by Max Brooks
In that pause, I noticed Yvette’s eyes sweeping across us. I’m not sure what she was looking for, what she took from our faces, and, what, our body language? But she must have seen something because even before Tony finished his drink, she kissed his cheek, rubbed his chest, and said, “But they’re still coming for us. They’re coming.” The first time was to us, the second, to Tony.
“Oh yeah,” Tony agreed, and sort of snapped back into himself, “totally. They’re on their way.”
Really? Didn’t he hear the same news reports I did? The growing chaos, the grounded aircraft. Why would he still believe that “they” were on their way? Did he believe it or was he just saying it? And why would he just say it? To convince us, or himself? And why didn’t anyone contradict him? Vincent had obviously been listening to his car radio as well, and I think I saw a look pass between him and Bobbi.
At last Carmen said something. “Did you see anyone on the other side of the bridge? A rescue team or other refugees?”
Tony responded with, “No. No.” The first “no” was to Carmen, the second was to the ground.
Did anyone else notice Yvette squeezing his arm?
I did. I clocked everything. His eyes, his words, how he kept licking his lips before and after drinking water.
I don’t think Yvette saw me, but she must have worried about his response, because she quickly jumped in. “We’re not refugees, Carmen. The term is ‘evacuee,’ which we aren’t either, remember?” That last “remember” must have come out too hard, because suddenly she gave this very noticeable sigh. “But now that you bring it up”—hand up to chest, a sudden wet blink—“we should really get ourselves ready to take care of any evacuees that happen to find us.” Her gaze went up to the woods above the house. “If someone tried to get away on foot. There might be people near us right now, wandering out there, lost and scared.”
I noticed the others nodding. I did too. Playing along, just like Mostar would have wanted. That’s why I didn’t bring up the drone crash. That’s why I stayed silent while Yvette nudged Tony into saying, “Yeah, yeah, we…uh…we need to be ready…you know, to take care of those people. Until we’re all rescued. We need to be ready. Ready…”
As they walked back to the house, he broke away from her grasp. I couldn’t hear what they were saying. I’d gotten back into my car by then. But through the rearview mirror, I watched him motion slightly for Yvette to go back in the house. She must have tried to argue because his pushing gesture quickened, along with the nods. She looked at him for a moment, then around at the neighborhood, then went back inside. I watched Tony wait till the front door closed before going to his trunk and retrieving a big, bulging hiker’s backpack. He got it halfway out, and looked like he was going to swing it up onto his back. Then he stopped. That was what really got my attention. I hesitate doing things all the time, second-guessing if I’m going to pick this up before that, realizing I should do X before Y. I do it more than most people, so I’m always hyperconscious of it. I’ve never seen Tony do that. He stopped, mid-swing, looked over at the door again, then looked all around the neighborhood, then quickly dropped the pack back in the trunk.
I could be reading this completely wrong. I know I am. You and I talked a lot about projecting and I’m sure I was projecting my own guilt of spying on Tony. He didn’t have anything to feel guilty about. He was going for help. He was doing that for us! And the way he acted in front of us. He was tired, that’s all. Poor guy’s probably been up all night. I’m sure once he gets a good night’s rest, he’ll be back to the old Tony, the real Tony.
Did I just write “real”? What does that even mean? I shouldn’t be doubting him like that. I feel guilty now just writing this part down, just like I felt guilty watching him disappear back into his house.
That was when Mostar tapped my windshield.
“Katie!”
I practically jumped out of the seat.
“Katie!” She was whispering loudly. “Quick before it leaks through!”
She was holding a Whole Foods bag, something bulging at the bottom with a spreading red stain.
I reached for my door, realized I’d put on my seatbelt (habit?), then followed her into my house.
Opening the door, she rushed past with a whispered, “Quick, shut your blinds!” She ran over to the counter. “I would have done this at home, but I need you to see it.” She reached into the bag.
