The MaddAddam Trilogy

by Margaret Atwood

  It was the small normal things that bothered me the most. Somebody’s old diary, with the words melting off the pages. The hats. The shoes – they were worse than the hats, and it was worse if there were two shoes the same. The kids’ toys. The strollers minus the babies.

  The whole place was like a doll’s house that had been turned upside down and stepped on. Out of one shop there was a trail of bright T-shirts, like huge cloth footprints, going all along the sidewalk. Someone must have smashed in through the window and robbed the place, though why did they think a bundle of T-shirts was going to do them any good? There was a furniture store spewing chair arms and legs and leather cushions onto the sidewalk, and an eyeglasses place with high-fashion frames, gold and silver – nobody had bothered to take those. A pharmacy – they’d trashed it completely, looking for party drugs. There were a lot of empty BlyssPluss containers. I’d thought it was just at the testing stage, but that place must have been selling it black market.

  There were bundles of rag and bone. “Ex-people,” said Croze. They were dried out and picked over, but I didn’t like the eyeholes. And the teeth – mouths look a lot worse without lips. And the hair was so stringy and detachable. Hair takes years to decay; we learned that in Composting, at the Gardeners.

  We hadn’t had any time to grab food from Scales, so we went into a supermarkette. There was junk all over the floor, but we found a couple of Zizzy Froots and some Joltbars, and in another place there was a solar-freezer that was still running. It had soybeans and berries – we ate those right away – and frozen SecretBurger patties, six to a box.

  “How’re we going to cook them?” asked Oates.

  “Lighters,” said Shackie. “See?” On the counter there was a rack of lighters in the shape of frogs. Shackie tried one: the flame shot out of its mouth, and it said Ribbit.

  “Take a handful,” said Amanda.

  By this time we were near the Sinkhole, so we headed for the old Wellness Clinic because it was a place we knew. I hoped there’d be some Gardeners left inside it, but it was empty. We had a picnic in our old classroom: we made a fire out of broken desks, though not a big fire because we didn’t want to send any smoke signals to the Gold Painballers, but we had to open the windows because we were coughing too much. We broiled the SecretBurgers and ate them, and half of the soybeans – we didn’t bother cooking those – and drank the Zizzy Froots. Oates kept making the frog lighter say Ribbit until Amanda told him to stop because he was wasting fuel.

  The adrenalin of running away had worn off by then. It was sad to be back in the place where we’d been children: even if we hadn’t liked it all the time, I felt so homesick for it now.

  I guess this is what the rest of my life will be like, I thought. Running away, scrounging for leftovers, crouching on floors, getting dirtier and dirtier. I wished I had some real clothes, because I was still in my peagret outfit. I wanted to go back to the T-shirt place to see if there was anything left inside the store that wasn’t damp and mouldy, but Shackie said it was too dangerous.

  I thought maybe we should have sex: it would have been a kind and generous thing to do. But everyone was too tired, and also we were shy with one another. It was the surroundings – though the Gardeners weren’t there in their bodies, they were there in Spirit, and it was hard to do anything they’d have disapproved of if they’d seen us doing it when we were ten.

  We went to sleep in a pile, on top of one another, like puppies.

  The next morning when we woke up there was a huge pig standing in the doorway, staring in at us and sniffing the air with its wet, sluggy-looking nose. It must have come in the door and all the way down the hall. It turned and went away when it saw us looking at it. Maybe it smelled the burger patties being cooked, said Shackie. He said it was an enhanced splice – MaddAddam had known about those – and that it had human brain tissue in it.

  “Oh yeah,” said Amanda, “and it’s doing advanced physics. You’re bullshitting us.”

  “Truth,” said Shackie, a little sulky.

  “Too bad we don’t have a spraygun,” said Croze. “Long time since I had bacon.”

  “None of that language,” I said in a Toby voice, and we all laughed.

  Before we left the Wellness Clinic we went into the Vinegar Room, for a last look at it. The big barrels were still there, though someone had taken an axe to them. There was a smell of vinegar, and also a toilet smell: people had been using a corner of the room for that, and not long ago either. The little closet door where they used to keep the vinegar bottles was standing open. There weren’t any bottles; but there were some shelves. They were at a strange angle, and Amanda went over and took an edge and pulled, and the shelves swung out.

