MaddAddam

Morning

Toby dreams that she’s in her little single bed, at home. Her stuffed lion is on the pillow beside her, and her big shaggy bear that plays a tune. Her antique piggy bank is on her desk, and the tablet she uses for her homework, and her felt-tip crayons, and her daisy-skinned cellphone. From the kitchen comes the sound of her mother’s voice, calling; her father, answering; the smell of eggs frying.

Inside this dream, she’s dreaming of animals. One is a pig, though six-legged; another is cat-like, with compound eyes like a fly. There’s a bear as well, but it has hooves. These animals are neither hostile nor friendly. Now the city outside is on fire, she can smell it; fear fills the air. Gone, gone, says a voice, like a bell tolling. One by one the animals come towards her and begin to lick her with their warm, raspy tongues.

At the edge of sleep, she gropes towards the retreating dream: the burning city, the messengers sent to warn her. That the world has been changed utterly; that the familiar is long dead; that everything she used to love has been swept away.

As Adam One used to say, The fate of Sodom is fast approaching. Suppress regret. Avoid the pillar of salt. Don’t look back.

She wakes to find a Mo’Hair licking her leg: a red-head, its long human hair braided into pigtails, each with a string bow: some sentimentalist among the MaddAddamites has been at work. It must have got out of the pen where they’re keeping them.

“Move it,” she says to it, shoving it gently with her foot. It gives her a look of addled reproach — they’re none too bright, the Mo’Hairs — and clatters out through the doorway. We could use some doors around here, she thinks.

The morning light is filtering in through the piece of cloth that’s been hung over the window in a futile attempt to keep out the mosquitoes. If only they could find some screens! But they’d have to install window frames because the cobb house wasn’t built to be lived in: it had been a parkette staging pavilion for fairs and parties, and they’re squatting in it now because it’s safe. It’s away from the urban rubble — the deserted streets and random electrical fires and the buried rivers that are welling up now that the pumps have failed. No collapsing building can fall down on it, and as it’s only one storey high, it’s unlikely to fall down on itself.

She untwists herself from the damp morning sheet and stretches her arms, feeling for sprains and tightness. She’s almost too tired to get up. Too tired, too discouraged, too angry with herself over last night’s fireside fiasco. What will she tell Zeb when he gets back? Supposing he does get back. Zeb is resourceful, but he’s not invulnerable.

She can only hope that he’s been more successful with his quest than she has been with hers. There’s a chance that some of the God’s Gardeners have survived because if anyone would know how to wait out the pandemic that killed almost everyone else, it would be them. During all the years that she spent with them, first as their guest, then as an apprentice, and finally as a high-ranking Eve, they’d planned for catastrophe. They’d built hidden places of refuge and stocked them with supplies: honey, dried soybeans and mushrooms, rose hips, elderberry compote, preserves of various kinds. Seeds to plant in the new, cleansed world they believed would come. Perhaps they’d waited the plague out in one of these refuges — one of their sheltering Ararats, where they hoped they’d be safe while riding out what they termed the Waterless Flood. God had promised after the Noah incident that he’d never use the water method again, but considering the wickedness of the world he was bound to do something: that was their reasoning. But where will Zeb look for them, out there among the ruins of the city? Where to even begin?

Visualize your strongest desire, the Gardeners used to say, and it will manifest; which doesn’t always work, or not as intended. Her strongest desire is to have Zeb come back safe, but if he does, she’ll have to face up once again to the fact that she’s neutral territory as far as he’s concerned. Nothing emotional, no sexiness there, no frills. A trusted comrade and foot soldier: reliable Toby, so competent. That’s about it.

And she’ll have to admit her failure to him. I was a cretin. It was Saint Julian’s, I couldn’t kill them. They got away. They took a spraygun. She won’t snivel, she won’t cry, she won’t give excuses. He won’t say much, but he’ll be disappointed in her.

Don’t be too harsh on yourself, Adam One used to say in his patient blue-eyed way. We all make mistakes. True, she replies to him now, but some mistakes are more lethal than others. If Zeb gets killed by one of the Painballers, it will be her fault. Stupid, stupid, stupid. She feels like whacking her head against the cobb-house wall.

She can only hope the Painballers were spooked enough to run very far away. But will they stay away? They’ll need food. They might scavenge some quasi-food in the deserted houses and shops from whatever hasn’t mouldered or been eaten by rats or looted months ago. They may even blast a few animals — a rakunk, a green rabbit, a liobam — but after they use up their cellpack ammunition, they’ll need more.

And they know the MaddAddam cobb house will have some. Sooner or later they’ll be tempted to attack at the weakest link: they’ll grab a Craker child and offer to swap, as they tried to swap Amanda earlier. It will be sprayguns and cellpacks they’ll want, with a young woman or two thrown in — Ren or Lotis Blue or White Sedge or Swift Fox — not Amanda, they’ve already expended her. Or a Craker female in heat, why not? It would be a novelty for them, a woman with a bright blue abdomen; not the best conversationalists, those Crakers, but the Painballers won’t care about that. They’ll demand Toby’s rifle too.

