Devolution: A Firsthand Account of the Rainier Sasquatch Massacre

by Max Brooks

  “Or Vegeta,” I added, to Mostar’s approving nod.

  That really got Dan going. “We should totally try it! Wash them good, cook them, all that protein! There’s gotta be, like, tons of grubs under all those rotted logs out there.” He glanced out at the dark window, then at the suddenly cooling faces. One step too far, mentioning the woods. I felt bad for Dan. He blew it and he knew it. Under the table, I supportively pressed my knee against his.

  He tried to recover though, adding, “Obviously not now, tomorrow, when it’s light and…”

  And it was Reinhardt, of all people, who rescued the mood of the group.

  “While we’re all clearly eager to become orthodox insectivores”—he patted Dan’s back—“might I suggest making do with…”

  Like a magician, he made a dramatic gesture of approaching the small Common House freezer, waving his hands in the air, then opening the door to reveal six pints of, I’m not kidding, ice cream!

  We all stared. I think Dan even said, “Whoa…”

  I just stuttered. “Waitwhat…where?” I’d gone through every inch of his kitchen!

  “My apologies.” Reinhardt raised his hands in mock surrender. “I hope you’ll forgive the prevarication of concealing this cache in my inner sanctum.”

  “A freezer in your bedroom?” Mostar chuckled with a shake of the head.

  “Decadent, I admit,” Reinhardt began, scooping the containers out in one arm, “and empty now, I assure you.” He placed them all in a ceremonious line down the center of the table. Halo Top ice cream!

  Oh, the cravings I’ve been having!

  For a second, we just ogled it, like treasure hunters opening the pirate’s chest. I don’t think anyone has run out of frozen desserts by this point. I mean, it’s only been a week and a half since the eruption. But the psychology of rationing, I get it now. I understand what Mostar was trying to tell me about our country, and why we were all so grateful for Reinhardt’s gesture. For just this moment, we could go back to normal, to have as much as we wanted, to feel American again.

  I’m not sure if anyone thought about it that deeply, but when Carmen said, “What, no cookie dough!” we all broke into laughter. It felt so good to laugh.

  Reinhardt, doling out bowls and spoons, invited us all to dig in. Dan scooped out a gluttonous chunk of sea salt caramel, then, bypassing the bowl, shoved the whole thing in his mouth, and moaned what I think is the word “sploosh” (a reference to his favorite show, Archer). Nobody seemed to mind. Bobbi even joked, “You must really like the protein.” I don’t know if she meant Halo’s extra grams of protein or…something else, go Bobbi.

  Pal, with eyes now half the size of her face, glanced at her parents for permission, then practically leapt onto the pancake and waffle. My favorite. I wasn’t greedy though, a few scoops at the bottom were more than enough.

  Oh my God! You forget. Even though I’d been having a sweet ration since this began, a spoonful of agave or honey, or some of Mostar’s real brown sugar. It’s not the same. The surprise! That cold mix of cream, ice, and sweetener cocktail: sugar, stevia, and what, heaven?

  “Not having any?” I looked over to see Dan offering the mint chip pint to Reinhardt. Sitting back in his chair, hands on his belly, he shook his head. “I’ve had enough.” And for a second, he looked genuinely chagrined. “I’ve been hoarding these for too long, intending to engulf them alone.”

  “And in one sitting,” added Carmen, which made us all laugh again. Reinhardt too. Pink cheeked, he took the jibe in stride with a theatrical bow.

  Still laughing, he gripped his wineglass and, to my utter surprise, pointed it toward me. “Our hostess!”

  “We got us!” added Mostar, which prompted a chorus of “We got us!”

  I felt my eyes sting, my throat tighten, as everyone burst out into spontaneous applause.

  And only when the applause died, in that first moment of silence as we drank, did we hear the cries outside.

  * The Muppet Show, Episode 211, “With our very special guest star, Mr. Dom DeLuise.”

  Chimpanzees nearly always eat meat slowly, usually chewing leaves with each new mouthful as though to savor the taste for as long as possible….Often, too, I saw them actually licking the branches of the tree where the kill had touched them or where drops of blood presumably had fallen.