My back teeth locked at the first hint of bloody fur, then a protrusion, long and thin. An ear. She told me to get out a bowl and a wide pan or a cookie sheet, and the sharpest, smallest, thinnest knife we had. As I turned, she added, “Oh yes, and some rubber gloves. We don’t know if it has fleas or ticks.”
I didn’t want to look, didn’t want to acknowledge what I knew had to be coming. And it did. I turned back, gave a pair of gloves to Mostar, and tried to keep my eyes averted. But she wouldn’t let me. “You have to watch.” She snapped on the gloves, slid the dead rabbit out into the saucepan. “You have to learn every step.”
I can’t see death. You know that. I’ve told you about that time in New York when I couldn’t walk through Chinatown with all the ducks hanging in the windows. I told you about how I can’t even eat at any of those restaurants with the lobsters in the tank because it feels like death row. I told you about when Dan and I went out to Catalina for Valentine’s Day and I got seasick down below because our spot on deck had this dead fly crusted to the railing with one of its wings flapping in the wind.
I know it’s hypocritical. I eat fish and chicken. I wear leather and silk. I enjoy all the benefits of killing without ever having to do it myself. I know all this but I just can’t. I can’t see death.
“Look!” Mostar demanded as she held up the bloody rabbit. “You can’t miss this.” I was so light-headed, so sick to my stomach, I didn’t even think to ask why. Why can’t you be the animal killer and I’ll take care of the garden?
It was similar to the rabbit I’d seen running before. Grayish brown fur, long ears, white feet. Big brown eyes. Open eyes. Looking right at me.
As she held it up, I could see the wound marks on its belly and back. Mostar smiled, without looking at me as she reached for the knife. “The trap worked! I dug a hole right by the apple tree, lined the bottom with sharpened sticks, leftover chopsticks just sitting in a drawer. I made a roof of twigs and leaves and baited it with apple chips and the last of the maple syrup.”
She held the rabbit up by its head, over the sink, then massaged her hand down its body.
“We have to squeeze out all the pee from its bladder.”
She then laid it out in the pan, on its back with the knife at an angle to the chest.
“Just pray that the sticks didn’t puncture any of the organs. If they leak out onto the meat, it’ll taste terrible.”
I grabbed the end of the table, steadying myself, as Mostar sliced into the fur.
“From the neck down to the anus,” she said. Then setting the knife down, she stuck her fingers right into the incision, and started to peel the skin away.
“So far, so good. I don’t smell anything.”
I felt the bile rise.
“We’re also lucky that I heard it thrashing around in there. If I hadn’t gotten there in time to snap its neck, it might be too stiff to work on.”
I burped a metallic sting.
“You need special care with this step.” The blade cut into the bloody wound. “Not straight down and not too deep so you don’t accidentally pierce an…oh…here we go. Through the heart and…yes, the intestines. You smell that? At least we got to it early enough before the contents could saturate the flesh. We can still wash it, and with a little extra spice, maybe some paprika or cumin…or Vegeta. You can pretty much save anything with Vegeta.”
Some organs were pink, others gray. They cam
e out easy, one slow, gentle pull.
“Here, this one is for the parts we nicked…”
WE!
“…oh, looks like we got the stomach too.”
Both bowls filled with the slippery little bits while she went to wash her hands in the sink.
“Can’t waste anything. Can’t afford to now.”
Back to the fur, peeling it away.
“See how you can pull the legs right out? Just like removing your trousers. Grab the foot…look…just like so…with one hand and pull the leg out slowly with the other.”
Both hands on the counter now, my mouth filling with hot saliva.
“Just breathe.” Her voice never changed its steady, instructional tone. “Deep. Steady. Pretend I’m Yvette.” And she giggled a little at that.
My vision tunneled. I must have swayed because Mostar caught me.
“Sorry, Katie, I shouldn’t joke.” That sounded genuinely contrite. “Go get a washcloth, run it under cold water, put it on the back of your neck.”
