by Max Brooks
All my stuff is in the guest bathroom. Old habit from our last house. Different sleep schedules. I didn’t want to disturb Dan…when I’d get up for work to support us both. Never thought I deserved the master bath. Again, old habit.
I didn’t need the scented candle for light. Or to chase away the stink from a few hours ago. I was so wasted, I probably confused the memory with the real thing. That reek. I thought I could still smell it in the air. I fumbled for the matchbook, lit the candle, slid it to the side, then opened the medicine cabinet for the pills. I didn’t realize the flame was resting right under the towel rack.
The flicker, the smoke.
Fire!
A cold, waking snap hit me and I threw the flaming towel into the shower. Water, steam, smoke. A lot of smoke. The alarm. Piercing through my skull. I opened the window, hit the fan, climbed frantically onto the sink to pull the physical disc off the wall. I forgot it was just a sensor wired into the whole house. I pulled and yanked and probably shouted, “C’mon! Goddamn it! C’mon!” before slipping and falling into Dan’s arms.
He got out half of a “what the hell did…” before seeing the charred towel in the tub. Then his arms were around me, a soft “It’s okay” in my neck.
That’s all it took. I burst out crying. Melting into him, sobbing, babbling about everything that was happening, everything that could happen.
Dan just held me, stroking my back, kissing the top of my head, whispering, “It’s okay, it’s okay.”
He switched everything off, led me back to bed.
And.
All I’m going to say is that it’s been a very, very long time.
Nice to be home again.
* * *
—
We slept late. About nine A.M. I probably would have slept a lot later if Dan hadn’t shaken the bed when he got up. I opened one eye to see him putting on his pants. When I asked where he was going, I meant it in a lazy, flirty way.
But when he tried to answer, “I…I’m gonna…” His face. So busted! That’s one of the things I’ve always loved about Dan, even in our worst moments. He can’t lie.
“I was thinking, I’m just gonna check out what we heard last night.” He noticed that I saw he’d tucked that stabby thing, the Boothes’ coconut opener, into his belt.
I said, “Okay,” and started grabbing my clothes.
“No, it’s okay,” he said, and raced to get his shoes on.
I repeated, “It’s okay,” and did the same.
We got into this little “it’s okay” ping-pong, trying to convince each other not to bother. We must have done it, like, three or four times, racing to get dressed.
I won.
“Kate.” Dan’s voice deepened. His hand raised. “No.”
I stood there, kind of stunned. There was this man, back straight, shoulders squared, looking just the tiniest bit taller than I remember. It’s nice, yes, nice, to know that he has this protective instinct. Maybe it was always there, or maybe it’s just grown out of what we’re going through. But there it was, for the first time, trying to keep me safe. I’m proud of him for trying, and I’m even more proud of him for not totally deflating when I smiled, kissed him on the cheek, and said, “C’mon, let’s go.”
We headed out the back door and up onto the trail. I could see Palomino watching us from her upstairs window. Not creepy, expressionless. But not smiling either. She kept glancing at the woods behind us, like a lookout, I think, and gave us an “all clear, good luck” wave.
And Vincent gave us a thumbs-up when we passed his house. I’m sure he meant to be encouraging, but his nervous face, the way he darted from the window afterward. I took it as, “Better you than me.”
“Wait!” We stopped at Mostar shouting from down the trail. She came huffing and puffing after us, carrying her javelin. “Here!” I could see that she’d cleaned and tried to straighten the blade. “I’m making a better one,” she said, and stuck it into my hand. Looking at Dan, she said, “Don’t stay out there too long.”
The stink hit us as soon as we crossed over the ridge onto the downward slope. Strong, pungent. I smelled it on the palm of my hand, coming off a tree I’d just touched. I put my nose to the bark. Rotten eggs. My hand also came away with something else. Plant fiber, probably. It was long and black. Thick like a horse’s mane. I’m not sure if it stank, it could have just been my fingertips. Animal hair?
Then we saw the white specks, standing out in a patch of turned-up earth and reddish leaves.
