Devolution: A Firsthand Account of the Rainier Sasquatch Massacre

by Max Brooks

  Passing the kitchen, I heard Mother putting away the dishes. I couldn’t condemn her for not coming to my defense. She never had. She never knew she could. Amid the china clatter and the dull thud of cabinet doors, I could hear her muttering to herself. Soft and steady with the repetitive musicality of prayer. As the door closed behind me, I caught the last lines of the Hashkiveinu.

  JOURNAL ENTRY #15

  October 15

  I’ve just read back over all my previous entries. I don’t recognize who wrote them. A life lived by a stranger. Somebody I can barely remember.

  If only time travel was as easy as turning a page. Flip back to a couple days ago, warn that person I used to be.

  That morning, October 13, the alarm woke me at seven, hours later than I’d planned. Dan told me he’d reset my phone after waking up around midnight. He thought sleep was more important than helping him with stakes. I saw that he still had a few more to finish but he just smiled and said, “Why don’t you check the garden.”

  He already had, saw what had happened, knew how happy it would make me.

  It felt like Christmas morning. More pale arches rising from the soil. Yesterday’s strongest seedlings had managed to raise their entire bean up into the air. I could see the beginnings of tiny green leaves growing from the split. More little shoots, volunteers from the compost. Rice grass taller by at least half an inch. All in one night!

  “You’ll need to support them,” that was Dan calling from the kitchen, “I mean, when they get taller. Isn’t that what you do for plants, you tie them to things, like tomato cages? Or baskets? What are they called?” He was behind me now, hand on the doorframe, smiling down at me. “We still got, like, a whole ton of little thin bamboo branches. Once we get time, you know, down the line, I can help you turn them into those cage-things or whatever.”

  His arms around me, his kiss goodbye. Off to work, coconut stabber on his hip, spear in one hand and bread knife in the other. The Common House was almost denuded of bamboo. A dozen or so stalks to go. It wouldn’t take long, and when he stepped out onto the driveway, we couldn’t see or hear anything from the ridge. Still, I couldn’t help but utter “Be careful,” and got a grunting, caveman spear to chest in reply. I returned his salute with one of my own, a raised middle finger and the silently mouthed, “Love you.”

  I stayed in the open doorway, shivering in the freezing air, watching him pass Effie and Palomino on their way to Reinhardt’s. It was Effie’s turn to take over from me, and despite her friendly wave, I suddenly worried that she thought I’d abandoned him. Of course, she didn’t, and of course I didn’t need to run over and explain how he’d kicked me out. But I did anyway, and ended up being grateful for the chat. She had good news. Finally, some positive stories from the Boothes’ car radio.

  She told me they’d got that crazy shooter on the I-90. The road was open now, supplies in, evacuees out. The Canadians, just like in Katrina, were also on their way. The president had finally swallowed his pride (that’s what Carmen thought) and allowed foreign relief efforts in through the north. And because Seattle was “secured” (I guess that means no more riots), the authorities could focus on the towns damaged by Rainier.

  Effie said, “That means they’ll be finding us soon.” She rubbed her daughter’s back vigorously. “When they start spreading out again, looking for survivors, they have to come across us!” I’d never seen her so animated. “Maybe we should put out a HELP sign. You know? Like they always do after storms? On roofs and stuff? I can’t believe we never thought about that until now! Maybe we could use a sheet”—she gestured to the grassy “helipad” in front of the Common House—“or just write it in all these”—a nod to the thrown rocks at our feet.

  “Good idea,” I responded, but tempered it with, “once we make sure to finish—”

  “Oh yeah!” She cut me off. “The ‘perimeter,’ of course! Definitely.”

  I could see reality begin to cloud her zeal, reminding her of what still faced us. “Maybe tomorrow,” she tried.

  I answered, “Maybe,” and, looking down at Pal, asked, “but for now, you still up for working in the garden?”

  Her head bobbed enthusiastically as her mother headed for Reinhardt’s.

  “It’s so beautiful,” I said, leading her inside. “When we finally get some time, we can start putting aluminum foil up on the wall.” More happy nods as she stopped to check each little plant. “And we should start thinking about supporting them,” I continued. “Dan had a good idea about how to use extra bamboo for…”

  A muffled scream.