I obeyed. She waited. I felt a little better, but not much. I tried to focus on my breathing, the coolness on my neck.
“There we go, both back legs, now the front…over the elbows…and grab and pull the fur just up to the neck, like you’re pulling off a jumper.”
Up and over the head, still attached, exposing the neck.
“You don’t have a cleaver, do you? No, of course not. Neither do I. Just bring me the big knife over there, would you?”
She placed the long chef’s blade across the animal’s neck, holding the handle with one hand and resting her other palm on the other.
“These counters were made for taller people, eh?”
Crack.
“There, we’ll set the head aside for later, give us a chance to figure the best way to get the brains.”
Thank God the eyes faced away.
“At least we won’t have to tan its hide. We need it for food a lot more than we need fur for clothing.”
A head, a skinned carcass, two bowls of organs. A quick hand wash from Mostar, then the same, damp hand on my arm.
“You don’t have to do the rest. I’ll wash and fix it all for stew.”
Relief melted my shoulders. My eyes suddenly teared.
“You did very well, Katie.” Her smile, was it pride? Sadness?
“Better than me my first time.” She began washing the organs in the sink. “And at least you’ll never have to do this to cats.”
CATS?
“Oh, don’t worry.” She gave me a mischievous smile. “I never did that. One of my Italian colleagues would tell these stories about what her mother did to survive during the other war.”
Other war?
I could see her consciously pausing, leaving me an opening to ask. I didn’t.
“It made me grateful, Katie.” She started up again. “I never complained once about ICAR beef or ‘cheese spread,’ fermented powdered milk with a little salt and yeast. Even worse than béchamel and that horrid bread crumb carrot paste.” She looked back proudly at the mutilated animal parts in front of us. “Still, it was food, more than a lot of people had in similar circumstances. Have you ever read about Leningrad, Katie? Those poor souls scraping paste off the back of wallpaper, boiling leather for soup, making sure their children never went out alone…well…we did too, but not for that reason.”
That did it. Not the blood, the organs, the meat, the death right in front of my face.
The stories.
The hints.
“Mostar, do you…is it okay if I just take a quick…”
“Of course, Katie.” She waved over her shoulder from the sink. “Go get some air, come back when you’re ready.”
I slid open the back door, taking long, deep gulps.
I’m not sure why I headed back down the driveway, retracing Tony’s steps toward the bridge. The hiking trail was closer. A need to escape? A subconscious bolt? I’m sure you’d have a ball with this.
You’d probably also take pride in my need to psychoanalyze Yvette. For some reason I’m not as guilty doubting her as I am with Tony. Why had she been so quick to prompt him about a rescue? Was it a power thing? Admitting Mostar was right? Is that why, during our morning meditation, she’d spun the truth about who’d predicted the lahars? And why she’d given us that not-so-subtle loyalty test? Would agreeing with Mostar mean giving up some control of the group? Is control that important to her?
I spun on these thoughts for about half an hour. I’m not sure how far down the road I got. Nowhere near the bridge. You really do forget the difference between walking and driving. I probably could have gone a little farther though. I almost did, distracted with my psycho-musings, but when I rounded this little bend, I noticed a big boulder sitting right in the middle of the road.
I should say now that my eyes were already dry from lack of sleep, and the little particles of ash didn’t help. That was why I couldn’t be sure how big the boulder was, or how far away. I remember thinking that it must have rolled down there within the last few hours. How else could Tony have gotten around it to see that the bridge was actually gone? I could even see the tire marks, four of them to mark the two directions. I remember feeling a sense of finality, that bridge or no bridge, we couldn’t drive out now with that giant rock in the way.
Then I saw the rock move.
It shifted in place, grew, then disappeared behind the trees. I also thought I saw it change shape, lengthen, narrow, even spread out limbs like a tree. Arms? I rubbed my eyes, blinked hard.