Reddish from blood. It was everywhere. On the bushes, the bark, soaked into the ground, mixing with ash into these solid, rusty pebbles.
The white specks were shattered bones. It was hard to even recognize them at first. Most were just chips. They looked like they were smashed with a hammer. I found a few rocks, nearby, with blood on one side. Not splatters. Deep, thick stains mixed with fur and bits of flesh. And this is weird, but they looked, okay, painted? I know that sounds funny, but the blood on the rocks, on the trees and leaves, there were no droplets. Other than in the ash, all the other stains looked like they’d been smeared with a brush, or a tongue. Like whatever killed the cat went around licking every last spot.
Even the bones. They were clean. The marrow’d been scrubbed out. In fact, there wasn’t any meat anywhere. No organs, muscle, brain. I found what had to be the remains of the skull; just a curved, polished fragment next to a collection of broken teeth. That’s how I knew it had to be the cat. Those yellow fangs. I found one, intact, still stuck to a piece of upper jaw.
What could have done that?
If my mind wasn’t already shaken by what we saw, Mostar’s reaction made it worse.
She just listened, without judgment, eyes off to the side, taking in every detail without the slightest reaction. It scared me, scares me, that she didn’t immediately respond with, “Oh well, what you saw was…” She always has an answer for everything. That’s why I didn’t like her at first. Bully. Know-it-all. “Go here, do this, believe me when I say…” This is the first time I’ve seen her genuinely perplexed. No, that’s not right. The first time was when I’d been chased, when she turned her eyes on the woods.
Does she suspect what I’m trying to dismiss? The smell, the howls, the large “boulder” I’d seen on the road. Now this. I’m sure I’m just trying to come up with an explanation for something that doesn’t make any sense. That’s me. A place for everything and everything in its place. I’m just grasping on to what I’ve heard. And I haven’t heard much. I’m not into that stuff. I’m the practical one. I’ve never been interested in things that aren’t real. I’ve never even watched Game of Thrones. Dragons and ice zombies? Really? When Yvette was going on about Oma, she was speaking metaphorically! It can’t be real or else everyone would know. That’s the world we live in, right? Anyone can know anything. We’d know about this.
And yes, I know I saw something. We both did. But knowing you saw something is different from knowing what you saw.
I spotted the first one, the first clear footprint. It was next to the skull fragment, so deep it pressed right through the ash into the soft earth. It couldn’t be a wolf or another puma. The shape was all wrong. Maybe a bear? I don’t know. I’ve never seen a bear track, so maybe that’s the simple answer. But the print looked almost like a shoeless person right down to the five toes. But it couldn’t have been. Dan took off his hiking boot. He wears a size 11. He took off his sock as well, and placed his bare foot right next to the print. The toes matched, the overall shape. But the size. That’s impossible. It must have been a trick of the ash, or maybe the way it was planted.
Nothing could have such a big foot.
There is evidence to indicate the possible existence in Skamania County of a nocturnal primate mammal variously described as an ape-like creature…and commonly known
as “Sasquatch,” “Yeti,” “Bigfoot”…
—Ordinance No. 69-01, Skamania County, Washington State
From my interview with Senior Ranger Josephine Schell.
Yes, I’ve heard the legend. And no, it’s got nothing to do with my heritage. I’m from the Southwest, not the Northwest.*1 Not that we don’t have our own stories. Everybody does. You’ve got the Almas in Russia, the Yowie in Australia, the Orang Pendek in Indonesia, and a bunch of Sisimite stories from Latin America. And that’s just today. The Judeo-Christian Bible has Esau, the primitive brother of Jacob. And the Epic of Gilgamesh, the first written story, has “Enkidu,” the wild man. Show me a culture anywhere on this planet, and chances are, they got something.
Including this one, and by this one, I mean mainstream pop culture. Bigfoot’s as American as apple pie and guns in schools. That’s how I learned about it. Like any good Gen Xer, I was raised by TV. I’ve checked out my fair share of the modern Bigfoot media.
