Margaret Atwood - MaddAddam

While the plastic-film-dressed and face-masked cleanup team was water-vaccing the Rev into enamelled pails and then funnelling him into sealable freezer-friendly metal flasks, Zeb headed off to become a tidier and sweeter version of Smokey the Bear. He disposed of his black outfit, doomed to incineration, and took a quick antimicrobial-enhanced shower — same product the Scalies used — lathering his face, sanctifying his pits, and Q-tipping his pointy ears.

I’m gonna wash that Rev right offa my head ,

’Cause he’s not only dead, he’s red ,

He’s a red red goo, and a good thing too ,

’Cause Daddy I’m through and so are you ,

A boobity-doop-de-doop-de-doop-de-doo!

He did a little two-step, a little hip-wiggle. He liked to sing in the shower, especially when danger threatened.

One more river , he sang while putting on a fresh black suit. And that’s the river of boredom! One more molar, There’s one more molar to floss .

Then he resumed his duties, standing sentinel behind Katrina WooWoo — now dressed as a fruit cluster with a fetching set of tooth marks embroidered on one apple-shaped boob — while she and March the python broke the lamentable news to the three OilCorps execs, having first ordered frozen daiquiris on the house, all around, and a platter of mini-fish-fingers, PeaPod Good-as-Real Scallops — No Bottoms Dragged for These, said the label, as Zeb knew from mooching them in the kitchen — some Gourmet’s Holiday Poutine, and a plate of deep-fried NeverNetted Shrimps, a new lab-grown splice.

“Your friend has unfortunately had a life-suspending event,” she told the OilCorps execs. “Total bliss can be taxing on the system. But as you know, he had — excuse me, he has a contract with CryoJeenyus — full-body, not head-only — so all is well. I’m so sorry for your temporary loss.”

“I didn’t know that,” said one of the execs. “About the contract. I thought you wore a CryoJeenyus bracelet or something; I never saw his.”

“Some gentlemen prefer not to advertise the possibility of life suspension,” said Katrina smoothly. “They choose the tattoo option, which is applied in a concealed and very private location. Of course, at this enterprise we become aware of all such tattoos, as a casual business acquaintance might not.” One more thing to admire about her, thought Zeb, trying not to peer down the front of her apples: she was a tip-top liar. He couldn’t have done better himself.

“Makes sense,” said the dominant exec.

“In any case, we did discover this fact in time,” said Katrina, “and, as you know, the procedure has to be carried out immediately in order to be effective. Luckily we have a fast-track Premium Platinum-level agreement with CryoJeenyus, and their trained operatives are always on call. Your friend is already in a Frasket, and will be on his way to the central CryoJeenyus facility on the east coast almost at once.”

“We can’t see him?” said the second exec.

“Once the Frasket is sealed and vacuumized — as it now is — it would defeat the purpose to open it,” Katrina said, smiling. “I can provide a certificate of authentication from CryoJeenyus. Would you like another frozen daiquiri?”

“Shit,” said the third exec. “What do we tell that nutbar church of his? Fell over getting fracked in a moppet shop won’t go down too well.”

“I agree,” said Katrina, a little more coldly. She felt Scales was much more than a moppet shop: it was a total aesthetic experience , ran the blurb on the website. “But Scales and Tails is well known for its discretion in such matters. That is why it is the number-one choice among discerning gentlemen such as yourselves. With us, you do get what you pay for, and more; and that includes a good cover story.”

“Any bright ideas?” said the second exec. He had eaten all the NeverNetted Shrimps and was starting on the scallops. Death made some people hungry.

“Contracted viral pneumonia while working with disadvantaged children in the deeper pleeblands, would be my first suggestion,” said Katrina. “That would be a popular choice. But we have our own trained PR personnel to assist you.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” said the third exec, watching her through narrowed and slightly reddened eyes. “You’ve been very helpful.”

“My pleasure,” said Katrina, smiling graciously and leaning forward to let her hand be shaken and then her fingertips kissed while disclosing enough but not too much of her upper torso real-estate. “Anytime. We’re here for you.”

“What a gal,” says Zeb. “She could have run any of the top Corps with one thumb, no problem.”

Toby feels the familiar snarly tendrils of jealousy knotting round her heart. “So did you ever?” she asks.

“Ever what, babe?”

“Ever get into her scaly underthings.”

“It’s one of my life-span regrets,” says Zeb, “but no. I didn’t even give it a try. Hands stayed in the pockets, firmly clenched. Jaw clenched likewise. It was an effort to restrain myself, but that’s the bare-naked truth: I didn’t give it a single grope. Not even a wink.”

“Because?”

“One, she was my boss when I was working at Scales. It’s not a smart move to roll around on the floor with a woman boss. It confuses them.”

“Oh please,” says Toby. “That’s so twentieth century!”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m a sexist-wexist pig and so forth, but that happens to be accurate. Hormone overdrive craps up efficiency. I’ve watched it in action — women bosses getting all coy and weird about issuing orders to some bullet-headed stud who’s just erased their rational faculties and blown off the top of their heads and made them growl like a rakunk in heat and scream like a dying rabbit. It alters the power hierarchy. ‘Take me, take me, write my speech, get me a coffee, you’re fired.’ So there’s that.” He pauses. “Plus.”

“Plus what?” She’s hoping for some revolting feature on the part of Katrina WooWoo, whom, granted, she has never seen, and who is 99.999 per cent likely to be dead; but envy crosses all borders. Maybe she was knock-kneed, or had halitosis or hopeless taste in music. Even a pimple would have been some comfort.

“Plus,” says Zeb, “Adam loved her. No doubt of it. I’d never poach in his goldfish pond. He was — he’s my brother. He’s my family. There’s limits.”

“You’re kidding!” says Toby. “Adam One? In love? With Katrina WooWoo?”

“She was Eve One,” says Zeb.

“That’s hard to believe,” says Toby. “How do you know?”

Zeb is silent. Will this be a painful story? It’s likely: most stories about the past have an element of pain in them, now that the past has been ruptured so violently, so irreparably.

But not, surely, for the first time in human history. How many others have stood in this place? Left behind, with all gone, all swept away. The dead bodies evaporating like slow smoke; their loved and carefully tended homes crumbling away like deserted anthills. Their bones reverting to calcium; night predators hunting their dispersed flesh, transformed now into grasshoppers and mice.

There’s a moon now, almost full. Good luck for owls; bad luck for rabbits, who often choose to cavort riskily but sexily in the moonlight, their brains buzzing with pheromones. There’s a couple of them down there now, jumping about in the meadow, glowing with a faint greenish light. Some used to think there was a giant rabbit up there on the moon: they could clearly make out its ears. Others thought there was a smiling face, yet others an old woman with a basket. What will the Crakers decide about that when they get around to astrology, in a hundred years, or ten, or one? As they will, or will not.