by Cole, Olivia
Tasha is still laughing. It’s fabulous! It’s what every child longs to do: throw wide the cages of the zoo and release the admired creatures within. She wishes Dinah was here to see this.
She switches to the Bird House menu. It, too, has a cage layout, with many more rectangles than in the Primate House, bearing the names of exotic avian types she’s never heard of. No matter. She opens the Emergency Menu, bypasses the sprinklers, and goes straight to Release. There are six sections of six cages, and she opens them all, pausing a moment between presses. When she flips back to the camera view, only a few birds have flown the coop so far. She can see a brilliantly blue macaw roosting close to the camera, nearly blocking it, its dazzling plumage ruffled in confusion. A little beyond him, a gyrfalcon edges out of its cage, shuffling strangely on the floor instead of flying. Tasha realizes that once he’s acclimated, he’ll probably eat some of the smaller birds that have found themselves uncaged. She hopes they’re not endangered species or anything.
House by house, she presses Release. The elephants amble out gratefully, and one overturns a recycling station in his haste. A small elephant calf tiptoes briskly behind its mother. The hippos stay stubbornly submerged. The giraffes skate out slowly, stripping leaves from overhead trees with their black, eel-like tongues. Tasha releases a panda bear and it sits staring blankly at its freedom. The monkeys have embraced their independence with open arms and can be seen on many of the monitors, swinging from welcome signs, opening the doors of the Bird House, and forcing open recycling stations to pick through their contents.
Meanwhile, in her zoological orchestration, Tasha has almost forgotten about the Minkers and the problem they pose. She remembers quickly as she sees them on the screens, tottering a little closer to the office building. Bonobos freed or not, the Minkers are between her and the Cat House, between her and her Prada backpack, her can opener, her knife. A couple of the Minkers have seen the monkeys and are gaping at them. Tasha isn’t sure if they recognize the primates as food yet; they just observe them as if in awe. Perhaps the monkeys will hightail it and the Minkers will follow in hungry pursuit.
Tasha looks at the zoo layout on the screen. All of the Houses glow red, indicating Emergency Release has been activated. All except one. The Cat House. She stares at it, debating, a seed sprouting. She opens the Emergency Menu and presses Release before she has a chance to talk herself out of it.
The rectangle highlights red when she has released 1-6 and 7-12. She waits, afraid. She has just released two lions, a jaguar, a tiger, a panther, an ocelot, a caracal and other soft-furred killing machines from their cages. The ocelot she thinks she could take if she had her knife and maybe a broom or something. But the tiger? The panther? The jaguar, which only that morning had eyed her through the bars like she was a turkey dinner basted in Adidas? She returns to the camera view and, of course, the cats are out of the bag, more eager than the giraffes, more eager, even, than the monkeys. They prowl around, bellies low to the tile, eyeing one another and growling raspy threats. Tasha changes the camera angle for a different view. The only animal still in its cage is the ocelot. It crouches cautiously near the edge of its pen where the bars used to be before they withdrew into the ceiling as a result of Tasha’s button-pressing. She wonders why such a button even exists. She doesn’t care.
Now there is movement by the door of the Cat House and Tasha hastily switches the camera angle again. The Minkers have seen the movement in the Cat House and cluster dumbly in vicious curiosity. From Tasha’s remote view from inside the Cat House, she can see the woman in the navy-blue dress gaping in through the entrance door, pawing at it. Tasha still can’t see her shoes.
But now the cats have seen the Minkers too. Tasha watches, unconsciously holding her breath, as their ears prick up. Their bellies rise from the floor in a momentary forgetfulness of fear as their hunting instincts take over. They are wary of one another and snarl, but they edge closer to the window, their savage amber eyes widening and becoming bare with desire. Tasha has seen Discovery Channel hunt footage a thousand times, but this is something else.
Tasha watches the two breeds of predators watching one another. The cats, in their House, are velvet stones. She can see their muscles tightening like coiled springs as they look through the glass, only an occasional tail or ear twitch betraying the fact that they are alive. Tasha doubts they’re even breathing. On the other side, the Minkers sway and paw and, Tasha assumes, bark. They are game of an oblivious sort. Tasha knows the lions must wonder at their prey’s stupidity.
