Devolution: A Firsthand Account of the Rainier Sasquatch Massacre

by Max Brooks

  Tony tried to say, “Look, Mostar—” but she interrupted with, “You must have one, Tony. Supplies? A plan? You built this place. You talked us into coming here.”

  “You’re scaring her.” Effie’s voice was so soft, I barely heard it. I peeked over to her holding Palomino, who honestly didn’t look that scared. I was. At that point, I was the most terrified I’d been all night, and not just because of what Mostar said. Her tone, it was softer with Tony than with Reinhardt. Less challenge. More question.

  “You must have at least thought about what might go wrong.” I watched her face change when he didn’t answer, those saggy eyelids raising, the full lips rounding. “Didn’t you? Right now, all I’m hearing is ‘don’t worry, it’s not as bad as you think.’ But what if it is? What if it’s worse?”

  “You’re scaring her!” That was Carmen, sitting straight up with a clear, commanding voice. Mostar paused at that, and it gave Tony the moment to jump in.

  “Mosty, we…we all hear what you’re saying, and we respect your legitimate concerns.” Mostar opened her mouth to say something but Tony held out a hand. “And, yes, I’ve thought about it, but more important”—a nod to the window—“they’ve thought about it.”

  “They?” Mostar cut in. “Who’s they?”

  “They,” Tony repeated with just the barest hesitance, “the experts, the…emergency services. Those in charge. They’ve thought about Rainier, and planned and trained for this exact moment.”

  “They better for the taxes we pay,” said Reinhardt, and it got a laugh from the room. Tony joined in with, “Exactly, they get paid to think about these situations so we don’t have to.” He was starting to relax, we all were, but dammit, she just wouldn’t shut up.

  “But what if ‘they’ can’t handle this? What if it’s too big and they don’t find us before—”

  “Mostar, enough!” Carmen again, followed by an “I know, please!” from Bobbi and a groaning “Mosty…” from Reinhardt.

  “No, it’s okay.” Tony raised his arms gently. “Mosty’s got a right to feel what she feels, and she’s right about us all needing to take care of each other. That’s the”—he paused, licked his lips—“that’s the unspoken social contract,” he emphasized the last three words, “that every community agrees to. People helping people when times are tough because it’s the right thing to do. Right?”

  If he was expecting support or maybe gratitude from Mostar, he didn’t get it. Mostar just glared at him before examining the rest of us. Her face was placid, her head nodded almost imperceptibly. Don’t take this the wrong way, but it kind of reminded me of our first session, when you just listened with this expression like you were getting the lay of the land. That’s how I felt with Mostar, like she was thinking, So this is how it’s going to be, this is what I’m dealing with.

  She was still silently sizing us up when Yvette spoke. Standing next to her husband and taking his hand, she said, “Tony just made such a good point about being free to feel the way we feel.” She smiled at him lovingly. “I don’t want to speak for anyone else, but, right now, I can feel the stress hormones flooding my body because I’m just so worried about all the people I know will worry about me.”

  Nods from Bobbi, Effie, Carmen. Reinhardt gave a long contemplative “Mmmm…”

  “Family, friends, people out of state and even in other countries who are going to wake up tomorrow to this terrible news. Maybe some are already awake and trying to reach us.” Her voice, the concern, the empathy. “And some are probably calling the authorities right now, making sure we’re not forgotten.”

  From my interview with Frank McCray, Jr.

  “Please stay on the line, your call will be answered as soon as possible.” And I did. With FEMA, the USGS, the federal and state park services, the governor’s office, state and county cops. I don’t even want to think about how many hours I spent in that goddamn Chinese hotel room, forgetting to shower, or eat, or sleep as I texted and Skyped and email blasted anyone I could think of who might know anything about what might be happening to Greenloop, all with CNN in the background, the newsfeed on my laptop constantly updating, and my phone remaining “on the line” for a human voice that never came.

  JOURNAL ENTRY #4 [CONT.]