  “Look,” she said. “There’s a whole other room in here!”

  We went in. There was a table that took up most of the room, and some chairs. But the most interesting thing was a futon, like our old Gardener ones, and a bunch of empty food containers – soydines, chickenpeas, dried gojiberries. Over in one corner was a dead laptop.

  “Somebody else made it through,” said Shackie.

  “Not a Gardener,” I said. “Not with a laptop.”

  “Zeb had a laptop,” said Croze. “But he’d stopped being a Gardener.”

  We left the Wellness Clinic without any clear plan. It was me who said we should go to the AnooYoo Spa: there might be food in the Ararat that Toby put together in the storeroom; she’d told me the doorcode. Also there could still be something growing in the garden. I even wondered if maybe Toby was hiding out there, but I didn’t want to get any hopes up, so I didn’t say that.

  We thought we were being really careful. We couldn’t see anybody anywhere. We went into the Heritage Park and headed towards the Spa’s west gatehouse, staying on the forest pathway, under the trees – we felt less visible that way.

  We were going single file. Shackie was at the front of the line, then Croze, then Amanda, then me; Oates was at the very back. Then I had a cold feeling, and I looked behind me, and Oates wasn’t there. I said, “Shackie!”

  And then Amanda lurched sideways, right off the path.

  Then there was a dark patch like going through brambles – everything painful and tangled. There were bodies on the ground, and one of them was mine, and that must have been when I got hit.

  When I woke up again, Shackie and Croze and Oates weren’t there. But Amanda was.

  I don’t want to think about what happened next.

  It was worse for Amanda than for me.

  PREDATOR DAY

  PREDATOR DAY

  YEAR TWENTY-FIVE

  OF GOD AS THE ALPHA PREDATOR.

  SPOKEN BY ADAM ONE.

  Dear Friends, dear Fellow Creatures, dear Fellow Mortals:

  Long ago, we celebrated Predator Day on our lovely Edencliff Rooftop Garden. Our Children would don their faux-fur Predator ears and tails, and at sunset we’d light candles inside the Lions and Tigers and Bears fashioned from perforated tin cans, and the burning-bright eyes of these Predator images would sparkle upon our Predator Day feast.

  But today our Festival must be held in the inner Gardens of our Minds. We are fortunate to have even these, for the Waterless Flood has now rolled over our city, and indeed over the entire Planet. Most were taken by surprise, but we relied on Spiritual guidance. Or, to put it in a materialistic way: we knew a global pandemic when we saw one.

  Let us give thanks for this Ararat in which we have been sheltering over the past months. It is not perhaps the Ararat we would have chosen, situated as it is in the cellars of the Buenavista Condo Complex, which were dank even at the time of Pilar’s mushroom beds, and are even danker now. But we are blessed that so many of our Rat relatives have donated their protein to us, thus enabling us to remain on this Earthly plane. It is also fortunate that Pilar had built an Ararat in this very cellar, hidden behind a concrete block marked with a tiny bee symbol. How providential that so many of her supplies retained their freshness! Though unhappil
y not all.

  But these resources are now exhausted, and we must either move or starve. Let us pray that the outer world is Exfernal no more – that the Waterless Flood has cleansed as well as destroyed, and that all the world is now a new Eden. Or, if it is not a new Eden yet, that it will be one soon. Or so we trust.

  On Predator Day we celebrate, not God the loving and gentle Father and Mother, but God the Tiger. Or God the Lion. Or God the Bear. Or God the Wild Boar. Or God the Wolf. Or even God the Shark. Whatever the symbol, Predator Day is devoted to the qualities of terrifying appearance and overwhelming strength, which, since they are at times desired by us, must also belong to God, as all good things belong to Him.

  As Creator, God has put a little of Himself into each of His Creatures – how could it be otherwise? – and therefore the Tiger, the Lion, the Wolf, the Bear, the Boar, and the Shark – or, on the miniscale of things, the Water Shrew and the Praying Mantis – are in their way reflections of the Divine. Human societies through the ages have known this. On their flags and coats of arms, they have not placed prey Animals such as Rabbits and Mice, but Animals capable of inflicting death, and when they invoked God as defender, was it not these qualities upon which they called?

