Макс Брукс - Devolution - A Firsthand Account of the Rainier Sasquatch Massacre

Yvette made sure to address the room as a whole, but I could see her eyes linger on Mostar for just an extra beat. “I know it’s hard to wait, feeling helpless, thinking about our loved ones, and”—she turned to the window—“those poor people out there who might really need help.” She sniffed hard, dropped her head slightly as Tony slid a muscular arm around her shoulders.

“We can’t be there for them, so we need to be here for each other.” Yvette rested her head on his shoulder. “We can’t let ourselves be destroyed by survivor’s guilt, or what we hear on the news, or what we think our loved ones might be thinking about us.” Another glance at Mostar. “We’ve got a lot to process, and we need to pool our emotional resources.” The two smiled down at her, and Yvette said, “We need to keep our minds occupied, so tomorrow morning I’ll be doing a meditation class here for anyone who needs it.”

Tony hugged her again and said, “And my door’s always open, if anyone needs to vent or share news or partake of some emergency single-malt scotch.” Amid the chuckles, he finished with, “We’re gonna keep calm and care for everyone’s heart and soul. That ”—he gave a confident glance to Mostar—“is our social contract.”

Applause.

The Boothes, Reinhardt, the Perkins-Forster family. And me.

I couldn’t believe how lucky we were to have them as our leaders. Silly term, simplistic, but what else can I call them? I felt so relieved, so secure, walking a few steps behind them as we all filed out. I did see something weird though, or maybe just thought I saw it. As they stepped out the door, Yvette glanced up at Tony with a look I’d never seen on her. Just a slight widening of the eyes, a subtle narrowing of the lips. They didn’t say anything, sauntering home arm in arm. Just before they got to their door, I saw Yvette’s head whip back over her shoulder. What was she looking for? To see if we were looking at them? Why?

I didn’t get much chance to wonder. Soon as we closed the door, Dan turned and asked me, “What do you think?” It’s been a while since he’s asked my opinion, about anything. At first, I was going to answer honestly, telling him how happy I was that Tony had put everything in perspective. What stopped me was the look on his face. Lost, searching. Genuinely open. It was the same look he’d shown at the meeting, specifically when Mostar spoke. Did he disagree with Tony? Did he really think, or at least wonder, if she might be right?

“Maybe…” Dan hesitated. “Maybe we should just drive down to the bridge… or maybe a little farther to the main road, just, you know… just to see what’s going on?”

Before I could answer, loud sharp knocks sounded from our back door. We headed for the kitchen just as Mostar came tramping in. No apologizing, or even waiting for a response. Did I mention nobody here locks their doors at night?

Then she turned to Dan. “Do you know how to fix anything? Do you know how this house works?”

Dan, blank-faced, shook his head.

“Learn.”

The word felt like a thousand pounds.

“There’s probably a manual,” Mostar continued in her flat, curt tone, “but it’s probably”—her hands waved to the sky—“in the ‘clouds.’ So, you’re going to have to use your head. Plumbing, electricity, all the crazy computer stuff that you kids should probably already know.”

Dan was about to say something, but Mostar bulldozed in with, “And if you don’t already know, learn.”

Dan’s lips moved. Her finger shot up. “But not now! First things first.” And that finger lowered in the direction of our garage. “We can’t use my workshop. Too much to move. I’m guessing yours is practically empty, so it’ll be easy to build a garden.”

Garden? Wait, what!

“Go on then,” and she gave him a gentle shove toward the garage. “Whatever’s in there, get it out, clear the floor. And get out a shovel, if you have one.”

Before I could say anything, before I could even think, that pointing, smacking hand had wrapped around my wrist.

“Let’s go, Katie.”

And we were off to her house.

“Keep the curtains drawn,” she said as soon as her kitchen door slid shut. “Don’t let anybody see you. We can’t let anyone know that we’re in this together.” I finally did manage to speak, something forceful and brilliant like “Uh…”

“We can’t have them turning against you, not yet.” She continued, this crazy little tank rolling over me, “You’re a peacemaker, and we’re going to need those skills first thing tomorrow.” She let go of my wrist long enough to hand me a pen and yellow legal pad. “But first things first.” And with a sweeping gesture to the pantry, cabinets, and fridge, she declared, “Go through it all. Catalog everything edible, right down to the last calorie. You must know how to do that, you’re an American girl. I bet you’ve been dieting all your life.” With a gentle shove toward the fridge, she headed for the back door. “Go home as soon as you’re done and do the same with your own food!” As she turned to leave, I blurted something like, “But… wha…”

And she stopped, looking at my face and seeing all the confusion and, yes, anxiety leaking out from every pore. She sighed deeply, put a hand on my shoulder, and said, “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

Of course, I was expecting her next words to be something like, “I’m sorry I’m acting crazy. You’re right. I’ll stop. Go back home. Forget my meltdown. I’m sorry I scared you.”

If only.

“I’m sorry I’m not more prepared.” She scowled, clearly annoyed with herself. “I trusted Tony and Tony trusts ‘they.’ ” She shrugged. “And maybe he’s right. Maybe ‘they’ are cleaning up things right now. Maybe ‘they’ will be here tomorrow to fix the Internet and apologize for the inconvenience.” She smiled sarcastically. “And then you can thank me for keeping your mind occupied with this engaging little project. And you’ll even have a funny little story to tell your friends about the crazy old woman next door who thought the world was coming to an end.” She looked ready to laugh, but sobered quickly. “But if I’m right…” Another shrug, a pat on my cheek, and then she tramped back to my house while I stood flustered and alone in hers.

That was two hours ago. I cataloged everything: eggs, cheeses, salami, bread. She has a lot of bread. And a lot of pickled stuff: cucumbers, peppers, and something that looks like sauerkraut. I even went through her juices and soda (no diet versions there) and logged every condiment and spice I could find. From jams to oils to something called “Vegeta.” I’m not sure what the calorie count on that one is, but I’ve dieted enough to guestimate everything else. It’s all so heavy, especially compared to our, my, calorie-negative stuff like celery and LaCroix. [14] LaCroix carbonated drink is considered to be calorie neutral not calorie negative, while opinions are divided on the legitimate calorie-negative qualities of celery.

There’s not a lot though, I should make that clear now. I’d say under normal conditions, three meals a day and snacks, she has enough for maybe two weeks at most. It’s a little surprising, but Frank already warned me about that. He said that Greenloop’s drone deliveries and smaller pantries were specifically designed to combat food waste. What was the number he cited? Thirty to forty percent of American food is thrown out each year? Thirty million tons? [15] According to a 2014 EPA study, Americans waste 38.4 million tons of food per year. I don’t see how Mostar could contribute to that. It reminded me of East Coast city living, where people run to the local bodega for one tomato or a handful of string beans.