“That’s very manipulative,” says Toby. “Shoving it all onto me.”
“Yeah, I’m not denying it,” says Jimmy. “I apologize. Though you’re good at it, according to them. Your choice; you can always tell them to piss off.”
“You realize we’re under attack, in a manner of speaking,” says Toby.
“The Painballers. Yeah. Ren told me,” he says more soberly.
“So we can’t let these people go wandering off on their own too much. They’d most likely be killed.”
Jimmy thinks about that. “So, then?”
“You need to help me,” says Toby. “We should get our stories straight. I’ve been flying in the dark.”
“Nowhere else to fly on the subject of Crake,” says Jimmy gloomily. “Welcome to my whirlwind. He cut her throat, did you know that? Good, kind Crake. She was so pretty, she was … Just thought I’d share that. But I shot the fucker.”
“Whose throat?” Toby asks. “Who did you shoot?” But Jimmy’s face is in his hands now, and his shoulders are shaking.
Piglet
Toby doesn’t know what to do. Is a comforting maternal hug in order, supposing she’s capable of giving one, or would Jimmy find that intrusive? How about a brisk, nurse-like Chin up or a feeble withdrawal, on tiptoe?
Before she can make up her mind, Blackbeard runs into the room. He’s unusually excited. “They’re coming! They’re coming!” he says. It’s almost a shout, which is rare for a Craker: even the kids aren’t shouters.
“Who is?” she asks. “Is it the bad men?” Now where did she leave her rifle? That’s the down side of Meditations: you forget how to be properly aggressive.
“They! Come! Come,” he says, tugging at her hand, then at her bedsheet. “The Pig Ones. Very many!”
Jimmy lifts his head. “Pigoons. Oh fuck,” he says.
Blackbeard is delighted. “Yes! Thank you for calling him, Snowman-the-Jimmy! We will need him, to help us,” he says. “The Pig Ones have a dead.”
“A dead what?” Toby asks him, but he’s out the door.
The MaddAddamites have dropped their various tasks and are moving in behind the cobb-house fence. Some have armed themselves with axes, and rakes, and shovels.
Crozier, who must have set out to pasture with his flock of Mo’Hairs, is hurrying back along the pathway. Manatee’s with him, carrying their spraygun.
“They’re coming from the west,” says Crozier. The Mo’Hairs surround him.
“They’re … It’s weird. They’re marching. It’s like a pig parade.”
The Crakers are gathering by the swing set. They don’t seem in any way frightened. They talk together in low voices, then the men begin to move west, as if to meet whatever’s coming down the path. Several women go with them: Marie Antoinette, Sojourner Truth, two others. The rest stay behind with the children, who clump together and stand silently, though no one has ordered them to do that.
“Make them come back!” says Jimmy, who has joined the MaddAddamite group. “Those things will rip them open!”
“You can’t make them do anything,” says Swift Fox, who is holding – somewhat awkwardly – a pitchfork from the garden.
“Rhino,” says Zeb, handing over another spraygun. “Don’t get trigger-happy,” he says to Manatee. “You could hit a Craker. As long as the pigs don’t charge us, don’t fire.”
“This is creepy,” says Ren timorously. She’s standing beside Jimmy now, holding on to his arm. “Where’s Amanda?”
“Sleeping,” says Lotis Blue, who’s on the other side of Jimmy now.
“More than creepy,” says Jimmy. “They’re sly, the pigoons. They’ve got tactics. They almost cornered me one time.”
“Toby. We’ll need your rifle,” says Zeb. “If they split into two groups, go around to the back. They can root under the fence fast if they’ve got us distracted out front. Then they’ll attack from both sides.”
Toby hurries to her cubicle. When she comes out carrying her old Ruger Deerfield, the herd of giant pigoons is already advancing into the clearing in front of the cobb-house fence.
There are fifty or so in all. Fifty adults, that is: several of the sows have litters of piglets, trotting along beside their mothers. In the centre of the group, two of the boars are moving side by side; there’s something lying crossways on their backs. It looks like a mound of flowers – flowers and foliage.
What? thinks Toby. Is it a peace offering? A pig wedding? An altar-piece?
The largest pigs are acting as outriders; they seem nervous, pointing the moist discs of their snouts this way and that, snuffing the air.