Fractured: Tales of the Canadian Post-Apocalypse(39)

“Zazu, Queen of the Snow Angels.”

“That’s not your name,” Lindy said.

Through the speaker, a chuckle. “Important safety tip, sis. Unlike you, kids like to eat regularly.”

“We are hungry,” Zazu agreed, as if she were 50 and poring over a menu, someplace pricey.

“Too bad.” Lindy said: “Missy, while I’ve got you, my modem—”

“You’re in the salvage queue.”

“It’s getting dire.”

“Rules are rules.”

“I’m listed as a project of cultural significance.”

“You know what I think,” Missy said. “The oral history shards encourage morbid thinking.”

“You mean I’m morbid.”

“Dwelling on a past we can’t have back—”

“What do you call keeping old government departments alive? StatsCan?”

“I call it crisis management. Democracy in action.”

Her sister’s tone made suspicion bloom. “Are you blocking my modem request?”

“I have no influence over the salvage queue.”

“You are, aren’t you?”

A click. The royal audience was over.

“Bitchbitchbitch!” Lindy screamed at the phone.

Zazu had homed in on a file cabinet at the back of the studio. She dug up a box of mac and cheez.

“I was saving that,” Lindy snarled, but her mouth watered.

“Cook it.”

She snatched the box, fighting an urge to clout the kid – and a wave of shame. “Fine. But we’re only making half.”

“You have weiners?”

“No.” Cooking meant finding her hotplate and saucepan, then begging a couple pats of fake butter off the physiotherapist next door. Zazu waited, in her devil costume, in the hallway.

“Cutest thing I ever seen,” Glenda – the physio – cooed.

“She’s yours if you want her.”

“You’re so funny!”

Lindy sighed. “Wasn’t joking.”

“What woke her? The varnish?”

“No.”

“Mac and cheez?” Glenda licked her lips. “The real deal?”

“Come have some,” Zazu said.

Lindy shot the kid a dirty look, but what could she do? They had to have the margarine. “Mi studio es su casa,” she agreed weakly.

“Do you have weiners?” Zazu added.

“Pelee might. Sort of.” Glenda all but skipped down the hall to consult with the former veterinarian.

Dinner for five. Now we are making the whole box.

It turned out living at the edge of starvation tended to shrink your appetite, so that last box of prefab pasta went a surprisingly long way. And Lindy must have forgotten what real weiners tasted like, because the sealmeat-and-gut abominations that passed for them nowadays were delicious.

Glenda, who’d always acted as though Lindy had a smell or something, made an appointment to come in when she saw the latest shards. She’d driven a bus full of Winkled biologists to Yellowknife from Galveston, Texas.

What had she seen in America, as the world ended?

Pelee, the veterinarian, went through the motions of examining Zazu. “Was it a smell woke you, honey?”

“Lindy wasn’t varnishing.”

“I’m not sure the city has a lot of kids’ clothes. You’ll have to scrounge. There’ll be an extra food ration.”

“I want Berry Loops,” Zazu said immediately.

I want antidepressants and a hot tub, Lindy thought, though she’d loved Berry Loops.

“I don’t think anyone’s got breakfast cereal anymore, honey,” Glenda said.

“Your majesty,” Zazu corrected.

Pelee cocked an eyebrow.

“She’s queen of the snow angels,” Lindy explained.

After they were gone, Zazu went rooting amid Lindy’s pile of stuff again, coming up with a broken-toothed comb. “Can I brush your hair?”

“You want to brush me?”

Zazu nodded.

“I guess.” Why argue? The kid would take a few swipes and give up. But Zazu pulled out all the knots, working patiently and painlessly, until she could fluff Lindy with her little spit-slimed hands.

“Want me to do you?” Lindy offered reluctantly. Her head felt remarkably good.

Zazu shook her head. She climbed back onto the stretcher with the two Winkles and stuck her fist in her mouth, falling asleep.

Maybe she’ll go down again, Lindy thought, dozing in the comfy chair. A belly full of carbs and protein made it easier both to find sleep and to stay there.

She woke late, and didn’t think of Zazu until she found the saucepan sitting out, half-full of day-glo leftovers.

More leftovers than she remembered.

She scooped up a clump with her fingers, licking them clean, savouring the intense over-salted old-worldy goodness as she turned her gaze to the gurney.

The kid was gone.

? ?

This was a chance. A truly unfit caregiver would go about her day. Someone would find Zazu soon enough, and there’d be a hue and cry.

Oh, did she leave? I was varnishing.

Someone must be dying to adopt an urchin.