  Distant, from Reinhardt’s.

  We rushed back outside just in time to see Effie stumbling from his front door. I told Pal to go home, to find Carmen, and ran to catch Effie before she collapsed.

  Eyes wide, voice and body shaking. Even before I got to her, I thought, Another heart attack. The first one was real and he’s just had another one last night! Effie didn’t talk, she couldn’t. Hyperventilating, trying to get the words out, she just waved frantically inside. Darting past her, into the living room, I’d already imagined what he must look like, lying on the couch, cold and blue. “Please don’t let his eyes be open.”

  I saw the blood trails first. Two of them, narrow and wide, running parallel to each other from the hole in the back door to the empty, red-soaked couch. I felt Dan’s arm around my shoulders. I couldn’t look away. I couldn’t stop reading the story in front of me, imagining what must have happened while I slept peacefully at home.

  They’d been so silent, pushing the cracked kitchen glass, testing it, waiting for a sound that would send them running. Patient, thoughtful. They must have edged the crinkling pane just enough from its frame to reach one long arm inside. Fumbling with the lock, solving the simple puzzle of the small metal switch. Sliding the frame open, pulling back the drapes, edging the table away. To accomplish all that with the dexterity and focus to not wake him up. Only one had come in, I could tell by the bloody footprints. A small one, maybe? Princess, or the younger, barely pubescent male? Would this have been his coming of age trial? A test of stealth, intelligence, and the strength to tear Reinhardt’s head off?

  Because that’s what it did. Twisting, pulling. The darkest, deepest stain was at the base of his pillow. And he hadn’t struggled. Nothing was disturbed. Even his books, lying neatly stacked on the coffee table next to his glasses. He’d probably read them for a little while, realized he was too sleepy to concentrate. Set them aside, switched off the lamp, pulled the afghan up to his neck. He probably hadn’t heard it come in until it was standing over him. Did he wake up? A brush of fur against his face, the feeling of rough skin over his mouth? God, I hope he didn’t. Please, God, let him have slept through it all.

  And yet, why does the alternative keep running through my mind? The story of him waking to this black hovering hulk. Pinprick eyes, warm breath, the clench of fingers around his throat. Why do I keep imagining that he chose not to fight back? As those fingers crushed his windpipe while another hand held him down. No kicking, no scratching. No attempt to save his own life. Why do I imagine that his few seconds of waking consciousness were frozen in terrified acceptance?

  It has to be the bloody footprints. The space between those two enormous feet. So close together. I’ve seen them run, the stride would have only left a pair of prints between the couch and kitchen. These were too close, too numerous, and mixed with far too much blood. The parallel trails, thicker one left by the body, thinner by the head. Reinhardt’s head, splattering across the walls and floor, as if the killer, holding it by the mouth, had let it swing back and forth. Unhurried. Unafraid.

  And why not? Why fear us when we can be invaded so easily, when we won’t even try to fight back?

  Many people are horrified when they hear that a chimpanzee might eat a human baby, but after all, so far as the chi
mpanzee is concerned, men are only another kind of primate….

  —JANE GOODALL, In the Shadow of Man

  From my interview with Senior Ranger Josephine Schell.

  Boulder, Colorado, 1991. The town looked like a paradise. Lush and green and totally unspoiled by humans. Only it wasn’t unspoiled because it wasn’t supposed to be there in the first place. The area around Boulder is naturally semi-arid. It was the townsfolk who pumped in all that water for their lawns and fruit trees. And when the fruit trees came, so did the deer. Locals loved it. “Hey, Honey, there’s a deer in our yard!”

  And with the herbivores came the inevitable carnivores. Mountain lions were pretty scarce back then. Early Europeans had driven them to the brink of extinction. Those that were left went deep into the Rockies, far enough to avoid any possible contact with humans. But when they followed the deer out of the mountains, they found that this new breed of human wasn’t anything like their “shoot on sight” ancestors. These humans shot with cameras. “Oh wow, kids, look! A real puma!”