  Thus on Predator Day we meditate on the Alpha Predator aspects of God. The suddenness and ferocity with which an apprehension of the Divine may appear to us; our smallness and fearfulness – may I say, our Mouselikeness – in the face of such Power; our feelings of individual annihilation in the brightness of that splendid Light. God walks in the tender dawn Gardens of the mind, but He also prowls in its night Forests. He is not a tame Being, my Friends: he is a wild Being, and cannot be summoned and controlled like a Dog.

  Human Beings may well have killed the last Tiger and the last Lion, but their Names are cherished by us; and as we say those Names, we hear behind them the tremendous Voice of God at the moment of their Creation. God must have said to them: My Carnivores, I command you to fulfil your appointed task of culling your Prey Species, lest these multiply overmuch, and exhaust their food supply, and sicken, and die out. Go forth, therefore! Leap! Run! Roar! Lurk! Spring! For I delight in your dread hearts, and in the gold and green jewels of your eyes, and in your well-fashioned sinews, and in your scissor teeth and your scimitar claws, which I Myself have bestowed upon you. And I give you My Blessing, and pronounce you Good.

  For they do seek their meat from God, as Psalm 104 so joyfully puts it.

  As we prepare to leave our sheltering Ararat, let us ask ourselves: Which is more blessed, to eat or to be eaten? To flee or to chase? To give or to receive? For these are at heart the same question. Such a question may soon cease to be theoretical: we do not know what Alpha Predators may lurk without.

  Let us pray that if we must sacrifice our own protein so it may circulate among our fellow Species, we will recognize the sacred nature of the transaction. We would not be Human if we did not prefer to be the devourers rather than the devoured, but either is a blessing. Should your life be required of you, rest assured that it is required by Life.

  Let us sing.

  THE WATER-SHREW THAT RENDS ITS PREY

  The Water-Shrew that rends its Prey

  Acts purely out of Nature’s need;

  It does not stop to plot its course,

  But simply does the deed.

  The Leopard pouncing in the night

  Is kin to soft domestic Puss –

  They love to hunt, and hunt to love,

  Because God made them thus.

  And who can say if joy or fear

  Are each in other’s lasting debt?

  Does every Prey enjoy each breath

  Because of constant threat?

  But we are not as Animals –

  We cherish other Creatures’ lives;

  And so we do not eat their flesh

  Unless dread Famine drives.

  And if dread Famine drives us on,

  And if we yield to tempting Meat,

  May God forgive our broken Vows,

  And bless the Life we eat.

  From The God’s Gardeners Oral Hymnbook

  62

  TOBY. SAINT NGANEKO MINHINNICK OF MANUKAU

  YEAR TWENTY-FIVE

  A red sunrise, meaning rain later. But there’s always rain later.

  Mist rising.

  Oodle-oodle-ooo. Oodle-oodle-oo. Chirrup, twareep. Aw aw aw. Ey ey ey. Hoom hoom baroom.

  Mourning dove, robin, crow, bluejay, bullfrog. Toby says their names, but these names mean nothing to them. Soon her own language will be gone out of her head and this will be all that’s left in there. Ooodle-oodle-oo, hoom hoom. The ceaseless repetition, the song with no beginning and no end. No questions, no answers, not in so many words. Not in any words at all. Or is it all one huge Word?

  Where has this notion come from, out of nowhere and into her head?

  Tobeee!

  So much like someone calling her. But it’s only birdsong.

  She’s up on the roof, cooking her daily portion of land shrimp in the cool of the morning. Don’t scorn the lowly table of Saint Euell, says the voice of Adam One. The Lord provides, and sometimes what He provides is land shrimp, says Zeb. Rich in lipids, a good source of protein. How do you think bears get so fat?

  Best to cook outside, because of the smoke and heat. She’s using her Saint Euell-inspired hobo stove, made of a bulk-sized body-butter can: hole in the bottom for dry sticks and the draft, hole on the side for smoke. The maximum heat for the minimum fuel. No more than needed. The land shrimp sizzle on the top.