  Yvette made sure to address the room as a whole, but I could see her eyes linger on Mostar for just an extra beat. “I know it’s hard to wait, feeling helpless, thinking about our loved ones, and”—she turned to the window—“those poor people out there who might really need help.” She sniffed hard, dropped her head slightly as Tony slid a muscular arm around her shoulders.

  “We can’t be there for them, so we need to be here for each other.” Yvette rested her head on his shoulder. “We can’t let ourselves be destroyed by survivor’s guilt, or what we hear on the news, or what we think our loved ones might be thinking about us.” Another glance at Mostar. “We’ve got a lot to process, and we need to pool our emotional resources.” The two smiled down at her, and Yvette said, “We need to keep our minds occupied, so tomorrow morning I’ll be doing a meditation class here for anyone who needs it.”

  Tony hugged her again and said, “And my door’s always open, if anyone needs to vent or share news or partake of some emergency single-malt scotch.” Amid the chuckles, he finished with, “We’re gonna keep calm and care for everyone’s heart and soul. That”—he gave a confident glance to Mostar—“is our social contract.”

  Applause.

  The Boothes, Reinhardt, the Perkins-Forster family. And me.

  I couldn’t believe how lucky we were to have them as our leaders. Silly term, simplistic, but what else can I call them? I felt so relieved, so secure, walking a few steps behind them as we all filed out. I did see something weird though, or maybe just thought I saw it. As they stepped out the door, Yvette glanced up at Tony with a look I’d never seen on her. Just a slight widening of the eyes, a subtle narrowing of the lips. They didn’t say anything, sauntering home arm in arm. Just before they got to their door, I saw Yvette’s head whip back over her shoulder. What was she looking for? To see if we were looking at them? Why?

  I didn’t get much chance to wonder. Soon as we closed the door, Dan turned and asked me, “What do you think?” It’s been a while since he’s asked my opinion, about anything. At first, I was going to answer honestly, telling him how happy I was that Tony had put everything in perspective. What stopped me was the look on his face. Lost, searching. Genuinely open. It was the same look he’d shown at the meeting, specifically when Mostar spoke. Did he disagree with Tony? Did he really think, or at least wonder, if she might be right?

  “Maybe…” Dan hesitated. “Maybe we should just drive down to the bridge…or maybe a little farther to the main road, just, you know…just to see what’s going on?”

  Before I could answer, loud sharp knocks sounded from our back door. We headed for the kitchen just as Mostar came tramping in. No apologizing, or even waiting for a response. Did I mention nobody here locks their doors at night?

  Then she turned to Dan. “Do you know how to fix anything? Do you know how this house works?”

  Dan, blank-faced, shook his head.

  “Learn.”

  The word felt like a thousand pounds.

  “There’s probably a manual,” Mostar continued in her flat, curt tone, “but it’s probably”—her hands waved to the sky—“in the ‘clouds.’ So, you’re going to have to use your head. Plumbing, electricity, all the crazy computer stuff that you kids should probably already know.”

  Dan was about to say something, but Mostar bulldozed in with, “And if you don’t already know, learn.”

  Dan’s lips moved. Her finger shot up. “But not now! First things first.” And that finger lowered in the direction of our garage. “We can’t use my workshop. Too much to move. I’m guessing yours is practically empty, so it’ll
be easy to build a garden.”

  Garden? Wait, what!

  “Go on then,” and she gave him a gentle shove toward the garage. “Whatever’s in there, get it out, clear the floor. And get out a shovel, if you have one.”

  Before I could say anything, before I could even think, that pointing, smacking hand had wrapped around my wrist.

  “Let’s go, Katie.”

  And we were off to her house.