  —JANE GOODALL, In the Shadow of Man

  JOURNAL ENTRY #13 [CONT.]

  No one spoke, all of us probably wondering if we’d really heard it. But then, a moment later, crying. Human.

  As a group, we dropped everything and rushed out into the night. It was clear, close to the village, maybe halfway up the ridge, in a densely wooded clump above the Boothes’ house.

  A lone voice. Piercing. Agony. Like when you’re little, the sound you first hear from a friend who’s fallen hard. That long rush of diaphragm torment after the initial shocked inhale.

  “Vincent?” Bobbi’s voice, wobbly, questioning.

  Then she hollered, right next to me. “Vincent!”

  Effie covered Palomino’s ears, leading her back inside as Vincent’s next long shriek broke into echoing sobs.

  Bobbi looked at me. Why me? “He’s hurt,” then, to Dan, “We have to go get him!”

  Dan stepped toward the sound. Just one step, because Mostar reached out to grab his arm. She missed, but held him firmly by a clump of shirt.

  “No.”

  Her expression was blank, practical.

  “Don’t.”

  More distant sobs, quick, soft, then suddenly launching into another long scream.

  “He’s hurt!” Bobbi looked incredulously at Mostar, then to Dan. “He needs help!”

  I saw Dan wiggle his arm slightly, pulling at Mostar’s grip. Testing?

  She wouldn’t budge. “That’s what they want.”

  It took me a second to realize what she meant. I suddenly wanted to throw up everything I’d just eaten.

  Dan got it. I saw his shoulders sag.

  Carmen and Reinhardt too, not the shoulders, but the understanding. A moment of surprise, then a mental shift, Carmen facing back out to the ridge with Reinhardt studying his shoes.

  But Bobbi, “They!” She threw her hands up. “What ‘they’? You can’t hear them!”

  “Can’t you smell them?” asked Mostar.

  Even with the wind at our backs, the stench was overpowering.

  “They’re keeping quiet on purpose.” Mostar kept her attention on the ridge. “They want to draw us out, pull us apart.” The way her eyes squinted, flicking from side to side. “Sniper trick.”

  “Wha…,” Bobbi started to say, then, as if she’d just picked the winning lottery ticket, her whole face broke into this wide smile. “You’re crazy!” Shaking her head with this little half-chuckling gasp. “Crazy! Sonofabitch post-trauma…”

  And then she spun back to the darkness. “Vincent! We’re coming, baby! We’re coming!” And over at Dan with a head-jerking c’mon!

  And when he didn’t move.

  “What’s the matter with you!” Her eyes focused on him, then out to the wider group.

  Dan, just standing there, believing Mostar but wanting to help Bobbi so badly. The way his eyebrows narrowed, lip quivering. I would have said something, I know I would have, but then I noticed his face. The light thrown on his skin, just the barest shade brighter. And behind him, Carmen shouted, “There!”

  She was pointing past us to the space between the Boothe and Durant houses. None of us had noticed it until then. We didn’t realize that the lower half of that space had been partially blocked by something. And that something was now running up the slope behind the houses. The one with long legs. Scout. Watching us all this time? Frustrated when we wouldn’t take the bait?

 
I watched him vanish into the brambles, just below a gap in the trees. And in that gap, at the top of the ridge, lit by the glow of the houses…

  I can’t be sure if it was Alpha. You can’t tell at that distance. And I’m not sure of what I think it was waving at us. Had to be a branch. And it must have been cracked in the middle. Why else would it have dangled like that? And there’s no way, no way I could have seen what my brain keeps telling me were fingers.

  “We can’t.” Reinhardt, speaking to the back of my head, then, as I turned to the group. “Mostar’s right. We can’t go out there.” And to Bobbi, “I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry?” In the pale motion-light glare, I watched her lips go white.

  “Bobbi”—Reinhardt gave a resigned shrug—“please just look at the situation with—”

  Another scream and Bobbi pointed to the darkness. “Listen!” Eyes wet, bouncing slightly like a child. At the next scream she grabbed her hair with both hands. “OhmyGod ohmyGod…”

  Dan tried another quick lunge away from Mostar, his free arm reaching behind his back for the stabber he’d hidden under his shirt.