  Some wiser individuals tried to speak up. “You’re not in a zoo. These are predators. They’re dangerous. They need to be tagged and relocated before somebody gets hurt.”

  No one listened. They couldn’t believe how lucky they were to see big cats “out in the wild.” Who needs a zoo when you’ve got the woods right behind your house? And then the dogs started disappearing. The little ones at first, the tiny toys who couldn’t defend themselves. That’s why no one listened when folks with badges tried, again, to convince them of the danger. “Oh c’mon, what do you expect if someone’s bichon-poodle mix gets off leash?” I think one of the casualties was a cockapoo literally named “Fifi.” Never mind that the attack didn’t happen in the woods but right in front of Fifi’s house. Naysayers still thought she was “low-hanging fruit,” that no way a cougar’s gonna go for a full-sized, fighting canine.

  Until they did. A Doberman barely escaped with its life. A black Lab and German shepherd didn’t. “What do you call a dog on a leash? A meal on a string.” That was one of the jokes going around, like that cartoon in a local paper. It showed a dog’s owner handing her pup a letter from a cat saying, “Welcome to the food chain.”

  She shakes her head.

  The food chain. Nobody remembers where our link is supposed to be. The warnings were right there. The trail of escalation leading right to people’s front doors.

  They did start to react, I’ll give them that. One lion was killed after it attacked a game ranch, and there was a town meeting on what to do. But like so many other problems, it was too little too late. The cats were there, they were multiplying, and after testing our boundaries, they were getting bolder every day.

  Once killing dogs became common, it was only a matter of time before they worked their way up the chain to us. A jogger was chased, treed, and only survived because she’d learned to fight back in her “model-mugging” course. A hospital employee was chased in the parking lot. Several people couldn’t leave their houses. The list goes on.

  And then Scott Lancaster went for a run and never came back. Scott was eighteen years old, healthy, strong, doing a cardio workout on his free period up the trail behind his high school. Two days later, they found what was left of him, chest torn open, organs eaten, face chewed off. Those remains were found in the stomach of a cougar. The investigation proved that the cat wasn’t rabid, or starving. You know what that attack also proved, along with all the other fatal attacks we’ve had since then?*1

  They’re not afraid of us anymore.

  JOURNAL ENTRY #15 [CONT.]

  “It wasn’t your fault.” Mostar, standing behind us. Reading my mind again, the inevitable punishment she knew I’d inflict on myself. I didn’t have to go home. I could have pushed back. Together with the lights on, with me calling for help. I might have saved him. If I’d only stayed!

  “Not your fault,” she repeated. Then, “It’s mine.”

  A flash of something I couldn’t recognize. A nervous swallow, an unwillingness to meet my eyes.

  Guilt?

  “I didn’t think they’d be this bold this soon.” Her voice was low, just loud enough for me to hear. “I thought with the fire…their first kill to satiate…I thought we’d at least have one more day….”

  She shook her head, dry-spat another foreign phrase that sounded like, “Majmoonehjedan!”*2

  Then it passed. Back straight, eyes clear, looking us over like a general in a war movie.

  “We don’t have time anymore, not enough for a full perimeter. We have to make a smaller one, right now, around the Common House. Carmen…” The poor woman practically dropped her hand sanitizer. “Go get Bobbi out of bed. Do whatever you have to do but get her up and dressed. Go.”

  Carmen dashed out as Mostar pivoted to Effie and Pal. “Go home and grab some blankets, the heaviest you’ve got. One armload, one trip, and get them over to the Common House.”

  Without question or pause, they left.

  Turning back to me, she said, “Go through Reinhardt’s kitchen. Grab what’s frozen, canned, dried. One bag.”

  I nodded as she grabbed Dan’s sleeve. “C’mon.” And they were gone.

  There wasn’t any emotion in her voice. There wasn’t time.

  I raced back into Reinhardt’s kitchen, my shoe sticking on the floor’s red trail. I grabbed a plastic garbage bag off the roll, shoved in the remaining frozen meals, then ran for the Common House.