The Crakers would think it was just a matter of sharing. They want the stick thing? It would make them happy? Why are you not giving it to them, Oh Toby? How to explain that you can’t hand over a murder weapon to a murderer? The Crakers wouldn’t understand murder because they’re so trusting. They’d never imagine that anyone would rape them — What is rape? Or slit their throats — Oh Toby, why? Or slash them open and eat their kidneys — But Oryx would not allow it!

Suppose the Crakers hadn’t untied those knots. What had she intended to do? Would she have marched the Painballers back to the cobb house, then kept them penned up until Zeb got back and took over and did the necessary thing?

He’d have held some sort of perfunctory discussion. Then there would have been a double hanging. Or maybe he’d have skipped the preliminaries and just hit them with a shovel, saying, Why dirty a rope? The end result would be the same as if she’d snuffed the two of them immediately, right then and there at the campfire.

Enough of such dour stocktaking. It’s morning. She has to cut out these daydreams in which Zeb performs decisive leadership acts that she ought to have performed herself. She needs to get up, go outside, join the others. Repair what can’t be repaired, mend what can’t be mended, shoot what needs to be shot. Hold the fort.

Breakfast

She swings her legs off the bed, sets her feet on the floor, stands. Her muscles hurt, her skin feels like sandpaper, but it’s not so bad once you’re up.

She chooses a bedsheet — lavender with blue dots — from the selection on her shelf. There’s a pile of sheets in every cubicle, like towels in a hotel of old. Her pink top-to-toe from the AnooYoo Spa is in rags and may be infected with whatever it is Jimmy might have: she’ll need to burn it. When she gets the time she’ll sew a few of the sheets together, with arms and a hood, but meanwhile she drapes the lavender sheet around herself toga-style.

There’s no shortage of bedsheets. The MaddAddamites have gleaned enough of them from the city’s deserted buildings to last a while, and they also have a stash of pants and T-shirts for heavy work. But the sheets are cooler and one-size-fits-all, so they’re the MaddAddamite attire of choice. When the bedsheets are used up they’ll have to think of something else, but that won’t happen for years. Decades. If they live that long.

A mirror is what she needs. Hard to know how much of a wreck she is without one. Maybe she’ll be able to get mirrors onto the next gleaning list. Those, and toothbrushes.

She slings her knapsack with her health-care items over one shoulder: the maggots, the honey, the mushroom elixir, the Willow and Poppy. She’ll tend to Jimmy first thing, supposing he’s still alive. But only after she’s had some breakfast: she can’t face the day, much less Jimmy’s festering foot, on an empty stomach. Then she picks up her rifle and steps out into the full glare of morning.

Although it’s still early, the sun’s already burning white. She hoists one end of her bedsheet over her head for protection, checks out the cobb-house yard. The red-headed Mo’Hair, still at large, is eyeing the vegetables through the kitchen-garden fence while chewing on some kudzu. Its friends in the Mo’Hair pen are bleating at it: silver Mo’Hairs, blue ones, green ones and pink ones, brunettes and blondes: the full range of colours. Hair Today, Mo’Hair Tomorrow went the ad when the creatures had first been launched.

Toby’s present-day hair is a Mo’Hair transplant: she didn’t use to be so raven-hued. Maybe that was why the Mo’Hair had come into her cubicle to lick her on the leg. It wasn’t the salt, it was the faint smell of lanolin. It thought she was a relative.

Just so long as I don’t get jumped by one of the rams, she thinks. She’ll have to watch herself for signs of sheepishness. Rebecca must be up by now, dealing with breakfast issues over at the cooking shack; maybe she’s got some floral-scented shampoo tucked away in her supply room.

Over near the garden, Ren and Lotis Blue are sitting in the shade, deep in conversation. Amanda is sitting with them, staring off into the distance. Fallow state, the Gardeners would say. They used that diagnosis for a wide range of conditions, from depression to post-traumatic stress to being permanently stoned. The theory was that while in a Fallow state you were gathering and conserving strength, nourishing yourself through meditation, sending invisible rootlets out into the universe. Toby really hopes this is true of Amanda. She’d been such a lively child in Toby’s class at the Gardener school, back there on the Edencliff Rooftop Garden. When was that? Ten, fifteen years ago? Amazing how quickly the past becomes idyllic.

Ivory Bill and Manatee and Tamaraw are fortifying the boundary fence. In daylight it looks flimsy, permeable. Onto the skeleton of the old ornamental ironwork paling they’ve attached an assortment of materials: lengths of wire fencing interwoven with duct tape, a mixture of poles, a row of pointed sticks with their ends set in the ground and the points facing out. Manatee is adding more sticks; Ivory Bill and Tamaraw are on the other side of the fence, with shovels. They appear to be filling in a hole.

“Morning,” says Toby.

“Take a look at this,” says Manatee. “Something was trying to tunnel under. Last night. Sentries didn’t see them, they were chasing those pigs off at the front.”

“Any tracks?” said Toby.

“We think it was maybe more of those pigs,” Tamaraw says. “Smart — distracting attention, then trying a sneaky dig. Anyway, they didn’t get in.”