The stalemate ends quickly. The jaguar eagerly springs at the crowd of Minkers. If he had leapt a foot to the right, he would have smashed against the glass, nursing a bruised nose. But he doesn’t hit the glass. He hits the door, and it opens.
In an instant he is upon the woman in the navy-blue dress. Tasha claps both hands over her mouth, stifling a scream. Somewhere behind her knowledge of Chipped behavior, she’d thought the Minkers would run; that the sight of uncaged wild animals would infiltrate the haze of Chip-induced mania and clear their minds long enough to send them fleeing for safety. As it is, there is no flight. Or fight. The Minkers snarl and Tasha sees their arms open as the cats fall upon them, as if embracing their children, long lost and only just returning.
The screens provide enough angles to observe the melee, missing nothing. Tasha is surprised by the tears that her fingers find when she touches her face. She’s cut many a neck in the last week, but this feels like murder, or at least its cruel cousin. There is joy in this bloody work: the lions seem to rejoice as they, together, bring down a man in an Armani suit. Tasha is so captivated by the carnage that it doesn’t occur to her to regret the ruin of the suit’s fine silk stitching as the man is mangled in their jaws. She only stares at his face in the high-definition picture of the security screen. He looks as puzzled as Brian did on the morning of the Change, her nail file protruding from his neck. The female lion has her jaws around the man’s throat. His face is blank, the Chip already destroyed. Tasha wonders if the lioness swallowed it, and what that might mean.
Now she has to move. The Minkers are down: nowhere does she see them pacing in their monotonous, mechanical circles. The screens show only feasting beasts and loitering monkeys. Tasha did her work, now the cats are doing theirs. Staying low, she trots to the front of the office and peers over the countertop again.
Clear.
The closest cats are the lions, snarling lackadaisically at one another as they share their prey. They’ve dragged their kill to the bear statues where they crouch, half-alert in their gluttony. Tasha briefly wonders how close to death they had been when she opened the cages. Maybe they could have survived for weeks, or maybe this would have been their last day. She tells herself she might have saved some lives, at least, even if the lives weren’t human. She’d rather a tiger get a meal than a Minker.
Tasha scuttles to the door and unlocks it. The lock seems to make a horrible grating sound, its brazenness amplified by her fear. She opens the door a few inches and pauses, watching the lioness. She read somewhere that the female is the more deadly, so Tasha keeps her eye on her. She opens the door another few inches. The lioness cocks an ear but doesn’t stop eating. The door opens another inch and Tasha squeezes through.
Now she’s out. She feels giddy, stoned. Here she is in Lincoln Park, creeping around behind lions eating guys in Armani suits. She gives the lions as wide a berth as she can without putting herself too much in the open. It’s surprisingly easy, getting to the Cat House. The cats have spread out across the area, each munching its kill. The lions are the only ones who eat together. Some of the cats have disappeared. She spies the leopard drawing its tail up into a tree where it has dragged its prey, the woman in the navy-blue dress. The woman’s shapely leg hangs down, its shoe fallen to the ground beneath. A beige platform pump.
At the door of the Cat House Tasha jumps as she steps over a body she had thought was dead. It’s one of the high school girls, her tee
th snapping at Tasha’s ankle. Both of her arms are gone, the stumps soldered handily by the Chip. One leg is also missing; Tasha sees it a few yards away. She wonders which cat worked the girl over. She waits for the feeling of hate and haughtiness as she looks down at the plaid-clad form on the ground, but it doesn’t come, even as the girl wriggles closer, trying to get a bite. The Chip glows merrily in her neck, repairing wounds Tasha can’t see. Tasha blames the girl’s parents, wherever they are. The kid can’t be more than fifteen; her parents had put the Chip in her. Now look at her. Her skirt has risen in her attempts to bite Tasha; she can see the crotch of her blue underwear. Tasha leans forward and tugs down the hem of the girl’s skirt, covering her single tan thigh. At this the girl barks, and Tasha moves away quickly.