  “Keep the curtains drawn,” she said as soon as her kitchen door slid shut. “Don’t let anybody see you. We can’t let anyone know that we’re in this together.” I finally did manage to speak, something forceful and brilliant like “Uh…”

  “We can’t have them turning against you, not yet.” She continued, this crazy little tank rolling over me, “You’re a peacemaker, and we’re going to need those skills first thing tomorrow.” She let go of my wrist long enough to hand me a pen and yellow legal pad. “But first things first.” And with a sweeping gesture to the pantry, cabinets, and fridge, she declared, “Go through it all. Catalog everything edible, right down to the last calorie. You must know how to do that, you’re an American girl. I bet you’ve been dieting all your life.” With a gentle shove toward the fridge, she headed for the back door. “Go home as soon as you’re done and do the same with your own food!” As she turned to leave, I blurted something like, “But…wha…”

  And she stopped, looking at my face and seeing all the confusion and, yes, anxiety leaking out from every pore. She sighed deeply, put a hand on my shoulder, and said, “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

  Of course, I was expecting her next words to be something like, “I’m sorry I’m acting crazy. You’re right. I’ll stop. Go back home. Forget my meltdown. I’m sorry I scared you.”

  If only.

  “I’m sorry I’m not more prepared.” She scowled, clearly annoyed with herself. “I trusted Tony and Tony trusts ‘they.’ ” She shrugged. “And maybe he’s right. Maybe ‘they’ are cleaning up things right now. Maybe ‘they’ will be here tomorrow to fix the Internet and apologize for the inconvenience.” She smiled sarcastically. “And then you can thank me for keeping your mind occupied with this engaging little project. And you’ll even have a funny little story to tell your friends about the crazy old woman next door who thought the world was coming to an end.” She looked ready to laugh, but sobered quickly. “But if I’m right…” Another shrug, a pat on my cheek, and then she tramped back to my house while I stood flustered and alone in hers.

  That was two hours ago. I cataloged everything: eggs, cheeses, salami, bread. She has a lot of bread. And a lot of pickled stuff: cucumbers, peppers, and something that looks like sauerkraut. I even went through her juices and soda (no diet versions there) and logged every condiment and spice I could find. From jams to oils to something called “Vegeta.” I’m not sure what the calorie count on that one is, but I’ve dieted enough to guestimate everything else. It’s all so heavy, especially compared to our, my, calorie-negative stuff like celery and LaCroix.*2

  There’s not a lot though, I should make that clear now. I’d say under normal conditions, three meals a day and snacks, she has enough for maybe two weeks at most. It’s a little surprising, but Frank already warned me about that. He said that Greenloop’s drone deliveries and smaller pantries were specifically designed to combat food waste. What was the number he cited? Thirty to forty percent of American food is thrown out each year? Thirty million tons?*3 I don’t see how Mostar could contribute to that. It reminded me of East Coast city living, where people run to the local bodega for one tomato or a handful of string beans.

  Still, her food stocks looked positively decadent next to ours. We’d thrown out so much before leaving, so many sacks and cans of stuff we’d never eaten (more waste). Now all we have at home is this week’s delivery and the leftovers from the welcome dinner. It shouldn’t take too long to catalog that. Which I’m about to do.

  I’m in our own kitchen now, as Mostar and Dan work around me.

  They’ve cleaned out the garage. And now they’re filling it with dirt.

  Yes. Dirt.

  They’re outside right now, scraping up soil with stainless steel mixing bowls (neither of us has a shovel) and filling the plastic cleaning supply buckets we both have under our sinks. They’re working at it like crazy, going back and forth across a bridge of Mostar’s bath towels that she’s laid from the kitchen door to the garage.

  I offer to help but she waves me away. “No, no, specialization. You do your job, we’ll do ours.” She must think I’m still writing down a list of food. Not that she bothers to check. She’s like a machine. So is Dan. A little slower, a little dazed. Once or twice we exchange wide-eyed looks. She catches one of those looks and probably thinks we were still questioning her decision to keep me from helping. “Division of labor!” She barks that over her shoulder. “That’s how it works.”

  How what works?

  I’m hiding my journal now under the yellow legal pad.

  Does this wackadoo actually think we’re going to be stuck here all winter? And why are we letting her do this? Why doesn’t Dan just stand up to her and say, “Enough!”