Beyond the boundary fence there’s a semicircle of male Crakers, evenly spaced, facing outward, peeing in unison. A man in a striped bedsheet who looks like Crozier — in fact, it is Crozier — is standing with them, joining in the group pee-in.

What next? Is Crozier going native? Will he shed his clothes, take up a cappella singing, grow a huge penis that turns blue in season? If the first two items were the price of entry for the third, he’d do it in a shot. Soon every single human male among the MaddAddamites will be yearning for one of those. And once that starts, how long before the rivalries and wars break out, with clubs and sticks and stones, and then …

Get a grip, Toby, she tells herself. Don’t borrow trouble. You really, really, really need some coffee. Any kind of coffee. Dandelion root. Happicuppa. Black mud, if that’s all there is.

And if there were any booze, she’d drink that too.

A long dining room table has been set up beside the cooking shack. There’s a shade sail deployed above it, gleaned from some deserted backyard. All the patios must be derelict now, the swimming pools cracked and empty or clogged with weeds, the broken kitchen windows invaded by the probing green snoutlets of vines. Inside the houses, nests in the corners made from chewed-up carpets, wriggling and squeaking with hairless baby rats. Termites mining through the rafters. Bats hawking for moths in the stairwells.

“Once the tree roots get in,” Adam One had been fond of saying to the Gardener inner circle, “once they really take hold, no human-built structure stands a chance. They’ll tear a paved road apart in a year. They’ll block the drainage culverts, and once the pumping systems fail, the foundations will be eaten away, and no force on earth will be able to stop that kind of water, and then, when the generating stations catch fire or short out, not to mention the nuclear …”

“Then you can kiss your morning toast goodbye,” Zeb had once added to this litany. He’d just blown in from one of his mysterious courier missions; he looked battered, and his black pleather jacket was ripped. Urban Bloodshed Limitation was one of the subjects he taught the Gardener kids, but he didn’t always practise it. “Yeah, yeah, we know, we’re doomed. Any hope of some elderberry pie around here? I’m starving.” Zeb did not always show a proper reverence towards Adam One.

Speculations about what the world would be like after human control of it ended had been — long ago, briefly — a queasy form of popular entertainment. There had even been online TV shows about it: computer-generated landscape pictures with deer grazing in Times Square, serves-us-right finger-wagging, earnest experts lecturing about all the wrong turns taken by the human race.

There was only so much of that people could stand, judging from the ratings, which spiked and then plummeted as viewers voted with their thumbs, switching from imminent wipeout to real-time contests about hotdog-swallowing if they liked nostalgia, or to sassy-best-girlfriends comedies if they liked stuffed animals, or to Mixed Martial Arts Felony Fights if they liked bitten-off ears, or to Nitee-Nite live-streamed suicides or HottTotts kiddy porn or Hedsoff real-time executions if they were truly jaded. All of it so much more palatable than the truth.

“You know I’ve always sought the truth,” said Adam One that time, in the aggrieved tone he sometimes adopted with Zeb. He didn’t use this tone with anyone else.

“Yeah, right, I do know that,” said Zeb. “Seek and ye shall find, eventually. And you found. You’re right, I don’t dispute that. Sorry. Chewing with my mind full. Stuff comes out my mouth.” And that tone said, This is the way I am. You know that. Suck it up.

If only Zeb were here, thinks Toby. She has a quick flash of him disappearing under a cascade of glass shards and chunks of cement as another burnt-out high-rise crashes down, or howling as a chasm opens under his feet and he plummets into an underground torrent no longer controlled by pumps and sewers, or humming carelessly as from behind him appears an arm, a hand, a face, a rock, a knife …

But it’s too early in the morning to think like that. Also it’s no use. So she tries to stop.

Around the table is a collection of random chairs: kitchen, plastic, upholstered, swivel. On the tablecloth — a rosebud-and-bluebird motif — are plates and glasses, some already used, and cups, and cutlery. It’s like a surrealist painting from the twentieth century: every object ultra-solid, crisp, hard-edged, except that none of them should be here.

But why not? thinks Toby. Why shouldn’t they be here? Nothing in the material world died when the people did. Once, there were too many people and not enough stuff; now it’s the other way around. But physical objects have shucked their tethers — Mine, Yours, His, Hers — and have gone wandering off on their own. It’s like the aftermath of those riots they used to show in documentaries of the early twenty-first century, when kids would join phone-swarms and then break windows and mob shops and grab stuff, and what you could have was limited only by what you could carry.

And so it is now, she thinks. We have laid claim to these chairs, these cups and glasses, we’ve lugged them here. Now that history is over, we’re living in luxury, as far as goods and chattels go.

The plates look antique, or at least expensive. But now she could break the whole set and it wouldn’t cause a ripple anywhere but in her own mind.

Rebecca emerges from the kitchen cooking shack with a platter.

“Sweetheart!” she says. “You made it back! And they told me you found Amanda too! Five stars!”

“She’s not in the best shape,” says Toby. “Those two Painballers almost killed her, and then, last night … I’d say she’s in shock. Fallow state.” Rebecca’s old Gardener, so she’ll understand Fallow.

“She’s tough,” says Rebecca. “She’ll mend.”

