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

My back teeth locked at the first hint of bloody fur, then a protrusion, long and thin. An ear. She told me to get out a bowl and a wide pan or a cookie sheet, and the sharpest, smallest, thinnest knife we had. As I turned, she added, “Oh yes, and some rubber gloves. We don’t know if it has fleas or ticks.”

I didn’t want to look, didn’t want to acknowledge what I knew had to be coming. And it did. I turned back, gave a pair of gloves to Mostar, and tried to keep my eyes averted. But she wouldn’t let me. “You have to watch.” She snapped on the gloves, slid the dead rabbit out into the saucepan. “You have to learn every step.”

I can’t see death. You know that. I’ve told you about that time in New York when I couldn’t walk through Chinatown with all the ducks hanging in the windows. I told you about how I can’t even eat at any of those restaurants with the lobsters in the tank because it feels like death row. I told you about when Dan and I went out to Catalina for Valentine’s Day and I got seasick down below because our spot on deck had this dead fly crusted to the railing with one of its wings flapping in the wind.

I know it’s hypocritical. I eat fish and chicken. I wear leather and silk. I enjoy all the benefits of killing without ever having to do it myself. I know all this but I just can’t. I can’t see death.

“Look!” Mostar demanded as she held up the bloody rabbit. “You can’t miss this.” I was so light-headed, so sick to my stomach, I didn’t even think to ask why. Why can’t you be the animal killer and I’ll take care of the garden?

It was similar to the rabbit I’d seen running before. Grayish brown fur, long ears, white feet. Big brown eyes. Open eyes. Looking right at me.

As she held it up, I could see the wound marks on its belly and back. Mostar smiled, without looking at me as she reached for the knife. “The trap worked! I dug a hole right by the apple tree, lined the bottom with sharpened sticks, leftover chopsticks just sitting in a drawer. I made a roof of twigs and leaves and baited it with apple chips and the last of the maple syrup.”

She held the rabbit up by its head, over the sink, then massaged her hand down its body.

“We have to squeeze out all the pee from its bladder.”

She then laid it out in the pan, on its back with the knife at an angle to the chest.

“Just pray that the sticks didn’t puncture any of the organs. If they leak out onto the meat, it’ll taste terrible.”

I grabbed the end of the table, steadying myself, as Mostar sliced into the fur.

“From the neck down to the anus,” she said. Then setting the knife down, she stuck her fingers right into the incision, and started to peel the skin away.

“So far, so good. I don’t smell anything.”

I felt the bile rise.

“We’re also lucky that I heard it thrashing around in there. If I hadn’t gotten there in time to snap its neck, it might be too stiff to work on.”

I burped a metallic sting.

“You need special care with this step.” The blade cut into the bloody wound. “Not straight down and not too deep so you don’t accidentally pierce an… oh… here we go. Through the heart and… yes, the intestines. You smell that? At least we got to it early enough before the contents could saturate the flesh. We can still wash it, and with a little extra spice, maybe some paprika or cumin… or Vegeta. You can pretty much save anything with Vegeta.”

Some organs were pink, others gray. They came out easy, one slow, gentle pull.

“Here, this one is for the parts we nicked…”

WE!

“…oh, looks like we got the stomach too.”

Both bowls filled with the slippery little bits while she went to wash her hands in the sink.

“Can’t waste anything. Can’t afford to now.”

Back to the fur, peeling it away.

“See how you can pull the legs right out? Just like removing your trousers. Grab the foot… look… just like so… with one hand and pull the leg out slowly with the other.”

Both hands on the counter now, my mouth filling with hot saliva.

“Just breathe.” Her voice never changed its steady, instructional tone. “Deep. Steady. Pretend I’m Yvette.” And she giggled a little at that.

My vision tunneled. I must have swayed because Mostar caught me.

“Sorry, Katie, I shouldn’t joke.” That sounded genuinely contrite. “Go get a washcloth, run it under cold water, put it on the back of your neck.”

I obeyed. She waited. I felt a little better, but not much. I tried to focus on my breathing, the coolness on my neck.

“There we go, both back legs, now the front… over the elbows… and grab and pull the fur just up to the neck, like you’re pulling off a jumper.”

Up and over the head, still attached, exposing the neck.

“You don’t have a cleaver, do you? No, of course not. Neither do I. Just bring me the big knife over there, would you?”

She placed the long chef’s blade across the animal’s neck, holding the handle with one hand and resting her other palm on the other.

“These counters were made for taller people, eh?”

Crack.

“There, we’ll set the head aside for later, give us a chance to figure the best way to get the brains.”

Thank God the eyes faced away.

“At least we won’t have to tan its hide. We need it for food a lot more than we need fur for clothing.”

A head, a skinned carcass, two bowls of organs. A quick hand wash from Mostar, then the same, damp hand on my arm.

“You don’t have to do the rest. I’ll wash and fix it all for stew.”

Relief melted my shoulders. My eyes suddenly teared.

“You did very well, Katie.” Her smile, was it pride? Sadness?

“Better than me my first time.” She began washing the organs in the sink. “And at least you’ll never have to do this to cats.”

CATS?

“Oh, don’t worry.” She gave me a mischievous smile. “I never did that. One of my Italian colleagues would tell these stories about what her mother did to survive during the other war.”

Other war?

I could see her consciously pausing, leaving me an opening to ask. I didn’t.

“It made me grateful, Katie.” She started up again. “I never complained once about ICAR beef or ‘cheese spread,’ fermented powdered milk with a little salt and yeast. Even worse than béchamel and that horrid bread crumb carrot paste.” She looked back proudly at the mutilated animal parts in front of us. “Still, it was food, more than a lot of people had in similar circumstances. Have you ever read about Leningrad, Katie? Those poor souls scraping paste off the back of wallpaper, boiling leather for soup, making sure their children never went out alone… well… we did too, but not for that reason.”

That did it. Not the blood, the organs, the meat, the death right in front of my face.

The stories.

The hints.

“Mostar, do you… is it okay if I just take a quick…”

“Of course, Katie.” She waved over her shoulder from the sink. “Go get some air, come back when you’re ready.”

I slid open the back door, taking long, deep gulps.

I’m not sure why I headed back down the driveway, retracing Tony’s steps toward the bridge. The hiking trail was closer. A need to escape? A subconscious bolt? I’m sure you’d have a ball with this.

You’d probably also take pride in my need to psychoanalyze Yvette. For some reason I’m not as guilty doubting her as I am with Tony. Why had she been so quick to prompt him about a rescue? Was it a power thing? Admitting Mostar was right? Is that why, during our morning meditation, she’d spun the truth about who’d predicted the lahars? And why she’d given us that not-so-subtle loyalty test? Would agreeing with Mostar mean giving up some control of the group? Is control that important to her?