The door to the Cat House is slightly ajar, and Tasha slips in sideways so as not to push it open farther. Inside, it’s quiet. The smell, a combination of cedar and blood, tingles in her nose. She stands for a moment at the front of the hall, gazing outside at the carnage she orchestrated. Some of the Minkers leftover from the pack simply lie dead, de-Chipped and deflated. Others are in pieces, still twitching, the Chip unable to sprout them new limbs or connect the head back to the neck. Others are gone, dragged away, dangling from trees, or being digested. Farther off, Tasha sees the cougar stalking a gnu, also recently emancipated. She’d seen the same cougar devouring a schoolgirl. Maybe the gnu is just for fun. The big cat has never seen a gnu before, she is sure; they had grazed and hunted on different continents in the times before their captivity. Now they are thrown together by the push of a button, an easy connection of finger to screen. It’s like splicing, in a way: bringing together strangers, putting them side-by-side. Wildlife Deathmatch. Noah’s Ark.
Tasha turns from the window and walks down the now-empty hall. Her steps echo the way they had the night before, but louder somehow. The cats’ breath had been quiet enough, but they had filled the space. Their hunger had taken up much of the air, or maybe it was her fear. She isn’t afraid now. Not even when the rippling growl enters her ear from the right side of the hall, a sound without rhythm but deep enough to remind her of all the ominous Jaws soundtracks in history. She stops. Turns.
It’s the panther. Her blackness is like a glittering hole in space, the center of a collapsing rainbow. She’s so alive it’s thrilling, so black and so beautiful Tasha doesn’t care to tremble at the blood in the whiskers. She has her paws around the limp body of another man in a suit even finer than the ruined Armani; the man’s pale hair is stained red. Tasha doesn’t need to see his face: the Chip is no more. Cats go for the throat.
Tasha and the panther stare at one another. Neither one moves, not even the impatient tail. Tasha remembers only minutes ago, the cats and the Minkers staring one another down through the glass: the Chipped swaying and moaning and barking. She stands as motionless as the phantom cat, trying to mirror the gaze of savage indifference.
The panther studies her, the amber eyes two blazes of old knowledge. Tasha thinks of Aslan and his biblical preachiness. This is not Aslan. This is Aslan’s grandmother, a creature whose coat has been blackened by depth. This cat was pacing jungles when Aslan was still a kitten chasing yarn. Tasha has the urge to salute. She doesn’t, imagining the mouth closing around her impertinent wrist. Of course, the cat wouldn’t go for the wrist. She’d go for the neck. Tasha has no Chip that would need to be crushed before stilling her struggles. The animal would absorb her blood like a black velvet sponge.
The panther seems to make up her mind. She breaks their gaze and resumes gnawing on the man in the suit, whose body rocks limply and without protest. When the great black head drops, it has the effect of a nod. The glowing eyes no longer pin Tasha to the floor. Tasha accepts her permission and moves sideways down the remaining length of the hall to the door where she’d left her few possessions. She quickly puts the can opener back into the backpack and grips the Wusthof firmly after cinching the bag. She swings the pack onto her back, adjusts the straps. She puts one hand on the bar that will open the back door of the House. She looks over her shoulder once, at the panther. The eyes are watching again, knowing.
She slips out the door. The panther lets her go.
Chapter 18
Tasha wipes blood off her shoes.
She’d made it to the Magnificent Miles without encountering a single Minker, but the zoo had been tricky to escape—she’d woven between the feasting grounds of various large cats, most of which had been too gorged to offer more than a growl and a flickering whisker, and she’d run into an ostrich that had made an unpleasant sound in its long hairy throat and chased her like an over-sized goose—but she’d crossed another bridge over the lagoon, hit Lakeshore Drive, and jogged until she saw Gucci. Now, creeping down the wide, still street—silent except for the hum of the Volamu—she breathes in the familiar and comforting smell of retail.
Downtown has more cars than the North Side, and she sees them now, dotting the side streets like beached whales. Some of their windows are broken; some of their glass is stained red; some of their doors hang open like the lopsided wings of condors. She trails her fingers along the body of a Mercedes, the sexy red paint camouflaging the blood smeared on its side. It’s very small, as most cars are, and parked to the side of the promenade that Michigan Avenue has become.