I’ve seen a lot of the newer, shaky-cam Blair Witch–wannabe flicks. I’ve flipped through a couple of the faux documentary cable shows. I keep meaning to check out the one from the survival guy, not the British fraud, the real deal. The Canadian. He knows his shit, and maybe he’s actually on the right track. But all the other stuff I’ve seen, fiction and “managed reality,” I gotta say, just feels like a polished rehash of the ’70s–’80s craze I grew up on.
You know! I read your article about the five classic films, and, yeah, they scared the crap outta me too. That one where a yeti attacks a ski resort. I think you’re right about them not being able to afford a whole costume,*2 but the result, the whole Jaws POV, terrifying. That scene where it breaks through a window…comes down from the mountain, right into town…It wasn’t supposed to do that! It broke the prime directive of horror films! If you don’t go looking for trouble, trouble won’t come looking for you!
That’s why our generation’s scary movies were essentially cautionary tales. That’s why I never had any sympathy for the horny teenagers going to the summer camp, or the greedy town mayor keeping the beaches open, or the rule-following spaceship crew that just had to investigate an alien distress signal. I knew I’d never be like them. I’d do my part and stay home. But after watching the snowbeast attacking Aspen, I thought, What’s to stop the real Sasquatch from doing the same?
Because it did! The other movie you wrote about, with the host from Mission Impossible, and exhibits like footprints and photos and an interview with a “psychic detective” and, most important, oh my God, those “dramatic re-creations.” When the girl…Rita Graham, I remember the name…when she’s sitting at home that night, watching TV, minding her own business…just like me…and a shadow appears across the window shade behind her two seconds before this giant, hairy arm smashes through the glass. I might have actually pissed myself on that one. It scared me so badly that years later I actually tried looking it up. Turns out the incident did happen, but was seriously dramatized for the show.
What wasn’t dramatized was another incident, two of them, really, that were re-created for that other movie, the one that actually ran in theaters! The first account comes from the 1920s where some rogue miners are prospecting near, of all places, Mount St. Helens. One night their cabin is attacked with boulders and fists and the classic animal screams we now associate with the legend. That’s why, to this day, the canyon where it happened is nicknamed Ape Canyon. The second story is from Teddy Roosevelt.
She reaches into her desk and thumps the old, dog-eared copy of The Wilderness Hunter onto her desk.
Fair warning, the first part’s pretty cringy. It opens with Roosevelt talking about how lucky he’s been to shoot every kind of large animal in North America.
Douche.
Anyway, it goes on to “recount,” not tell firsthand, recount, the story of an Idaho fur trapper named Bauman, whose partner was torn apart by a “goblin.”
Is either story true? How the hell do I know? I thought they were at the time, when I kept asking my parents to move my bed away from the window. I’d be like, “These are real accounts! A president wrote about it!”
To their credit, my folks didn’t just blow me off. They tried to get me to verify it, to look beyond words and see if there was any physical evidence. I think that’s why I got interested in zoology, why, to this day, I get excited when any new species gets scientifically proven. And there’re thousands of them. Every year! I’ve seen a live Goliath spider and the corpse of a giant squid. I’ve seen all types of specimens recovered from hydrothermal vents that would have been considered science fiction when I was born. And as soon as the Congo gets safe enough for eco-tourism, I’ll be the first one in line to see that newly discovered Bili ape. I’m open to any discovery, as long as it’s based on hard, physical evidence. Facts are supposed to banish monsters…
She sighs.
…not invite them in.
JOURNAL ENTRY #9 [CONT.]
The animals are gone. I didn’t notice it this morning, but as the day’s progressed, I realize I haven’t seen a deer or squirrel. Anything. And if there are any birds, they haven’t made a peep. Why did they leave? It can’t be hunger. There’re still a few apples on the Perkins-Forsters’ trees. I bet if I check the others, I’ll also find some remaining fruit. Was it the fight? Are they scared of the animal that killed the cougar?