“Maybe,” says Toby. “Let’s hope she’s disease-free, and no internal injuries. I guess you heard the Painballers got away. They took a spraygun too. I really messed up on that.”

“Win some, lose some,” says Rebecca. “I can’t tell you how cheered up I am that you’re not dead. I thought those two scumbags would kill you for sure, and Ren too. I was worried sick. But here you are, though I have to say you look like shit.”

“Thanks,” says Toby. “Nice china.”

“Dig in, sweetie. Pig in three forms: bacon, ham, and chops.” It hadn’t taken them long to backslide on the Gardener Vegivows, thinks Toby. Even Jelack Rebecca is having no problems with the pork. “Burdock root. Dandelion greens. Dog ribs on the side. If I keep it up with the animal protein I’m going to get even fatter than I am.”

“You’re not fat,” says Toby. Though Rebecca has always been solid, even back when they’d worked together slinging meat at SecretBurgers, before they turned Gardener.

“I love you too,” says Rebecca. “Okay, I’m not fat. Those glasses are real crystal, I’m enjoying it. Cost a mint, this stuff did once. Remember at the Gardeners? Vanity kills, Adam One used to tell us, so it was earthenware or die. Though I can see the day coming when we’re not gonna be bothered with dishes anymore, we’ll just eat with our hands.”

“There is a place in even the purest and most dedicated life for simple elegance,” says Toby. “As Adam One also used to tell us.”

“Yeah, but sometimes that place is the trash can,” says Rebecca. “I’ve got a whole stack of lap-sized linen table napkins, and I can’t iron them because there’s no iron, and that really bugs me!” She sits down, forks a piece of meat onto her plate.

“I’m glad you’re not dead too,” says Toby. “Any coffee?”

“Yeah, if you can ignore the burnt twigs and roots and crap. There’s no caffeine in it, but I’m counting on the placebo effect. I see you brought a whole mob back with you last night. Those — what would you call them, anyway?”

“They’re people,” says Toby. Or I think they’re people, she adds to herself. “They’re Crakers. That’s what the MaddAddam bunch calls them, and I guess they should know.”

“They’re definitely not like us,” says Rebecca. “No way close. That little pisher Crake. Talk about fouling up the sandbox.”

“They want to be near Jimmy,” says Toby. “They carried him back here.”

“Yeah, I heard that part,” says Rebecca. “Tamaraw enlightened me. They should go back to — to wherever they live.”

“They say they need to purr on him,” says Toby. “On Jimmy.”

“Excuse me? Do what on him?” says Rebecca with a small snort of laughter. “Is that one of their weird sex things?”

Toby sighs. “It’s hard to explain,” she says. “You have to see it.”

Hammock

After breakfast Toby goes over to take a look at Jimmy. He’s suspended between two trees in a makeshift hammock fashioned from duct tape and rope. Over his legs is a child’s comforter with a pattern of cats playing fiddles, laughing puppies, dishes with faces on them holding hands with grinning spoons, and cows with bells around their necks jumping over moons that are leering at their udders. Just what you need when you’re hallucinating, thinks Toby.

Three Crakers — two women and a man — are sitting beside Jimmy’s hammock on chairs that may once have belonged with the dining table: dark wood, with retro lyre backs and yellow-and-brown-striped satiny upholstery. The Crakers look wrong on these chairs, but they also look pleased with themselves, as if they’re doing something quietly adventurous. Their bodies gleam like gold-threaded spandex; huge pink kudzu moths are fluttering around their heads in living halos.

They’re preternaturally beautiful, thinks Toby. Unlike us. We must seem subhuman to them, with our flapping extra skins, our aging faces, our warped bodies, too thin, too fat, too hairy, too knobbly. Perfection exacts a price, but it’s the imperfect who pay it.

Each of the Crakers has one hand on Jimmy. They’re purring; the hum gets louder as Toby walks over to them.

“Greetings, Oh Toby,” says the taller of the two women. How do they know her name? They must have listened more carefully than she’d thought last night. And how should she reply? What are their own names, and is it polite to ask?

“Greetings,” she says. “How is Snowman-the-Jimmy today?”

“He is growing stronger, Oh Toby,” says the shorter woman. The others smile.

Jimmy does look somewhat better. He’s pinker, he’s cooler, and he’s sound asleep. They’ve fixed him up: tidied his hair, cleaned his beard. On his head is a battered red baseball cap, on his wrist a round watch with a blank face. A pair of sunglasses with one eye missing is perched awkwardly on his nose.

“Maybe he’d be more comfortable without those things on him,” says Toby, indicating the hat and the sunglasses.

“He must have those things,” says the man. “Those are the things of Snowman-the-Jimmy.”

“He needs them,” says the shorter woman. “Crake says he must have them. See, here is the thing for listening to Crake.” She lifts the arm with the watch on it.

“And he sees Crake with this,” says the man, pointing to the sunglasses. “Only he.” Toby wants to ask what the hat is for, but she refrains.

“Why have you moved him outside?” she asks.

“He did not like it in that dark place,” says the man. “In there.” He nods towards the house.

“Snowman-the-Jimmy can travel better out here,” says the taller woman.