When I looked again, the road was clear. The boulder was definitely gone. Then, as the wind shifted in my direction, I smelled it. Eggs and garbage.
I didn’t consciously consider what to do next. No internal debate. This was reflex. I turned and started walking back. My eyes kept scanning back and forth in a shallow arc, like they teach you on the first day of driver’s school. I tried to keep my pace steady, my breathing constant. I tried not to dwell on what I’d seen. An animal, a deer. Maybe that “boulder” was just a speck in my eye.
But the smell was getting stronger, and I couldn’t keep from speeding up. I thought I saw something move off to my right, a sudden space opening between two trees.
I quickened again.
Silly. Irrational. Tired. Information overload from the news mixed with memory flashes of the bloody, butchered rabbit.
A light trot, at first, long controlled breaths. That feeling. The back of my neck. Being watched. My trot became a jog, my breath thundering in my ears.
I could not have imagined the howl. I definitely heard it, just like the other day. Deep, rising pitch, echoing off the trees. Lightning kicked up from my stomach.
I ran.
Sprinting, gasping, the world shaking in front of me.
And fell. Just like in one of those stupid, cheesy horror flicks when the dumb blonde eats it just before the knife-wielding psycho gets her. At least I had the presence of mind to close my eyes, hold my breath, but after face-planting in the ash, I couldn’t help but inhale.
Coughing, choking, eyes blurry and stinging, I tore forward.
Don’t turn! I remember that clearly. Shouting in my brain. Don’t turn! Don’t think! GOGOGO!
Thighs burning, lungs.
I ran until I saw the roofs poking just above the driveway rise. The endorphins hit. Made it. Home. Safe!
Dan!
He was coming toward me, Mostar behind him.
Shocked expressions, both of them, utter surprise.
I must have looked ridiculous, covered in sweat and ash, rasping and wheezing. I still feel ridiculous. Falling into Dan’s arms and then dry heaving on his chest.
It was a few minutes before I got enough wind back to explain where I�
�d been. I even admitted that I thought an animal might have been chasing me. I didn’t say what it was. No details. It couldn’t have been that large, given how big the trees were. It probably didn’t exist at all. But the smell, could I have imagined that?
Mostar’s face was this mix of bewilderment and…concern? I’m sorry, I’m so fried. Dan keeps telling me to go to bed. But I want to get all this down first. Sorry if my words are getting fuzzy.
That look on Mostar’s face. I don’t pretend to know what it was, or why, when Dan was helping me home, she kept her eyes on the woods.
*1 Contraflow lane reversal: A term commonly used in natural disasters by which all lanes of a road are used to channel vehicles in one direction.
*2 Mammoth Lakes, California: On May 27, 1982, a false-eruption warning damaged both the town’s economy and confidence in the United States Geological Survey.
Contact, contact, contact. Ten o’clock, in the trees. Sniper! Sniper! Rattler Six is hit! Rattler Six is hit!
—Transcript of radio call from the 369th Sustainment Brigade, United States Army National Guard on Interstate 90 southeast of Tanner, Washington
JOURNAL ENTRY #7
October 6
Animals! They’re everywhere. Squirrels, chipmunks, rabbits. I get little guilt shivers whenever I see rabbits look over at me, like they know I helped chop up their sister. There are deer too. I’ve seen half a dozen. I can see their ribs. They look thin, hungry. And nervous. All the animals seem skittish. Three times I watched them freeze. Every single one. Like someone hit pause on a movie. And they all stared back in the same direction, toward Rainier. At first, I thought it might be something with the volcano. Animals are more sensitive to that stuff, right? Aren’t house pets supposed to know when an earthquake is coming?
It didn’t. Have anything to do with Rainier, I mean. Nothing else happened each time they froze.
Are they afraid of something besides the volcano? They’re all moving in the same direction, migrating, it looks like, away from the eruption. But the freezing. Are they being—okay, I just had to stop before writing that word. It sounds melodramatic, but…