  She must have seen the bulge. Or just suspected? “Dan!” Her voice raised in warning, her other arm grabbed his.

  Bobbi looked at both of them, hands out, rasping, “Please.”

  Carmen edged toward her. I followed. I don’t know what we thought we would do. Comfort? Restrain?

  Carmen barely touched her shoulder before she threw it off in a wild, frantic swipe. “Please! Please!” To all of us. “Please!”

  “Bobbi,” said Reinhardt, soft and soothing, “you have to understand that there’s nothing we can—”

  “YOU!” She growled, turning on him. “You’re doing this!”

  Then the howling began, Vincent’s pain drowned in a bellowing chorus.

  Like a starting gun, that’s how I think of it now, because the sound seemed to launch Bobbi at Reinhardt.

  She caught him mid-turn. I could see where her nails scratched his ear. He reached up to grab the wound just as Carmen and I reached out to hold her back. “You told him it was okay! You let him go!” Thrashing like a hooked fish. “You’re letting him die!”

  My mind flashed back to Vincent’s departure. Did he confer with Reinhardt before leaving? Ask his advice? Is that why Reinhardt had been so generous with the ice cream? Guilt?

  “Bobbi, just think…” Reinhardt, hands out, palms open, lip quivering, steam rising from his glistening forehead. “Think…”

  “You!” Bobbi screeched, kicking up, out, barely missing his face. “YOU!”

  “What do you want!” I jumped at the bass, the sheer volume of Reinhardt’s voice. “What do you want from us?” He smashed his hands against his face, frantically rubbing, like he was trying to wipe off reality.

  “They’ll KILL US, Bobbi!” His hands out, clawing the air in front of her, punctuating each word. “THEY—WILL—KILL—US—AAALLLL!”

  Instinctively, I pulled Bobbi back. I thought he was going to hit her, the way he came at her like that. But he wasn’t coming at her. His face. Shock. His knees hit the ground, hands out, mouth open.

  Carmen yelled, “Grab him!” Reinhardt keeled forward just as Mostar and Dan caught him under the arms.

  I let go of Bobbi, jumped over to help Mostar. God, he was so heavy, hot, damp. “We can’t”—wheezing—“can’t…”

  Mostar kept calling his name. “Alex! Alex, look at me! Can you hear me?”

  Slack-jawed, glass-eyed, drool dripping from his bottom lip.

  “Are you taking something?” Mostar grabbed his jaw, turning his face into hers. “Medication? Do you have pills at your house? Alex, listen to me! Alex!”

  thmp

  The first stone landed right next to us, throwing a cloud of dust in our faces.

  thmp-thmp-thmp

  “Get inside!” Mostar grunted, struggling to lift Reinhardt. “In the Common House!”

  As we pulled him through the door, Effie and Pal slammed it behind us.

  Mostar barked, “Lights!”

  The room went dark as we guided Reinhardt to the couch. He oofed into the cushions, hands on chest, rasping.

  Mostar ran to the sink, shouting, “Everyone down! Away from the windows!”

  China clinking. Rocks hitting the roof. Bobbi’s soft sobs. Reinhardt’s defiant mmm! as he pushed at the water Mostar’d gotten. All of it in half-light. All to the soundtrack of distant wails.

  Mostar gave the water one more try. Reinhardt shoved so violently it spilled on me. Then he leaned to the side, gagging. Mostar crawled for the trash bin. Reinhardt retched, gagged, spat on the floor. Mostar got the can under him just in time. I turned away as the room filled with vomit stink.

  Reinhardt groaned, spat again, croaked something like, “Can’t…can’t.”

  “Hold his head!” Mostar took my hand and cupped his slippery forehead with it. As he dry-heaved again, she went back to the sink to moisten a dishcloth.

  He was mumbling by that point. Words and groans strung together.

  I felt so sorry for him, so helpless. He was suffering right there and there was nothing I could do. That helplessness. Vincent. Bobbi. Feeling so powerless, victimized. I’m not sure when my sympathy turned.