“He’s travelling?” says Toby. “While he’s asleep?” Could they be describing some dream they imagine Jimmy is dreaming?

“Yes,” says the man. “He is travelling to here.”

“He is running, sometimes fast and sometimes slow. Sometimes walking, because he is tired. Sometimes the Pig Ones are chasing him, because they do not understand. Sometimes he is climbing into a tree,” says the shorter woman.

“When he gets to here, he will wake up,” says the man.

“Where was he when he started this travelling?” says Toby cautiously. She doesn’t want to convey disbelief.

“He was in the Egg,” says the taller woman. “Where we were, in the beginning. He was with Crake, and with Oryx. They came out of the sky to meet with him in the Egg, and to tell him more of the stories, so he can tell them to us.”

“That is where the stories come from,” says the man. “But the Egg is too dark now. Crake and Oryx can be there, but Snowman-the-Jimmy cannot be there any more.” The three of them smile warmly at Toby, as if certain she’s understood every word they’ve said.

“May I look at Snowman-the-Jimmy’s hurt foot?” she asks politely. They have no objection, though they keep their hands in place and continue with their purring.

Toby checks the maggots underneath the cloth she wrapped around Jimmy’s foot the night before. They’re busily at work, cleaning up the dead flesh; the swelling and oozing are diminishing. This batch of maggots is nearing maturity: she’ll have to get hold of some rotting meat tomorrow, leave it in the sun, attract flies, create new maggots.

“Snowman-the-Jimmy is coming closer to us,” says the short woman. “Then he will tell us the stories of Crake, as he always did when he was living in his tree. But today you must tell them to us.”

“Me?” says Toby. “But I don’t know the stories of Crake!”

“You will learn them,” says the man. “It will happen. Because Snowman-the-Jimmy is the helper of Crake, and you are the helper of Snowman-the-Jimmy. That is why.”

“You must put on this red thing,” says the shorter woman. “It is called a hat.”

“Yes, a hat,” says the tall woman. “In the evening, when it is moth time. You will put this hat of Snowman-the-Jimmy on your head, and listen to this shiny round thing that you put on your arm.”

“Yes,” says the other woman, nodding. “And then the words of Crake will come out of your mouth. That is how Snowman-the-Jimmy would do it.”

“See?” says the man. He points to the lettering on the hat: Red Sox. “Crake made this. He will help you. Oryx will help too, if the story has an animal in it.”

“We will bring a fish, when it is getting dark. Snowman-the-Jimmy always eats a fish, because Crake says he must eat it. Then you will put on the hat and listen to this Crake thing, and say the stories of Crake.”

“Yes, how Crake made us in the Egg, and cleared away the chaos of bad men. How we left the Egg and walked here with Snowman-the-Jimmy, because there were more leaves for us to eat.”

“You will eat the fish, and then you will say the stories of Crake, as Snowman-the-Jimmy always did,” says the shorter woman. They look at her with their uncanny green eyes and smile reassuringly. They seem entirely confident of her abilities.

What are my choices? thinks Toby. I can’t say no. They may get disappointed, and go away by themselves, back to the beach, where the Painballers can grab them. They’d be easy prey, especially the children. How can I let that happen?

“All right,” she says. “I will come in the evening. I will put on the hat of Jimmy, I mean Snowman-the-Jimmy, and tell you the stories of Crake.”

“And listen to the shiny thing,” says the man. “And eat the fish.” It seems to be a ritual.

“Yes, all of that,” says Toby.

Shit, she thinks. I hope they cook the fish.

Story

While gathering up the breakfast dishes, Rebecca thought she saw a grim hatchet-face looking at her from under the trees. It seems to have been a false alarm, thinks Toby: no Painballers appeared, and, even better, no spraygun holes opened in Rebecca and no Craker child was yanked screaming into the shrubbery. Still, everyone’s tense.

Toby asks the Craker mothers to move closer to the cobb house. When they look puzzled, she tells them it’s a message from Oryx.

The day unscrolls without incident. No travellers return: no Shackleton, no Black Rhino or Katuro. No Zeb. Toby spends the rest of the morning in the kitchen garden, digging and weeding: a mindless exercise that calms her and fills the time. There are some chickenpeas beginning to sprout, and spinach leaves thrusting up, and the feathery tops of carrots. Her rifle is propped nearby.

Crozier and Zunzuncito herd the Mo’Hairs out of their paddock so they can graze. Both carry sprayguns: in a Painballer confrontation they’d have the advantage — two weapons against one — unless they were taken by surprise. Toby hopes they’ll remember to check above their heads if there are trees nearby: that must have been how the Painballers caught Amanda and Ren, by dropping down from above.

Why is war so much like a practical joke? she thinks. Hiding behind bushes, leaping out, with not much difference between Boo! and Bang! except the blood. The loser falls over with a scream, followed with a foolish expression, mouth agape, eyes akimbo. Those old biblical kings, setting their feet on conquered necks, stringing up rival kings on trees, rejoicing in piles of heads — there was an element of childish glee in all of that.