  Suddenly there’s a racket of crows: they’re excited about something. Not alarm calls, so not an owl. More like astonishment: Aw Aw! Look! Look! Look at that!

  Toby scrapes the crispy land shrimp off the top of her tin can onto her plate – to waste food is to waste Life, says Adam One – then douses the fire with her pot of rainwater and hits the rooftop, flat on her belly. Lifts the binoculars. The crows are flying around above the treetops, a flock of them. Six or seven. Aw! Aw! Look! Look! Look!

  Two men come out from among the trees. They aren’t singing, and they aren’t naked and blue: they have clothes on.

  There are still people, Toby thinks. Alive. Maybe one of them is Zeb, come in search of her: he must have guessed she’d still be here, still be holed up, still holding out. She blinks: are these tears? She wants to rush downstairs and out into the open, hold out her arms in welcome, laugh with happiness. But caution restrains her, and she crouches down behind the air-conditioning exhaust unit and peers through the rooftop railings.

  It could be a trick of the senses. Is she seeing things again?

  The men are in camouflage gear. The one in front has a weapon of some kind – a spraygun, perhaps. Surely not Zeb: wrong shape. Neither of them is. There’s another person with them – man or woman? Tall, in a khaki outfit. Head hanging down; hard to tell which. Hands held together in front, as if in prayer. One of the men has this person by the arm or elbow. Pushing or pulling.

  Then another man emerges from the shadows. He’s leading a huge bird on a leash – no, on a rope – a bird with blue-green iridescent plumes like a peagret. But this bird has the head of a woman.

  I must be hallucinating again, thinks Toby. Because no matter what the gene splicers could do, they couldn’t do this. The men and the bird-woman look real and solid enough, but then, hallucinations do.

  One of them has a burden slung over his shoulder. At first she thinks it’s a sack, but no, it’s a haunch of something. It has fur. Golden fur. Is it a liobam? A shiver of horror runs through her: sacrilege! They’ve killed an Animal on the Peaceable Kingdom list!

  Think clearly, Toby orders herself. First of all, since when are you a fanatical Peaceable Kingdom Isaiahist? Second, if these men are real and not just runoff from an addled brain, they’ve been killing things. Killing and butchering large Creatures, in which case they have lethal weapons and they’ve started at the top of the food chain. They’re a menace, the
y’ll stop at nothing, and I ought to shoot them before they get as far as me. Then I can free the large bird or whatever it is, before they kill it as well.

  Anyway, if they aren’t real, it won’t matter if I shoot them. They’ll just dissolve like smoke.

  Then the one leading the bird-woman looks up. He must have seen Toby, because he begins to shout, waving his free arm. Light glints from a knife. The other two men look, and then they all start trotting towards the Spa. The bird creature has to keep up with them because of the rope, and now Toby can see that the feathers are a costume of some kind. It’s a woman. No wings. A noose around her neck.

  Not a hallucination, then. Real. Real evil.

  She centres the knife man in her scope and shoots at him. He staggers backwards and yells and stumbles. But she isn’t fast enough, so although she squeezes off a couple more, she misses the other two.

  Now the wounded man’s up again, limping, and all of them are running back to the trees. The bird woman’s running with them. Not that she has a choice, because of the rope. Then she falls down and vanishes into the weeds.

  Behind the others, the green tree-leaves open, swallow. Gone now. All of them. She can’t spot the place where the woman tumbled: the weeds are too tall. Should she go out and look for her? No. It could be a decoy. There’d be three against her one.

  She watches for a long time. The crows must be following them – the men, the one in khaki. Aw aw aw aw. A trail of sound, off into the distance.

  Will they be back? They’ll be back, thinks Toby. They know I’m in here, they’ll guess I must have food in order to have stayed alive this long. Also I shot one of them: they’ll want revenge, it’s only human. They’ll be vindictive, like the pigs. But they won’t come soon, because they know I have a rifle. They’ll have to plan.

  63

  TOBY. SAINT WEN BO DAY