  Maybe when the pleading started, high, meek. “Want…want to go home.” That phrase, again and again. “Want to go home,” punctuated with tiny, infantile whimpers. Once he said someone’s name. “Hannah,” I think, right before, “Home. I want. I want.”

  Die.

  I tried not to think it, feel it.

  Die! Just die!

  Biting my lip, glaring at him in the darkness.

  Please just shut up and fucking die!

  That was six hours ago, five hours since the rocks finally stopped. Mostar made us wait an hour. Sitting there in silence, ensuring it was safe to move. Reinhardt was asleep by then. Or catatonic. We can’t be sure. It took four of us to get him safely home. He’s on his living room sofa now. His breathing is steady. Carmen is watching him.

  We still don’t know if he actually had a heart attack. Effie thinks it might be something called “stress cardiomyopathy.” A panic attack that mirrors cardiac arrest. Effie’s not sure though. She reminded us that she and Carmen are psychologists, not psychiatrists. But even if they had gone to medical school, would that solve anything? Without the right drugs and equipment?

  Siri, how do you treat a heart attack in your own home?

  We agreed to at least watch him in shifts. If he doesn’t wake up, we’ll have to think about how to take care of him. Needs like feeding and, yes, going to the bathroom. We’ll all have to pitch in.

  And everyone has. Mostar’s our leader now. And everyone who can is working to build her defensive perimeter.

  Effie and Pal are home cutting bamboo stalks into stakes. Mostar and Dan are outside collecting more. I can see them clearly, just across the driveway, crouching in the outside lights, rhythmically moving to the flash of their bread knives. Mostar doesn’t want anyone outside alone, not while it’s still dark. “Just in case they get bold enough to try.”

  Try what?

  She thinks we’ll be safe in daylight, especially within the confines of the village. That should give us enough time to finish the perimeter. A couple days maybe. One more night. She doesn’t think they’ll “work up the nerve” for a home invasion. That’s what she told me once we got Reinhardt home. “And besides,” why did she have to add this part, “their bellies are full for now.”

  Vincent.

  Bobbi. She cried herself to sleep just now, curled up with her head in my lap. I can see why she said it. “We’ll…find him…dawn…we’ll look for him…find him…we will…” Denial. Hope. Xanax.

  It’s obvious why she wants
to search for him, but why did I agree to help?

  I guess that’s obvious too.

  I need to do something, to make up for what I thought about Reinhardt. That’s not me. Won’t be. A quick nap now, set my phone alarm for sunup. At least it’s still good for something. So am I. Who thinks thoughts like that?

  Who am I?

  From my interview with Senior Ranger Josephine Schell.

  Have you ever seen chimps hunt monkeys? They form a tight team. Every member has a job. You have the “flushers,” climbing the trees, shaking the branches, screaming bloody murder to scare the smaller primates into running for their lives. Terror is a powerful weapon. Terror clouds thought. The flushers are counting on that. Intelligence surrendering to self-preservation. If they can get just one to break away from the group. That’s key. There’s strength in numbers, even for prey.

  Children are the most vulnerable, the easiest to isolate. But even a full-grown adult can be rattled enough to slip up. Fear-soaked brain switched off, running, climbing, jumping, hopefully, right into the arms of the other chimps lying in wait. If the monkey’s lucky, it’ll die quickly, a twist of the neck or having its head swung into a tree. If not…I’ve seen a red colobus trying to pull itself away, shrieking for its life while the chimp holds it down with one hand and rips its guts out with the other.

  The only term I can think of is “bloodlust,” because that’s what it sounds like when chimps tear a monkey apart. It’s not like any other kill you’d ever see, not like when a leopard brings down a gazelle or even sharks rip into a seal. Those are cold, mechanical. Apes go crazy. Hopping and dancing. Don’t tell me they don’t enjoy it.

  And don’t tell me that the hunt only exists for pure sustenance. They pass out that meat according to rank. The leader standing over the corpse as the others wait, literally, with their hands out. They treat it like currency. The same social order which allows that kind of disciplined, coordinated attack is maintained by the attack’s bloody spoils.