Maybe it’s what drove Crake on, thinks Toby. Maybe he wanted to end it. Cut that part out of us: the grinning, elemental malice. Begin us anew.

She eats her lunch early, in solitude, because she’s tagged for sentry with her rifle during the regular lunchtime. The food is cold pork and burdock root, with an Oreo cookie from a package gleaned from a pharmacy: a rare treat, carefully rationed. She opens her cookie and licks the white sweet filling before eating the two chocolatey halves: a guilty luxury.

Before the afternoon thunderstorm, five of the Crakers carry Jimmy into the cobb house, along with his Hey-Diddle-Diddle quilt. Toby sits with him while it rains, checks his wound, manages to raise his head so he drinks some of the mushroom elixir, even though he’s still unconscious. Her supply is running low, but she doesn’t know where to find the right mushrooms for a fresh brew.

A single Craker remains in the room with them, to purr: the others go away. They don’t like houses; they’d rather be wet than cooped up. Once the rain stops, four other Crakers appear to carry Jimmy outside again.

The clouds part, the sun comes out. Crozier and Zunzuncito return with the flock of Mo’Hairs. Nothing has happened, they say; or nothing you can put your finger on. The Mo’Hairs were jumpy; it was hard to keep them together. And the crows were making a racket, but what does that tell you? Crows are always making a racket about something.

“Jumpy, how?” says Toby. “What sort of racket?” But they can’t be more specific.

Tamaraw, with a denim shirt over her hunched shoulders and a canvas sunhat, attempts to milk the one Mo’Hair that’s producing. The milking doesn’t go smoothly: there’s kicking and bleating, and the pail tips and spills.

Crozier shows the Crakers how to work the hand pump: a retro decoration once but now the source of their drinking water. God knows what’s in it, thinks Toby: it’s groundwater, and every toxic spill for miles around may have leaked into it. She’ll push for rainwater, at least for drinking; though with faraway fires and maybe nuclear meltdowns sending dirty particulate into the stratosphere, God knows what’s in that as well.

The Crakers are delighted with the pump; the children scamper over and clamour to have water pumped onto them. After that, Crozier demonstrates the one piece of solar the MaddAddamites have managed to get running; it’s connected to a couple of light bulbs, one in the cooking shack and one in the yard. He tries to explain why the lights go on, but they’re puzzled. It’s obvious to them that the light bulbs are like lumiroses, or the green rabbits that come out at dusk: they glow because Oryx made them that way.

Supper takes place at the long table. White Sedge in an apron with bluebirds on it and Rebecca with a mauve bath towel tied around her middle with yellow satin ribbon dish out the food from the pots, then sit down. Ren and Lotis Blue are at the far end, coaxing Amanda to eat. The MaddAddamites not on sentry duty filter in from their chores.

“Greetings, Inaccessible Rail,” says Ivory Bill. He takes pleasure in calling Toby by her old MaddAddam codename. He has a tulip-sprinkled bedsheet draped around his sparse form and a turban-like object made from a matching pillowcase on his head. His angular nose juts out from his leathery face like a beak. It was odd, thinks Toby, how the MaddAddamites chose codenames that mirrored parts of themselves.

“How’s he doing?” says Manatee. He’s wearing a broad-brimmed straw hat that makes him look like a chubby plantation owner. “Our star patient.”

“He’s not dead,” says Toby. “But he’s not what you’d call conscious.”

“If he ever was,” says Ivory Bill. “We used to call him Thickney. That was his MaddAddam name, back in the early days.”

“He was Crake’s jackal at the Paradice Project,” says Tamaraw. “Once he wakes up, there’s a lot he needs to tell us. Before I trample him to death.” She snorts to indicate that she’s joking.

“Thickney by name, Thickney by nature,” says Manatee. “I don’t think he had the least freaking idea. He was just a dupe.”

“Naturally we wouldn’t have had a high opinion of him, to be fair,” says Ivory Bill. “He was at the Project by choice. Unlike ourselves.” He sticks his fork into a chunk of meat. “Dear lady,” he says to White Sedge, “could you possibly identify this substance for me?”

“Ahc-tually,” says White Sedge with her British accent, “actually, not.”

“We were the brain slaves,” says Manatee, spearing another chop. “The captive science brainiacs, working the evolution machines for Crake. What a power-tripper, thought he could perfect humanity. Not that he wasn’t brilliant.”

“He wasn’t alone there,” says slender Zunzuncito. “It was big business, the BioCorps were backing it. People were paying through the ceiling for those gene-splices. They were customizing their kids, ordering up the DNA like pizza toppings.” He’s wearing bifocals. Once we run out of optical products, Toby thinks, it really will be back to the Stone Age.

“Just, Crake was better at it,” says Manatee. “He put some accessories into these guys nobody else even thought of. The built-in insect repellent: genius.”

“And the women who can’t say no. That colour-coded hormonal thing, you have to admire it,” says Zunzuncito.

“As a meat-computer set of problems to be solved, it was an intriguing challenge,” says Ivory Bill, turning his attention to Toby. “Let me elucidate.” He’s talking as if they’re all at a graduate seminar, while cutting his greens into small, even squares. “For instance, the rabbit gizzard, and the baboon platform for certain chromatic features of the reproductive system —”

“The part where they turn blue,” says Zunzuncito helpfully to Toby.