  Why don’t I?

  Okay, yes, I know what you’d say. Two betas, shared passivity, the whole reason our marriage got to where it got to in the first place. Nobody wants to take the lead and, as you say, take “responsibility” for leadership. I get all that, but…

  But…

  What if she’s right?

  I shouldn’t even be thinking that now. I don’t know what to think. Tony has to be right. I know he is. This is crazy. So why don’t I say anything? I’m so tired. It’s almost dawn.

  I’ve got to get back to work. I need time to shower and dress and head over to Yvette’s meditation class like everything’s okay. Mostar’s making me go.

  Silver Skis Chalet, Crystal Mountain Resort, Washington State

  The resort is abuzz with activity, the staff rushing to prepare for reopening. Their vim and vigor could not contrast more with the hollow-eyed, shuffling exhaustion of the departing government personnel. Most of the men and women here have been deployed since the early days of the eruption. No one seems to question my presence. No one asks for my I.D. Likewise, I try not to get in their way, searching the sea of army, National Guard, state police, and FEMA uniforms for the gray and olive colors of the United States National Park Service. Fortunately, the first one I spot is Senior Ranger Josephine Schell.

  Her “field office,” a converted room on the second floor, smells like cigarette smoke, coffee, and feet. Josephine plops behind her cluttered desk, rubbing her eyes, yawning.

  To me, Greenloop was the Titanic, right down to the design flaws and the lack of lifeboats. They were extremely isolated, miles from the one public road which was miles from the nearest town. And, of course, that was the idea. With modern logistics and telecommunications, the world must have still felt very small. But then Rainier cut those connections, and the world suddenly got very big.

  Most people don’t realize how truly vast this country is. If you live on the East Coast, or in the Heartland, or just in and around a big western city, it’s hard to grasp how much uninhabited land is out there. And the nature of that land, the type of terrain we’re talking about…

  Ever seen that satellite map of the United States at night? Those big, dark patches between the prairie and the Pacific Coast? A lot of that darkness is hostile, unforgiving ground. Beautiful from a car window or the edge of a designated path, but see how long you last straying too far from that path. Greenloop was in one of those dark patches, a mountainous, primeval rain forest as treacherous as anywhere in North America. Steep, nearly vertical slopes. Sudden cliffs lined with slippery moss. Whole fields of loose sharp stones. Throw in hypothermia, fog, foliage so thick it’s like hitting a brick wall. That’s
what would have been waiting for anyone trying to go for help.

  She gestures behind us to the emergency equipment and personnel.

  And as far as help coming to them? Sure, Mrs. Durant had a point about their loved ones calling in. The problem was, so did everyone else’s. We’re talking millions of people from all around the world, jamming the phone lines, night and day, trying to check up on someone they knew. Even if they did manage to get through, their queries would have been logged along with every other grain of sand on the beach.

  It was a total clusterfuck and Ms. Mostar knew it. I can imagine how her personal history predicted everything going to hell. But even if it hadn’t, if the USGS had been properly staffed, funded, and heard, if the local services hadn’t been gutted by the last recession, if FEMA hadn’t been folded into the Department of Homeland Security, if the Defense Logistics Agency hadn’t had to buy most of their supplies from the private sector, if the ash hadn’t closed the airports and that damn drone hadn’t hit the Guard helo, if most of the Guard and the army hadn’t been deployed to Venezuela, if the president was competent and the media was responsible, if the I-90 sniper had been on his meds…if everything hadn’t conspired to combine the greatest national unrest since Rodney King with the greatest natural calamity since Katrina, if everything had gone exactly according to plan, we still wouldn’t have found Greenloop for one simple reason. We weren’t looking for them.

  Josephine gestures to the wall-sized map behind her, specifically to the three grease-pencil perimeter lines around Rainier.

  This one here.

  She refers to a yellow line stretching from Rainier to Puget Sound.

  That’s the limit of the natural disaster effect. And this big one…