by Max Brooks
“Hacking the houses,” that’s what Dan calls it. Manipulating the internal alarms, biogas tanks, stoves. That “hacking” part’s hard for Dan. Not the technical, the emotional. It drove him crazy, hunched over his iPad while the rest of us worked with our hands. Physical work. Male pride.
Three times he tried to take a “study break” to help us out. Once he even ran outside to help Effie and Pal carry a big box of stuff. I yelled at him. I didn’t mean to. I just saw him through the hole in Mostar’s garage door and shouted at him to get back to work.
He apologized to me later. He understands. We can’t afford bruised egos any more than we can afford wasted time. “Specialization. Division of labor.”
One of Mostar’s many lessons.
That box I yelled at him about, it was filled with supplies. It’s Effie and Palomino’s job to stock the Common House. Blankets, medicine, what’s left of the food. Everything we need to survive there. I’m glad Effie didn’t argue about the personal effects. Not that I’d expect her to argue about anything. But she did have a point. What about all the photos? The mementos? We can’t just leave them. No, but we can’t waste time on them either. Once everything’s in place, we’ll pack up our treasures.
Effie seemed to get the logic of that argument. So did Carmen, who’s in charge of placing stakes. She and Bobbi have been cutting and sharpening new spikes, as well as “modifying” the ones already made. And by “modifying,” I mean dipping them in our own poo.
Again, Carmen’s idea, in the hopes that it’ll give them an infection. I have my doubts. Who knows how tough their resistance is. But if it works just a little bit, if even one of their wounded wanders off to sicken or die days later…That’s why I haven’t publicly “poo-pooed” Carmen’s idea (sorry, lame joke), and privately, I’m blown away that she’s been able to turn her phobia into a survival skill.
I don’t know how she stands the smell though. I haven’t seen her reach for the hand sanitizer once. She even personally scooped out the bucket of slop from the biogas digester, even after Bobbi offered to do it. Bobbi hasn’t mentioned anything about Carmen clocking her, even though her cheek looks like half a hard-boiled egg. I noticed neither of them talk much about anything.
They’ve been going nonstop, laying stakes in between the houses, on the front lawns, in a semicircle ring around the Common House. “Semi” because the driveway leading up from the road can’t be staked. Same for the actual loop around the house. The asphalt is too hard, the ash too shallow. That’s where the glass comes in.
I took the idea from Mostar’s “minefield.” We’ve swept up all those shards and combined them with every single glass object in the village. I heard Carmen and Bobbi smashing them for hours. Glasses, bottles, picture frames. Shattering them all in the second story bathtub above my head, then carting the buckets downstairs to spread out along the entire circle. Maybe not as effective as bamboo, but maybe just enough to give them pause. That’s what I’m hoping for. That’s what I’ve been working on.
I’m the village “weaponsmith.” That’s what Dan calls me. I’ve been in Mostar’s workshop for two days, trying not to nap, trying to ignore Consort’s body next to me, and Mostar’s one floor above. We placed her on her bed. We’ll bury her later. I know she’d understand. I can picture her yelling at me to get to work. “Stop messing around, Katie!” She probably would have chastised us for carrying her all the way upstairs. “Just toss me on the couch or stuff me in the freezer next to Vincent’s head!”
Knowing Mostar, she’d probably have told us to pump her body full of poison and lay it out for those creatures to eat. I’ve actually thought about it a couple times. I haven’t said anything to anyone though. Morbidity aside, I don’t think the idea’s practical. I can’t afford to waste time trying to find something that might be toxic (of course nobody here has rat poison!) and I wouldn’t even know how to get it into her.
The fact that I’ve even thought about it, that I haven’t cried once since she died…I do think about her though, every waking second. I picture her over my shoulder, barking orders and correcting each mistake. I think she’d be proud of how I’m using her 3-D printer. I hope she’d approve of my creation.