“I was doing the chemical composition of the urine,” says Tamaraw. “The carnivore-deterrent element. Hard to test at the Paradice Project — we didn’t have any carnivores.”

“I was working on the voice box: now that was complex,” says Manatee.

“Too bad you didn’t code in a Cancel button for the singing,” says Ivory Bill. “It gets on the nerves.”

“The singing was not my idea,” says Manatee sulkily. “We couldn’t erase it without turning them into zucchinis.”

“I have a question,” says Toby. They turn and look at her, as if surprised that she’s spoken.

“Yes, dear lady?” says Ivory Bill.

“They want me to tell them a story,” says Toby. “About being made by Crake. But who do they think Crake was, and how do they think he made them? What were they told about that, back in the Paradice dome?”

“They think Crake is some sort of a god,” says Crozier. “But they don’t know what he looks like.”

“How do you know that?” says Ivory Bill. “You weren’t in Paradice with us.”

“Because they fucking told me,” says Crozier. “I’m their pal now. I even get to piss with them. It’s, like, an honour.”

“Good thing they can’t ever meet Crake,” says Tamaraw.

“No shit,” says Swift Fox, who has now joined them. “They’d take one look at their lunatic of a creator and jump off a skyscraper. If there were still any skyscrapers to jump off,” she adds morosely. She makes a show of yawning, stretching her arms up and behind her head, thrusting her breasts up and out. Her straw-coloured hair is pulled into a high ponytail, held in place by a powder-blue crocheted scrunchie. Her bedsheet has a dainty border of daisies and butterflies, cinched at the waist with a wide red belt. It’s a startling touch: angel cloud meets butcher’s cleaver.

“No point in repining, fair lady,” says Ivory Bill, switching his gaze from Toby to Swift Fox. He’ll be even more pompous, thinks Toby, once the beard he’s working on grows in. “Carpe diem. Take every moment as it comes. Gather ye rosebuds.” He smiles, a demi-leer; his eyes move down to the red belt. Swift Fox stares at him blankly.

“Tell them a happy story,” says Manatee. “Vague on the details. Crake’s girlfriend, Oryx, used to do that sort of thing in Paradice, it kept them placid. I just hope that fucker Crake doesn’t start performing miracles from beyond the grave.”

“Like turning everything to diarrhea,” says Swift Fox. “Oh, excuse me, he’s already done that. Is there any coffee?”

“Alas,” says Ivory Bill, “we are bereft of coffee, dear lady.”

“Rebecca says she has to roast some kind of root,” says Manatee.

“And there won’t be any real cream for it when we do get it,” says Swift Fox. “Only sheep goo. It’s enough to make you ice-pick your own temples.”

The light is fading now, the moths are flying, dusky pink, dusky grey, dusky blue. The Crakers have gathered around Jimmy’s hammock. This is where they want Toby to tell the story about Crake and how they came out of the Egg.

Snowman-the-Jimmy wants to listen to the story too, they say. Never mind that he’s unconscious: they’re convinced he can hear it.

They already know the story, but the important thing seems to be that Toby must tell it. She must make a show of eating the fish they’ve brought, charred on the outside and wrapped in leaves. She must put on Jimmy’s ratty red baseball cap and his faceless watch and raise the watch to her ear. She must begin at the beginning, she must preside over the creation, she must make it rain. She must clear away the chaos, she must lead them out of the Egg and shepherd them down to the seashore.

At the end, they want to hear about the two bad men, and the campfire in the forest, and the soup with a smelly bone in it: they’re obsessed by that bone. Then she must tell about how they themselves untied the men, and how the two bad men ran away into the forest, and how they may come back at any time and do more bad things. That part makes them sad, but they insist on hearing it anyway.

Once Toby has made her way through the story, they urge her to tell it again, then again. They prompt, they interrupt, they fill in the parts she’s missed. What they want from her is a seamless performance, as well as more information than she either knows or can invent. She’s a poor substitute for Snowman-the-Jimmy, but they’re doing what they can to polish her up.

She’s just at the part where Crake is clearing away the chaos for the third time when their heads all turn at once. They sniff the air. “Men are coming, Oh Toby,” they say.

“Men?” she says. “The two men who ran away? Where?”

“No, not the ones who smell of blood.”

“Other men. More than two. We must greet them.” They all stand up.

Toby looks where they’re looking. There are four — four silhouettes, coming nearer along the cluttered street that borders the cobb-house parkette. Their headlamps are on. Four dark outlines, each bringing a shining light.

Toby feels her body unclench, feels air flowing into her in a long, soundless breath. Can a heart leap? Can a person be dizzy with relief?

“Oh Toby, are you crying?”

Homecoming

It’s Zeb. Her wish come true. Larger and shaggier than she remembers, and — although it’s only been days since Toby last saw him — older. More bowed down. What’s happened?

Black Rhino and Shackleton and Katuro are with him. Now that she’s closer she can see how tired they are. They’re setting down their packs, and the others are crowding around: Rebecca, Ivory Bill, Swift Fox, Beluga; Manatee, Tamaraw, Zunzuncito, White Sedge; Crozier and Ren and Lotis Blue; even Amanda, hanging back from the group.

