Reservoir Cats
By Thea Zimmer
"Two days, eight hours, eleven minutes . . . " Lilly's voice echoed . . . like a zombie's must.
Luke appeared calm.
Even so, she'd watched the stress of it all burrow its way into his face, desiccated creases, traces of what once could've been. "We have to bring them in," he said, "they think it's really going to help. So much water freed up. People are . . . we're . . . thirsty, Lilly."
She'd felt scared, desperate, when the news started coming out: freshwater depleted, oceans polluted. Detoxification, desalination. They couldn't keep up. Rations were cut.
"They'll get an injection. They're lucky, Lilly."
She picked up Pooster, then Moodge, covering them with kisses, Pooster squirming out—he likes it but he won't admit it—Moodge turning into jello, oozing, absorbing mama's kisses. Not quite the bounding toddlers they'd once been, they were still bigger than babies (she surmised, having never really known), bigger than most kitties, fluffy Maine Coons, an orange boy, a gray girl.
"We've got to bring them in, Lilly, . . . two days left . . ."
Her anger remained, a slow burn, all directed at Luke, his quiet acceptance of things. It seemed like forever since she'd expressed anything else.
"Luke . . . ," she said, perhaps hours later. She'd entered into such a fog, no longer sure of their years, mostly seamless, the barely conscious trade-offs, the push and pull, her own stubbornness blinding her, even now. "If you insist," she said finally.
No sooner had she relented, then Luke's face gave in, a chill running through her, an inevitable queasiness, as he sat down and wept, brittle tears, his throat and shoulders carrying the burden.
She knew then to set up the pills, the vials of Valzac and Hapinol for her and Luke, injections of the same for the kitties. So strong, the kitties would sleep first, then go, dying in their arms—the hideous food-givers. Luke used to joke that's how the kitties probably saw them.
There were also auto-iMails to be sent—hers, and the ones Luke now solemnly wrote.
When he got up, his face reflected a strength she'd never shared. She sensed his heart along with hers, its skittish beating as he scooped up Pooster, then Moodge, both unsuspecting.
He kissed each one as he always had, with all the effusiveness, all the kisses, hugs, and oohing that Lilly knew he would've liked to have given her all these years, now stored up in the kitties, decades of affection—hers as much as his. It poured out onto Luke's face, in a look, a kiss, he gave Lilly, and in what she gave back, a flash of sweet finality through her own phantom tears.
One by one, he handed them to her, so that Pooster could object, then stare at her in that deep golden way of his, so that Moodge could lick and nuzzle. He shared them with her, two cups, and together they drank.
- - -
Thea Zimmer's fiction has appeared in such other publications as Dial Magazine, Hackwriters, and r.kv.r.y quarterly. Among other works, her hypertext melodrama "Cake it!" is in process. (zimmerthea@yahoo.com.)
By Thea Zimmer
"Two days, eight hours, eleven minutes . . . " Lilly's voice echoed . . . like a zombie's must.
Luke appeared calm.
Even so, she'd watched the stress of it all burrow its way into his face, desiccated creases, traces of what once could've been. "We have to bring them in," he said, "they think it's really going to help. So much water freed up. People are . . . we're . . . thirsty, Lilly."
She'd felt scared, desperate, when the news started coming out: freshwater depleted, oceans polluted. Detoxification, desalination. They couldn't keep up. Rations were cut.
"They'll get an injection. They're lucky, Lilly."
She picked up Pooster, then Moodge, covering them with kisses, Pooster squirming out—he likes it but he won't admit it—Moodge turning into jello, oozing, absorbing mama's kisses. Not quite the bounding toddlers they'd once been, they were still bigger than babies (she surmised, having never really known), bigger than most kitties, fluffy Maine Coons, an orange boy, a gray girl.
"We've got to bring them in, Lilly, . . . two days left . . ."
Her anger remained, a slow burn, all directed at Luke, his quiet acceptance of things. It seemed like forever since she'd expressed anything else.
"Luke . . . ," she said, perhaps hours later. She'd entered into such a fog, no longer sure of their years, mostly seamless, the barely conscious trade-offs, the push and pull, her own stubbornness blinding her, even now. "If you insist," she said finally.
No sooner had she relented, then Luke's face gave in, a chill running through her, an inevitable queasiness, as he sat down and wept, brittle tears, his throat and shoulders carrying the burden.
She knew then to set up the pills, the vials of Valzac and Hapinol for her and Luke, injections of the same for the kitties. So strong, the kitties would sleep first, then go, dying in their arms—the hideous food-givers. Luke used to joke that's how the kitties probably saw them.
There were also auto-iMails to be sent—hers, and the ones Luke now solemnly wrote.
When he got up, his face reflected a strength she'd never shared. She sensed his heart along with hers, its skittish beating as he scooped up Pooster, then Moodge, both unsuspecting.
He kissed each one as he always had, with all the effusiveness, all the kisses, hugs, and oohing that Lilly knew he would've liked to have given her all these years, now stored up in the kitties, decades of affection—hers as much as his. It poured out onto Luke's face, in a look, a kiss, he gave Lilly, and in what she gave back, a flash of sweet finality through her own phantom tears.
One by one, he handed them to her, so that Pooster could object, then stare at her in that deep golden way of his, so that Moodge could lick and nuzzle. He shared them with her, two cups, and together they drank.
- - -
Thea Zimmer's fiction has appeared in such other publications as Dial Magazine, Hackwriters, and r.kv.r.y quarterly. Among other works, her hypertext melodrama "Cake it!" is in process. (zimmerthea@yahoo.com.)
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