Listen to me. “The animal.”
I can’t even write the word down. I also haven’t talked about it since telling Mostar. Neither has Dan. To be fair, he’s really busy.
Dan got a new “gig,” that’s what he calls it. We were having breakfast at Mostar’s, the last of the rabbit stew, watered down, when Vincent Boothe came around. He said to Dan, “I, uh, noticed you were cleaning Reinhardt’s solar panels yesterday, and was wondering…”
“Sure.” Dan was already licking his bowl. “I’ll be over in a few minutes.”
“Great!” Vincent looked relieved but stiffened when he caught Mostar’s eye. “And, you know, of course, we’d feed you for your time.” Then he looked at me. “And you’re more than welcome to come over and, uh, go through our supplies.”
I smiled uncomfortably. Mostar gave an approving nod.
Dan couldn’t have been happier. As Vincent left, he flashed this goofy, almost childlike grin. “I’m in demand.”
Mostar playfully cuffed him on the arm and said, “Look at you, village handyman.”
“Handyman!” That should have destroyed him! Would have a few days ago. How many job offers, how many helpful, hopeful dinners with Frank? “I’m not a salary man.” That was Dan’s default defense. “I’m a builder, not a maintainer.” And, oh, the surly tailspins that I had to nurse him through.
And now, thanks to Mostar’s big mouth.
Grip the wheel, brace for impact.
But, once again, my head nearly spun off my shoulders as Dan’s grin widened. “Village handyman.” He licked his spoon like a lollipop, bounced, bounced, up from the table, and said to me, “Time for work.” Then hummed his dishes over to the sink.
He hummed all day. Through every job the Boothes gave him. They had a list, FYI. Even before he could get to the solar panels, the air vent in the bedroom was rattling, the shower drain was stopped. Little things here and there. I kept my own list. I’m charging them in rolled oats (we’re out of cereal). While Dan bopped his merry way between tasks, I went meticulously through the Boothes’ pantry, cataloging everything they had, down to the last drop of Lucini Italia premium olive oil. A lot of calories in olive oil. I don’t think I’m overcharging them.
Maybe a little.
I’ve gotta get past the potato thing. Bobbi tried so hard to be nice. She was so open about everything they had—or had left. (Sorry. Let it go!) She even suggested sharing their house’s electricity as well as a little blue teapot that “would make
a perfect watering can for the garden.”
How does she know about the garden? Does everyone? What else are they saying behind our backs? The shift seemed so sudden to me, the acceptance that we might have to survive the winter. But it must have been building for some time, as they listened to the news, watched the empty sky, saw that Tony and Yvette were still clinging to the status quo while Mostar, at least, was trying to adapt.
Whatever the reason, the Boothes certainly seem to be on board with us now. Bobbi even offered compost from her bin for extra fertilizer, and asked if maybe some of her brown rice or puffed quinoa could be planted. I don’t think the quinoa will work. Doesn’t “puffed” mean “cooked”? And as far as the rice, I took a handful to experiment with. Just enough for a square foot of earth. We don’t have a lot of space left, now that Pal’s beans are planted. But if they don’t sprout and the rice does, it might be a welcome backup. No matter what, we can always use more compost. And I do give her credit for suggesting that her buckwheat pillow stuffing might be edible.
Vincent laughed at that last idea, but when he saw her hurt expression, he explained that their pillows are stuffed with the husks, not the kernels. He kind of slurred the explanation. They were both a little buzzed, opening a bottle of chardonnay as soon as Dan and I came over. Who knows how many 120 calorie glasses they’d had before we showed up. Vincent definitely had another 240 before getting up the courage to ask about the mountain lion.
When I described the blood and bones, Vincent wrote it all off as scavengers. “All the birds and small animals. Insects. Gotta be insects. So many insects. They must have all come out after the poor cat died. Everything’s so hungry out there. Died of its wound. That’s what we heard last night, all that screaming. Poor thing must have suffered badly. Hopefully it was gone before the smaller animals started feeding on it.”