Everyone’s talking; or all the human people are. The Crakers stay on the sidelines, clustered together, eyes big, watching. Ren is crying and hugging Zeb, which is in order: he is, after all, her stepfather. When they were at the Gardeners, Zeb had lived for a time with Ren’s luscious mother, Lucerne, who hadn’t appreciated him, thinks Toby.

“It’s okay,” Zeb tells Ren. “Look! You got Amanda back!” He extends an arm; Amanda lets herself be touched.

“It was Toby,” says Ren. “She had her gun.”

Toby waits, then moves forward. “Good work, sharpshooter,” Zeb says to her, even though she didn’t shoot anyone.

“You didn’t find them?” Toby asks. “Adam One and …”

Zeb gives her a sombre look. “Not Adam One,” he says. “But we found Philo.”

The others lean in to listen. “Philo?” says Swift Fox.

“Old Gardener,” says Rebecca. “He smoked a lot of … he liked the Vision Quests. He stayed with Adam One, back when the Gardeners split up. Where was he?” They all understand from Zeb’s face that Philo was not alive.

“There were a bunch of vultures on top of a parking garage, so we went up to take a look,” says Shackleton. “Near the old Wellness Clinic.”

“Where we used to go to school?” says Ren.

“Quite fresh,” says Black Rhino. Which means, thinks Toby, that at least some of the missing Gardeners survived the first wave of the plague.

“None of the others?” she says. “Nobody else? Was it the … was he sick?”

“No sign of them,” says Zeb. “But I’m guessing they’re still out there. Adam could be. Food handy? I could eat a bear.” Which means he doesn’t want to answer Toby right now.

“He eats a bear!” the Crakers say to one another. “Yes! It is as Crozier told us!” “Zeb eats a bear!”

Zeb nods towards the Crakers, who are gazing at him uncertainly. “I see we’ve got company.”

“This is Zeb,” Toby tells the Crakers. “He is our friend.”

“We are pleased, Oh Zeb. Greetings.”

“He is the one, he is the one! Crozier told us.” “He eats a bear!” “Yes. We are pleased.” Tentative smiles. “What is a bear, Oh Zeb — this bear you eat?” “Is it a fish?” “Does it have a smelly bone?”

“They came with us,” says Toby. “From the shore. We couldn’t stop them, they wanted to be with Jimmy. With Snowman. That’s what they call Jimmy.”

“Crake’s buddy?” says Zeb. “From the Paradice Project?”

“Long story,” says Toby. “You should eat.”

There’s some leftover stew; Manatee goes to get it. The Crakers withdraw to a safe distance; they don’t like to be too close to the odours of carnivore cookery. Shackleton wolfs down his stew and moves off to sit with Ren and Amanda and Crozier and Lotis Blue. Black Rhino has two helpings, then goes to take a shower. Katuro says he’ll help Rebecca sort out the contents of the packs: they’ve gleaned more soydines and some duct tape, and a few packs of freeze-dried ChickieNobs, and some Joltbars, and another package of Oreo cookies. A miracle, says Rebecca. It’s hard to find any packaged cookies unchewed by rodents.

“Let’s check out the garden,” Zeb says to Toby. Toby’s heart sinks: there must be bad news he wants to break privately.

The fireflies are coming out. The lavender and thyme are in bloom, releasing their airborne flavours. A few self-seeded lumiroses glimmer along the edges of the fence; several of the shimmering green rabbits are nibbling at their bottom leaves. Giant grey moths drift like blown ash.

“It wasn’t the plague that killed Philo,” says Zeb. “Someone cut his throat.”

“Oh,” says Toby. “I see.”

“Then we saw the Painballers,” says Zeb. “The same ones that grabbed Amanda. They were gutting one of those giant pigs. We took a few shots, but they ran off. So we stopped looking for Adam and got back here as fast as we could, because they might be anywhere around here.”

“I’m sorry,” says Toby.

“About what?” says Zeb.

“We caught them, night before last,” she says. “We tied them to a tree. But I didn’t kill them. It was Saint Julian’s, I just couldn’t. They got away, they took their spraygun.”

She’s crying now. This is pathetic, like baby mice, blind and pink and whimpering. It’s not what she does. But she’s doing it.

“Hey,” says Zeb. “It’ll be fine.”

“No,” says Toby. “It won’t be fine.” She turns away to leave: if she’s going to snivel, she should do it alone. Alone is how she feels, alone is how she’ll always be. You’re used to solitude, she tells herself. Be a stoic.

Then she’s enfolded.

She’d waited so long, she’d given up waiting. She’d longed for this, and denied it was possible. But now how easy it is, like coming home must have been once, for those who’d had homes. Walking through the doorway into the familiar, the place that knows you, opens to you, allows you in. Tells you the stories you’ve needed to hear. Stories of the hands as well, and of the mouth.

I’ve missed you. Who said that?

A shape against the night window, glint of an eye. Dark heartbeat.

Yes. At last. It’s you.