Spearheads. Well, to be specific, javelin points. I’m surprised she didn’t think of it herself. That first weapon she threw at the mountain lion, how she lamented not being able to barb the blade. Well, these have barbs, these new, six-inch-long, half-inch wide, razor-sharp glass blades. And they’re beautiful, if I do say so myself, and so easy to attach. Gift-wrapping ribbon through the pre-printed holes. I’ve got a whole spool of it from Effie. Pink and shiny, it’s just the right width to fit through the ports. I’ve tested the strength, trying to pull it apart. It’ll work once, and that’s fine for disposable weapons.
Not like the real spears. They’re taking a lot of time. In between each javelin, when there’s nothing to do but wait for the printer to finish, I’ve been making spears for each member of the tribe.
Did I just write “tribe”?
Punchy.
There are a lot of personal spears to be made. And while we’re mainly following Mostar’s design, I’ve made one slight modification. A crossbar, or guard, or whatever you want to call it. Five inches long, slightly thinner than a dime. I’ve inserted one horizontally through bored holes just above the second to last connector. A little glue seems to hold them in place, enough, hopefully, to stop the spear from going too deep. I don’t want any of us to risk what happened to Mostar. Who knows if it’ll work. At least the spears themselves have been proven, and fortunately we’ve got enough raw materials. The bamboo and electrical wire were easy but scrounging for high quality, compatibly constructed chef knives took some effort. Dan and I had one, Mostar had two.
The Durants’ knives were great. A couple of solid, eight-inch blades that I’ve crafted into formidable killers. The Boothes, ironically, have the most useless knife set. Maybe it’s not ironic, the whole foodie thing. From a culinary point of view, their high-end Japanese cutters are magnificent. But for our needs: no pins, no holes, just thin, steel cores that look like they’re glued.
“I’m sorry,” that was Bobbi, frowning as I lifted the first naked blade from its smashed wooden grip. “Maybe these will help.” I saw that she’d brought two more items with her. The first was kind of a U-shaped cleaver; the blade extended down and parallel to the handle. A riveted handle!
“Soba kiri.” That’s the official term. Bobbi reminded me of the soba soup she served us that night in another lifetime. This was the tool she’d used to make homemade noodles.
My first thought was “hatchet,” and what an amazing bamboo-chopping, time-saving implement this could have been if I’d only known about it sooner. But I hadn’t, and if it could chop through plants, it could sure chop through meat. It wasn’t hard to picture how I could turn this hatchet into a full-blown axe. I could already see it fixed to a short, sturdy bamboo shaft.
And if that project got my creative juices flowing, Bobbi’s next gift practically took my breath away. Not only was the blade thicker and at least two inches longer than any other knife we had, but the finish! I didn’t know steel could be a work of art. Bobbi calls it a “Damascus blade” after the medieval Arab swordsmiths who invented it. The metal looked like water, and I’m not being lyrical. The wavy lines across the surface looked exactly like moonlight shimmering on the ocean.
Holding it to the light, I said dramatically, “I have never seen its equal.”
“The Princess Bride.” Bobbi smiled at the reference and said, “You’re actually pretty close to the truth. It’s not a Zwilling clone. Bob Kramer custom made it for Vincent. They knew each other for ages, and when Bob found out that Vincent had cancer, and we were trying a vegan diet…” She paused, sniffed slightly, and ran her fingertip over the handle. “It worked, you know. Veganism, or at l
east, it didn’t hurt. Vincent used to love a good porterhouse, but with the full remission…”
Her eyes suddenly glazed. Her cheeks flushed. I was going to give her a hug when she turned and said, “I’m sorry. I’ve got to get back to work,” and trotted outside to help Carmen.
I tried to push her feelings, and mine, away and focus on what I was doing. I was about to begin measuring the blade for a standard spear shaft when my mind came back to the soba kiri. I’d initially envisioned a three-, maybe four-foot shaft for the new axe, and that image made me realize I hadn’t constructed any indoor weapons! Spears were too long. Javelins too weak. Yes, we could use regular paring knives, and Dan had his coveted coconut killer, but they were so small and you had to get so close.