Michigan is much like a boardwalk. Each side, of course, is lined with towering stores and shops, but Michigan itself is no longer a place for cars: what used to be the street is now divided into four lanes of Volamu, two running south and two running north. In between, dotting what used to be the traffic median but is now much larger, are smaller shops (some mobile), fountains, art installments, and small, vertical, multi-level parks. Cars and electric scooters—and the rare Pumapod, modified for citizen use—are not allowed on the promenade: one southbound lane for motor traffic edges one side of the promenade; the northbound lane edges the other. Shopping on the Miles before the Change had always felt as if she were walking on an island: an oasis of retail framed by the buzzing of automobiles that seemed to pace the painted barriers like hungry predators.
Ahead, Tasha can see a pink Benz that had crashed through the barrier. Its nose is buried in a mobile scarf shop. She approaches, admiring the car. She’s never owned a car, and has only driven one a few times since she has lived in Chicago. In Kentucky there were lots of them, almost all electric, but she left for college when she was seventeen, only a month after getting her license. Once in the city, she’d devoted herself to the subway and had glanced at automobiles only with appreciation, never desire. With the Benz she feels the twinge of want. Its soft pink paint actually causes saliva to gather at the root of her tongue, as if she were looking hungrily at a car-sized wad of cotton candy. She approaches it curiously, hand outstretched to stroke it.
She almost falls backwards when the woman inside throws herself against the window. Around her neck is a handsome necklace of heavy shining stones. Above the necklace is her gaping, gnashing mouth. Tasha admires her teeth: implants, surely, but well done.
The woman claws at the window and Tasha can hear the dull click, click of her nails against the glass. The woman’s throat convulses, so Tasha assumes she’s barking, but either the glass is thick or the barks are hoarse, because she doesn’t hear a thing.
Tasha peers into the car. The seats are smooth white leather, the steering column a polished ivory. A Barbie car.
“Where’s Ken?” Tasha asks. She glances into the backseat. “Oh.”
The white leather is a mess of red. The rear window looks like it was on a stage set for Carrie, water-ballooned with blood. Tasha turns away, feeling sick.
She picks her way down Michigan, averting her eyes from the prone bodies she finds there. There are many. She wonders how long it will take to get used to the sight of the torn clothes and mauled flesh, the empty eyes yellowed by death. Part of her hopes soon, and part of her hopes never.
Ahead, between a street kiosk that sold Gucci pe
t accessories and a crashed Pumapod, a body catches her eye. It is a man wearing a pinstriped suit that likely cost four months of Tasha’s rent. One pant leg is pushed up, revealing its satiny lining. Its redness, exposed and curled over the gray exterior, reminds Tasha of a gutted fish, its rainbow of entrails alongside the silver scales. Tasha gets closer. The man has a neat wound across the side of the neck and nothing else—not the work of anyone Chipped. Rather, he is—was—a Minker. Tasha kneels to examine the wound, staying alert for any sounds of approach. The man’s eyes had been oddly blue in life, like a bird’s egg. He stares vacantly now, past Tasha, appearing to be gazing at the Louis Vuitton store behind her. The familiar crinkle is between his brows—angry with Tasha, pissed that she separates him from leather Louis. His lips are slightly parted. Tasha can see the red matter in his teeth.
His neck wound is a clean slice. Tasha looks around, wondering who had done it, if they’re dead nearby or if they escaped. A lucky break, she knows. Maybe the suited guy grabbed the wrong Chicagoan on the morning of the Change. Out came a switchblade, the quick chop across the neck.
A glimmer of something catches Tasha’s eye, and her stare travels down to the man’s waist. On the ground beside him is something gold, shiny. She reaches for it—it’s slightly under his body. Her fingers close around the thin gold metal and she holds it up to examine it: a MINK card.
Gina had never let Tasha hold hers for very long. Now she holds this one with both hands, rubbing her thumbs across its smudged surface, feeling the texture of the inscription.