  Their stink was stronger, and it wasn’t my imagination. Neither was the figure on the ridge. A tall black outline between two trees. Just standing there, watching me. My eyes flicked down to avoid a rock from two nights ago, then back up to a now-empty slope. The howls began a second later, a solo swelling to a chorus. I felt naked. My new spear. Back at home. I hadn’t thought I’d need it. No time now.

  I kept my head down, trotting the last few steps to the Common House. I threw the meals in the freezer and ran back outside to see Mostar and Dan exit her house. Both had armloads of stakes. Both dropped them when Mostar pointed up to something just behind my field of vision. Dan reached for his spear leaning against Mostar’s entryway as she called for Effie and Pal. “The Durants!” Voice like a megaphone, frantic waves to follow her.

  We all met her at their house; myself, Effie and Pal, and Carmen with a very dazed, pajama-and-robe-clad Bobbi in tow.

  I’m not sure what Mostar was thinking by then. Rallying us all to their door. All of us together? Societal pressure? Or maybe just the physical force we’d need to drag the two of them out.

  “Yvette! Tony!” No doorbell or even knocks. Mostar hammered at the elaborate wood with side fists and open palms. “Open up! Open the goddamn door! Now!” The urgency, the violence of her assault.

  Bobbi, now fully awake, pulled back a step. Carmen and Effie both hugged their daughter. I grabbed Dan’s arm. A new thought closing my throat: What if Reinhardt hadn’t been the first house?

  I was about to take Dan with me around back, my brain filling with what might be waiting, when the front door slowly swung open. This relief wave broke though as soon as I saw the ghoul who answered.

  Red, wet, unfocused eyes glimmered out from sunken, dark cavities. Thin, unshaven cheeks hung above chapped, cracked, scab-rimmed lips. Shoeless feet, a stained white T-shirt, sagging, worn sweatpants held up by a shaking hand with dirty nails. The reek slammed me a moment later, wafting out from the doorway in an invisible, humid cloud. Body odor. Bad breath. The slightest hint of feces.

  “Tony?” I could see Mostar’s slump, thought I heard her sigh. Am I projecting? Filling a gap? I feel like she wasn’t surprised. The rest of us though, that collective flinch.

  “Tony.” A little louder this time, her words matched by the slow, air chop of her hand. “Where’s Yvette?”

  “Oh…” His mouth hung o
pen at a crooked angle, exposing a row of stained teeth. “Yeeaaah.” A slight narrowing of the eyes, like someone who accidentally walked into the wrong room.

  “Yvette.” Mostar tried looking past him, around him, then back for a third, “Yvette!”

  Licking of the lips, and another “Yeah…” as he turned his back.

  “No, Tony…,” Mostar started to say, then followed him in. A slight jumble from the rest of us. Dan’s spear catching on the doorframe. A quick “Sorry” to the nearly struck Effie as he left the weapon outside.

  I was already ahead of him by then, almost gagging from what I smelled inside. Sweat, feet, and concentrated, stale urine wafting from the downstairs bathroom. And what we saw…

  Had it been anyone else, in any other circumstance, I would have just considered the homeowners to be slobs.

  Towels on the floor. A few clothes. Wineglasses amid the bookshelves and empty bottles. The pillow and comforter on the couch, stained brown with the darker residue of body oils. No worse than a college dorm room, or a few of my fellow twentysomethings in their first apartments. But this home, these people.

  And it wasn’t just the mess that got to me, or the smashed iPhone lying under an iPhone-sized dent in the wall. It was the magazines. Covering the glass coffee table, over and under and wedged in between crust-bottomed coffee mugs. Wired, Forbes, Eco-Structure. All of them wrinkled and bubbled with water damage. All of them with Tony’s face on the cover. THE DAWN OF ECO-CAPITALISM, THE GREEN REVOLUTIONARY, FIGHTING THE GOOD FIGHT.

  “Tony!” Mostar took his arm, turning him toward her. “Where is Yvette?” Gentle, firm. “We need to talk to both of you.”

  “Sure, yeah, Yvette…” His eyes—is that what you call a thousand-yard stare?—gazing into space, brow furrowed, tongue circling his lips. “Yvette.”