We needed something in between. Not the axe (although I’d still make it) because the swinging motion needs a lot of room. The idea of a cut-down mini-spear sent me jogging over to Reinhardt’s house, to the book that was still lying right where it had fallen.
Vanishing Cultures of Southern Africa.
And there was the picture, the short Zulu Iklwa.
It didn’t go quietly. The grip, I mean. Like a lot of the high-quality knives, the grips couldn’t just be smashed away with rocks. I had to chip, chisel, and whittle a lot of material away with paring knives. I even ruined a perfectly good six-inch blade, literally broke pieces of steel off trying to chop through the aluminum pins. I feel bad about destroying that cook’s knife, but it was worth it for a new axe, and a really lethal-looking Iklwa.
I wonder if Shaka would accept it? I know Dan will. I’m going to give it to him tomorrow. Along with the new shield. It’s a nutty idea, I admit, but after seeing the pictures in the book, and mulling over how these creatures fight, I wondered if it might not be worth the time to make one. And it really didn’t take that much time. Half an hour to lift one of the steel mesh shelves off its support poles, tie up a handle of electrical wire, and wrap the front in aluminum foil. That last part is the whole reason I made the shield. I don’t expect it to stop one of their punches. The impact would probably break my arm, but if Dan has to get close with the Iklwa, maybe the reflected light could distract them long enough to get a shot in. I’ve been going over Dan’s iPad footage, how their eyes locked on each new source of light, and how most of their attacks were overhead blows. It might work.
And the steel grating might also provide some protection from thrown rocks. I’ve actually never thought about that until writing it down just now. I’m also thinking about finding a use for the shelves’ steel support poles. They must be as strong as bamboo, and hollow, but how could I ever drill holes for the knives? If I only had more time to experiment.
But I don’t. From Mostar’s workshop I can see everyone asleep in the Common House. I can see everyone sleeping, curled up in comforters and sleeping bags. Bobbi on the couch. Effie, Carmen, and Pal on cushions. Dan on an air mattress we found in the Durants’ house. Probably my imagination but I think I can hear them snoring.
That’s not all I can hear.
That’s why I can’t make any more shields, or Iklwas, or anything else anymore. For the last few minutes, the woods have been coming alive. Branches breaking, the occasional grunt. I hope my work didn’t attract them, the high-pitched metallic banging. Maybe it’s just time. They’re fully digested, well rested.
There it is, the first howl.
They’re back.
No motion lights yet. The sounds seem far away. Maybe they’re psyching themselves up. Harder to hunt on a full stomach?
Deep hooting cries now. Alpha. Rallying them to finish us off.
I wish we had more time. If just to practice with the javelins. No chance now. I probably shouldn’t have wasted all this time writing. But just in case something happens to me, I wanted there to be a record. I want someone, anyone who reads this, to know what happened.
The hoots are getting louder now.
Time to wake everyone and apologize for not getting their keepsakes. I’m good at apologizing. Specialization.
I thought I’d be more afraid. Maybe I am and just don’t feel it. Maybe I’m just too tired to care.
Fear and anxiety. I’ve lived with the latter all my life. Now it’s gone. The threat is here. I feel strangely calm, alert, focused.
I’m ready.
Another howl. Closer.
Here we go.
Red colobus are most aggressive and most successful at counterattacking in habitats where they can mount an effective defense without being scattered.
—CRAIG B. STANFORD, Chimpanzee and Red Colobus
JOURNAL ENTRY #17
October 17
My man is dead.
It was hard to wake Dan up. He was sleeping so soundly. I had to shake him a couple times. He looked up at me, started to ask something, then got his answer from the distant grunts.
We roused the others. No need to explain the plan. Everyone knew their jobs. Palomino hid under blankets behind the couch while the rest of us headed to the workshop for our “bait.” So heavy, slowing us down. I worried about the sound of the flapping tarp, the smell catching their noses before we were ready. If they’d jumped us at that moment, unarmed, hands full, in that narrow stake-and-glass-free path.
