to be careful."
Cole nodded.
"They can throw their poop at you. They can bite. You have to lock both sets of doors. There is a procedure you have to follow, and you should never be in the enclosure with them."
Cole nodded again.
"It's very important. Do you understand?"
Cole nodded again, but Bell wasn't so sure. Several years earlier there'd been an incident in the cat house. The exhibit had been in the midst of repairs, and the lion had been allowed access to its run overnight. This normally wouldn't have been an issue except that the adjacent run had been under construction. The door separating the bobcat run from the lion run was made of thick plywood—a temporary measure which was fine to keep the bobcats in. But insufficient, apparently, to keep the lion out.
The next day, they found the plywood partition shredded, and the lion sleeping in the bobcat cage, blood coating its muzzle. All the bobcats were dead.
Zoos are dangerous places.
Dangerous for the animals. Dangerous for the zookeeps.
* * * *
Cole had a thousand hours of community service. Bell had never seen a number that high. It would take him a year to finish it.
When Cole had been at the zoo for a week, the zoo superintendent pulled Bell aside. The superintendent didn't like Bell much. She wore a serious expression. “The older guy, Cole, is he a good worker?"
"He's fine."
"He's going to be here for a while."
"Yeah,” Bell said, “I know.” He could see the see the gears moving behind the superintendent's eyes. A free long-term worker. A worker that didn't need to be paid.
"Perhaps we could give him more responsibilities,” she said.
* * * *
For weeks, Bell checked on the cocoon, waiting to see what would emerge.
It happened on a Monday. There was a buzz in the room when Bell entered. A buzz like one second before an electric light went bad; only this light kept going bad, second after second—an electrical hum that did not fade. Bell looked in the terrarium and saw it.
Huge.
Winged.
Bright red, but the mouthparts were black.
"Hymenoptera,” he whispered. “Of some kind."
* * * *
The summer stretched on. Bell trained Cole how to be a zookeeper. On their breaks they sat in the back room.
When the insect first hatched, the question became what to feed it. Bell tried a little of everything: sliced bananas, and apples, and small chunks of meat. Some of the fruit on the table came from exotic locales, and it was easy to imagine the grub stowed within the corpus of some me
lon from Central America—and it was easy to imagine how such a melon might go quickly bad, and soft, and end up on the zoo's table as discarded produce.
Weeks passed, and the insect thrived.
Even Cole took an interest. “Pet wasp?” he said as he helped Bell clean out the nearby lizard cage.
"I'm not convinced it's a wasp."
Several days later Bell found Cole looking through the glass. Cole was the one who noticed it first.
"What's that?” he asked. Bell looked. “I'll be damned.” The wasp-thing sat perched on a small branch in the terrarium, oddly jointed legs flexed, wings slung like swords over its narrow back. Hanging beneath the insect, dangling from a fibrous string, was a small pod of what looked like dried brown foam.
"What is it?” Cole said.
"I think it's an egg case."
Cole surveyed the terrarium again.
"So there's two of them things?"
Bell shook his head. “There's just the one."
"Maybe she was already fertilized."
This particular convict was smarter than he pretended to be. Bell caught his reflection in the glass, blowtorch eyes darting back and forth.
"It's not likely,” he said. “She is female, but the reproductive stage usually begins after metamorphosis, not before. And this thing has been alone since it hatched."
"Santa Maria of the bugs,” said Cole, cracking a shipwreck smile.
Bell laughed. “It's less than a miracle in the insect world,” he explained. “It's called Parthanogenesis. Some kinds of Hymenoptera can—"
"Hymen-who?"
"It's an insect clade. Ants, bees, and wasps. Certain species can reproduce without males. Worms can do it, too, and some lizards. But Hymenoptera are the champs."
Cole straightened.
"Let's hope that doesn't catch on."
Bell thought it over. Reproduction and marriage and wives and such.
"Might not be so bad,” he muttered.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing."
* * * *
Bell contacted the university. He wrote a letter to the biology department describing the insect and the circumstances of its arrival. A week later he received a reply. The note was short and polite: “It's probably a mud dauber."
Asimov's SF, October-November 2009 Page 4