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

She sighs.

…not invite them in.

The animals are gone. I didn’t notice it this morning, but as the day’s progressed, I realize I haven’t seen a deer or squirrel. Anything. And if there are any birds, they haven’t made a peep. Why did they leave? It can’t be hunger. There’re still a few apples on the Perkins-Forsters’ trees. I bet if I check the others, I’ll also find some remaining fruit. Was it the fight? Are they scared of the animal that killed the cougar?

Listen to me. “The animal.”

I can’t even write the word down. I also haven’t talked about it since telling Mostar. Neither has Dan. To be fair, he’s really busy.

Dan got a new “gig,” that’s what he calls it. We were having breakfast at Mostar’s, the last of the rabbit stew, watered down, when Vincent Boothe came around. He said to Dan, “I, uh, noticed you were cleaning Reinhardt’s solar panels yesterday, and was wondering…”

“Sure.” Dan was already licking his bowl. “I’ll be over in a few minutes.”

“Great!” Vincent looked relieved but stiffened when he caught Mostar’s eye. “And, you know, of course, we’d feed you for your time.” Then he looked at me. “And you’re more than welcome to come over and, uh, go through our supplies.”

I smiled uncomfortably. Mostar gave an approving nod.

Dan couldn’t have been happier. As Vincent left, he flashed this goofy, almost childlike grin. “I’m in demand.”

Mostar playfully cuffed him on the arm and said, “Look at you, village handyman.”

“Handyman!” That should have destroyed him! Would have a few days ago. How many job offers, how many helpful, hopeful dinners with Frank? “I’m not a salary man.” That was Dan’s default defense. “I’m a builder, not a maintainer.” And, oh, the surly tailspins that I had to nurse him through.

And now, thanks to Mostar’s big mouth.

Grip the wheel, brace for impact.

But, once again, my head nearly spun off my shoulders as Dan’s grin widened. “Village handyman.” He licked his spoon like a lollipop, bounced, bounced, up from the table, and said to me, “Time for work.” Then hummed his dishes over to the sink.

He hummed all day. Through every job the Boothes gave him. They had a list, FYI. Even before he could get to the solar panels, the air vent in the bedroom was rattling, the shower drain was stopped. Little things here and there. I kept my own list. I’m charging them in rolled oats (we’re out of cereal). While Dan bopped his merry way between tasks, I went meticulously through the Boothes’ pantry, cataloging everything they had, down to the last drop of Lucini Italia premium olive oil. A lot of calories in olive oil. I don’t think I’m overcharging them.

Maybe a little.

I’ve gotta get past the potato thing. Bobbi tried so hard to be nice. She was so open about everything they had—or had left. (Sorry. Let it go!) She even suggested sharing their house’s electricity as well as a little blue teapot that “would make a perfect watering can for the garden.”

How does she know about the garden? Does everyone? What else are they saying behind our backs? The shift seemed so sudden to me, the acceptance that we might have to survive the winter. But it must have been building for some time, as they listened to the news, watched the empty sky, saw that Tony and Yvette were still clinging to the status quo while Mostar, at least, was trying to adapt.

Whatever the reason, the Boothes certainly seem to be on board with us now. Bobbi even offered compost from her bin for extra fertilizer, and asked if maybe some of her brown rice or puffed quinoa could be planted. I don’t think the quinoa will work. Doesn’t “puffed” mean “cooked”? And as far as the rice, I took a handful to experiment with. Just enough for a square foot of earth. We don’t have a lot of space left, now that Pal’s beans are planted. But if they don’t sprout and the rice does, it might be a welcome backup. No matter what, we can always use more compost. And I do give her credit for suggesting that her buckwheat pillow stuffing might be edible.

Vincent laughed at that last idea, but when he saw her hurt expression, he explained that their pillows are stuffed with the husks, not the kernels. He kind of slurred the explanation. They were both a little buzzed, opening a bottle of chardonnay as soon as Dan and I came over. Who knows how many 120 calorie glasses they’d had before we showed up. Vincent definitely had another 240 before getting up the courage to ask about the mountain lion.

When I described the blood and bones, Vincent wrote it all off as scavengers. “All the birds and small animals. Insects. Gotta be insects. So many insects. They must have all come out after the poor cat died. Everything’s so hungry out there. Died of its wound. That’s what we heard last night, all that screaming. Poor thing must have suffered badly. Hopefully it was gone before the smaller animals started feeding on it.”

When I brought up the rocks, Vincent just shrugged it away. “Who can tell in all that mess.”

Maybe that’s why I didn’t mention the footprints. Afraid that they’d disregard it with another tipsy theory. Or maybe I was afraid that they wouldn’t, that it’d open the door to questions I couldn’t answer.

I still can’t. Maybe that’s why I went over to the Durants’ afterward. I’m still convinced that Yvette thought she was talking about some quaint, indigenous fairy tale. But if I could learn more from that tale. Some details. Where it comes from. What it wants. Doesn’t all folklore have some basis in reality? Wasn’t there really a great flood sometime way back? Prerecorded climate change? And isn’t there a theory about the tides of the Red Sea being so extreme that it might have looked like the waters parted?

I can’t remember where I’ve heard this, or if I’m just totally making it up. I’m pretty sure one of Dan’s college friends talked about how mammoth skulls inspired the Greeks to believe in the Cyclops. The cartilage between the eyes looking like one giant socket. I thought Yvette might have some nugget of useful information like that. If I could just get her talking.

And Tony, I wanted to ask about that day he tried to drive away.

Go for help! Oh my God. The day he tried to go for help! The day I was chased. Did he see something too? That look he had. I assumed it was from seeing the lahar, the realization that we were cut off. Maybe that was part of it. But on the way home, or maybe when he was standing there at the edge of the smashed bridge. Did he see something? Did it chase him too?

Those were the questions spinning through my mind as I nervously stepped up to their door.

I’m not sure what I was afraid of. Yvette slapping my face, yelling at me for betraying her? Both would have hurt the same. I took a deep breath, put on a fake smile, and knocked gently. No answer. I tried again, a little louder. Nothing. I thought I could hear talking. But it sounded far away. I glimpsed a faint, flickering glow coming through the living room window curtain. The TV. A recorded show. That’s what I must have been hearing. A shadow passed in front of it, heading in the direction of the door.

I stuttered, “Tony? Yvette? It’s Kate.” I thought about ringing the doorbell but chickened out as my finger grazed the button. I watched the shadow pass the glow again, heading in the opposite direction. I moved sideways down the front of the house, to the garage. I could hear the steady zzzzzp-zzzzzp-zzzzzp of Yvette’s elliptical, and the muffled mumbling of voices. She must have been working out, because the zzzzzp -ing stopped as the voices grew louder. One voice, really. Hers. His stayed at this low murmur. I couldn’t make out her exact words, but the tone, high and clipped. I thought about putting my ear to the thin aluminum of her garage door, maybe even knocking on it. But instead I just waited like an idiot for a minute or so, until the voices faded and the zzzzzp-zzzzzp-zzzzzp resumed.