Once the “bait” was placed, we started the knocking. Short, wide bamboo rods, hollowed out for maximum sound.
thock-thock-thock
Slow and synchronized, striking them together like kindergarten woodblocks.
thock-thock-thock-thock-thock-thock…
We drummed for a full minute, standing in a line outside the Common House door. I glanced back inside at the wall clock, held up my hand for silence.
They didn’t answer.
We waited. I held my breath, straining to hear some kind of reply. I started to think, hope, that maybe they weren’t coming. Maybe my theory about the full belly was right. They were done with us, watching from a respectful distance before slinking away for good.
I really did hope that was true. And yet, there was this tiny part of me, no point in denying it now, just the barest thread of disappointment.
“Do you…,” Carmen started to say.
thk
We almost missed the first one. My hand went back up.
thkthk
Soft and muffled, the other side of the ridge.
thkthkthkthkthk
I looked at the group and we answered as one.
Thckthckthck!
Faster. Louder. I could feel my palms moisten, my ears warm, and suddenly I really needed to pee.
More knocks followed by the howl. Long, powerful. Familiar.
I knew that voice.
I answered it with mine.
I’m sure I sounded ridiculous. Trying to match those lungs was like a flute taking on a tuba. But I did try. Laying my knock-sticks down, stepping forward and raising my head to the ridge, I let go the deepest, harshest boom my diaphragm could muster.
A pause, maybe bewilderment on their part?
But then she answered, followed by the chorus of her troop.
These hoots were much closer now, direct instead of echoed.
They’d come over the rise. They had to be watching us.
I looked back at the group and said, “Now!”
Dan hit a button on his iPad, manually igniting the house’s outside lights. There was no way they could miss us now, or the “bait” as we whipped the tarp off Consort’s corpse.
The sounds, I thought I’d heard them all before. The call to challenge, the rallying hoot, the roar to charge, the chatter of food. But this, this cacophony of wails. Shock? Did they not know Consort was dead? Grief? Suddenly seeing him like this, no time to process his passing or conceive of how he died? Or was it hope? Belief that he mi
ght actually still be alive and that we were somehow holding him prisoner? “Please don’t hurt him! Please let him go!”
Whatever emotions drove their soprano screeching, it rose to a fever pitch when we began our mutilation.
I stepped up onto Consort’s lifeless chest, raised my spear, and with another challenging howl, I jammed the blade into the dead ape’s gut.
Everyone else followed, mimicking my howls as they drove their spear points into the fur-covered flesh. As with everything, we’d meticulously planned this act. Ten seconds, no more. We raised our spears, waited. But they didn’t come. Still cautious? Still clearheaded enough to plan? That was what I was afraid of when I stepped over Consort’s face, dropped my spear, and then my pants. I couldn’t make my bowels work on command, but my bladder was another story. I hoped the house lights made me visible to all, and that the message behind my action was clear.
“Fuck you, Ex-Predators. Here’s what I can do to your family.”
The bellows washed over us.
They were coming.
They were mad.
The first motion light snapped on somewhere in our backyard, followed by a large slouching shape darkening the space between our house and Mostar’s.
The shape grew, the roar echoed.
Then the step, the high yip, and those points jerked upward as the brute recoiled in pain. It had worked; the challenge, the taunts, the sight of their loved one’s body being desecrated. They were enough like us to fly into a mindless rage, and miss the spikes right under their feet.
Another leviathan loped in between Mostar’s and the Perkins-Forsters’ house. Another sharp cry, and the darkened mass retreated out of sight. Other motion lights, more quick blobs skirting between our homes.
We waited, watched.
No more blind charges.
They’d learned.
It only took a few seconds before we heard the faint crinkle of our kitchen door collapsing. They were trying a different tactic, going through our homes instead of around. Please don’t let them smell it. That was the prayer in my head. Or let them still be too angry to care!