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

She caught him mid-turn. I could see where her nails scratched his ear. He reached up to grab the wound just as Carmen and I reached out to hold her back. “You told him it was okay! You let him go!” Thrashing like a hooked fish. “You’re letting him die!”

My mind flashed back to Vincent’s departure. Did he confer with Reinhardt before leaving? Ask his advice? Is that why Reinhardt had been so generous with the ice cream? Guilt?

“Bobbi, just think…” Reinhardt, hands out, palms open, lip quivering, steam rising from his glistening forehead. “Think…”

“You!” Bobbi screeched, kicking up, out, barely missing his face. “YOU!”

“What do you want!” I jumped at the bass, the sheer volume of Reinhardt’s voice. “What do you want from us?” He smashed his hands against his face, frantically rubbing, like he was trying to wipe off reality.

“They’ll KILL US, Bobbi!” His hands out, clawing the air in front of her, punctuating each word. “THEY—WILL—KILL—US—AAALLLL!”

Instinctively, I pulled Bobbi back. I thought he was going to hit her, the way he came at her like that. But he wasn’t coming at her. His face. Shock. His knees hit the ground, hands out, mouth open.

Carmen yelled, “Grab him!” Reinhardt keeled forward just as Mostar and Dan caught him under the arms.

I let go of Bobbi, jumped over to help Mostar. God, he was so heavy, hot, damp. “We can’t”—wheezing—“can’t…”

Mostar kept calling his name. “Alex! Alex, look at me! Can you hear me?”

Slack-jawed, glass-eyed, drool dripping from his bottom lip.

“Are you taking something?” Mostar grabbed his jaw, turning his face into hers. “Medication? Do you have pills at your house? Alex, listen to me! Alex!”

thmp

The first stone landed right next to us, throwing a cloud of dust in our faces.

thmp-thmp-thmp

“Get inside!” Mostar grunted, struggling to lift Reinhardt. “In the Common House!”

As we pulled him through the door, Effie and Pal slammed it behind us.

Mostar barked, “Lights!”

The room went dark as we guided Reinhardt to the couch. He oof ed into the cushions, hands on chest, rasping.

Mostar ran to the sink, shouting, “Everyone down! Away from the windows!”

China clinking. Rocks hitting the roof. Bobbi’s soft sobs. Reinhardt’s defiant mmm! as he pushed at the water Mostar’d gotten. All of it in half-light. All to the soundtrack of distant wails.

Mostar gave the water one more try. Reinhardt shoved so violently it spilled on me. Then he leaned to the side, gagging. Mostar crawled for the trash bin. Reinhardt retched, gagged, spat on the floor. Mostar got the can under him just in time. I turned away as the room filled with vomit stink.

Reinhardt groaned, spat again, croaked something like, “Can’t… can’t.”

“Hold his head!” Mostar took my hand and cupped his slippery forehead with it. As he dry-heaved again, she went back to the sink to moisten a dishcloth.

He was mumbling by that point. Words and groans strung together.

I felt so sorry for him, so helpless. He was suffering right there and there was nothing I could do. That helplessness. Vincent. Bobbi. Feeling so powerless, victimized. I’m not sure when my sympathy turned.

Maybe when the pleading started, high, meek. “Want… want to go home.” That phrase, again and again. “Want to go home,” punctuated with tiny, infantile whimpers. Once he said someone’s name. “Hannah,” I think, right before, “Home. I want. I want.”

Die.

I tried not to think it, feel it.

Die! Just die!

Biting my lip, glaring at him in the darkness.

Please just shut up and fucking die!

That was six hours ago, five hours since the rocks finally stopped. Mostar made us wait an hour. Sitting there in silence, ensuring it was safe to move. Reinhardt was asleep by then. Or catatonic. We can’t be sure. It took four of us to get him safely home. He’s on his living room sofa now. His breathing is steady. Carmen is watching him.

We still don’t know if he actually had a heart attack. Effie thinks it might be something called “stress cardiomyopathy.” A panic attack that mirrors cardiac arrest. Effie’s not sure though. She reminded us that she and Carmen are psychologists, not psychiatrists. But even if they had gone to medical school, would that solve anything? Without the right drugs and equipment?

Siri, how do you treat a heart attack in your own home?

We agreed to at least watch him in shifts. If he doesn’t wake up, we’ll have to think about how to take care of him. Needs like feeding and, yes, going to the bathroom. We’ll all have to pitch in.

And everyone has. Mostar’s our leader now. And everyone who can is working to build her defensive perimeter.

Effie and Pal are home cutting bamboo stalks into stakes. Mostar and Dan are outside collecting more. I can see them clearly, just across the driveway, crouching in the outside lights, rhythmically moving to the flash of their bread knives. Mostar doesn’t want anyone outside alone, not while it’s still dark. “Just in case they get bold enough to try.”

Try what?

She thinks we’ll be safe in daylight, especially within the confines of the village. That should give us enough time to finish the perimeter. A couple days maybe. One more night. She doesn’t think they’ll “work up the nerve” for a home invasion. That’s what she told me once we got Reinhardt home. “And besides,” why did she have to add this part, “their bellies are full for now.”

Vincent.

Bobbi. She cried herself to sleep just now, curled up with her head in my lap. I can see why she said it. “We’ll… find him… dawn… we’ll look for him… find him… we will…” Denial. Hope. Xanax.

It’s obvious why she wants to search for him, but why did I agree to help?

I guess that’s obvious too.

I need to do something, to make up for what I thought about Reinhardt. That’s not me. Won’t be. A quick nap now, set my phone alarm for sunup. At least it’s still good for something. So am I. Who thinks thoughts like that?

Who am I?

From my interview with Senior Ranger Josephine Schell.

Have you ever seen chimps hunt monkeys? They form a tight team. Every member has a job. You have the “flushers,” climbing the trees, shaking the branches, screaming bloody murder to scare the smaller primates into running for their lives. Terror is a powerful weapon. Terror clouds thought. The flushers are counting on that. Intelligence surrendering to self-preservation. If they can get just one to break away from the group. That’s key. There’s strength in numbers, even for prey.

Children are the most vulnerable, the easiest to isolate. But even a full-grown adult can be rattled enough to slip up. Fear-soaked brain switched off, running, climbing, jumping, hopefully, right into the arms of the other chimps lying in wait. If the monkey’s lucky, it’ll die quickly, a twist of the neck or having its head swung into a tree. If not… I’ve seen a red colobus trying to pull itself away, shrieking for its life while the chimp holds it down with one hand and rips its guts out with the other.

The only term I can think of is “bloodlust,” because that’s what it sounds like when chimps tear a monkey apart. It’s not like any other kill you’d ever see, not like when a leopard brings down a gazelle or even sharks rip into a seal. Those are cold, mechanical. Apes go crazy. Hopping and dancing. Don’t tell me they don’t enjoy it.

And don’t tell me that the hunt only exists for pure sustenance. They pass out that meat according to rank. The leader standing over the corpse as the others wait, literally, with their hands out. They treat it like currency. The same social order which allows that kind of disciplined, coordinated attack is maintained by the attack’s bloody spoils.