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

The roar, I felt the warmth, the stink. It sent the troop into a frenzy. Jumping, dancing, throwing their arms up amidst those piercing shrieks. I didn’t think about what I was doing, just raised my arm as she reached one face-sized hand toward us. I don’t know if the javelin’s blade cut her deeply, or if it just bent around her closing fingers. The grip, that vicious hard tug. I can still feel the rug-burn friction on my skin as she ripped it out of my hand, then tossed it, spinning, above our heads.

That was when Dan turned, brandishing his spear. Jabbing the air, poking harmlessly. She didn’t care. She avoided the thrusts with quick bobs of that neckless head. She even tried to grab it, swooping her arms, forcing Dan back. That new sound, short barks. Was she laughing?

I looked behind us, saw the ring close, then back to Alpha, who finally got ahold of Dan’s spear. I see it now in slow motion: one hand on the spear, the other, a fist, raised high. Mouth open as the huge face leaned in.

Glowing eyes.

Two flickering beads.

Not a hallucination. They were burning. Reflecting.

“BACK!”

She released the spear, recoiling sharply, just as the flames passed between myself and Dan.

“GET BACK!”

Mostar, barreling in between us, brandishing a fireball-tipped pole.

“Go­nite­seupich­kumat­erinu!” [30] Gonite se u pičku materinu! : Get back into your mother’s cunt! Her language. And theirs. Foreign words mixed with guttural, animal noises. She snarled, she barked, she spat a high, hissing roar as the troop retreated amid jerky, frightened yelps.

Frightened.

Even Alpha, reticent. Arms down, shoulders up. Head bobbing for an opening amid soft clucking calls.

Mostar clucked back, a sound like, “Mrsh! Mrsh!” [31] Mrš! Mrš! : “Git! Git!” in American folk language or the traditional “March! March!”

Then, “Pichko jedna!” [32] Pičko jedna! : You cunt! as she lunged forward, backing off Alpha, swinging her torch that I now saw as a burning towel wrapped in electrical wire. I could also see that it was starting to burn out, flames giving way to smoke.

“J’ebemlitikrv!” [33] Jebem li ti krv : I fuck your blood. Mostar barked as she hurled the torch up and to the retreating Alpha. Then, to us, “Run!”

The ring had opened, the slope was clear. Dan and I ran, stumbling up the muddy ground.

“Mostar!” Dan called. I looked. She was right behind us, waving, “RUUUUN!”

And here they came, loping side to side. Still cautious? Wondering if we had more fire? Alpha, standing her ground, stooping to pick something up. I turned to watch where I was going, just as the first rock smashed into the tree next to me.

The maze. Obstructing a clear getaway, but also a clear shot. The crack of rocks hitting branches, bonking against path-blocking trunks. A slurping thlp of a stone cantaloupe buried in the mud right in front of me.

“Zig!” Mostar, behind us, shouting what I first thought was a foreign word.

“Zig-zag!” she shouted, then oof from a hit. A glancing blow, I found out later, like the one that hit Dan. I saw that one, a low angle grazing his shoulder, but with enough force to spin. Dan pivoted, tripped. I caught his fall, forcing him up, pulling him the last few feet.

We could see the top of the ridge. Up and over, just a few more steps. The moment I could see the village, the downward slope. Relief. I remember that rush. Then the impact. The blow between my shoulder blades. Winded. Falling forward. Dan’s turn to catch me now, and Mostar pushing us both. “Don’t stop! Don’t stop!”

Racing down the slope, trying not to slip, trying not to notice, to recognize, the object that had hit me. It was still rolling down the incline in front of us. Black and brown, black and brown. Hair and face. Vincent Boothe’s head.

Down to the closest house, the Perkins-Forsters’. Kitchen door open, arms beckoning. Carmen and Pal. “C’mon! C’mon!”

In and through, crouching on the kitchen floor behind the counter. Dizzy, lungs burning. Small arms gripping my sides, a warm face pressed up against my stomach. Opening my eyes down onto the top of Pal’s head, then over to Dan, gripping his spear, waiting.

They didn’t come. Not even close. They didn’t even bombard the house. Just wailed at us from the distance.

“Fire.” Mostar huffing with closed eyes. “They’re… still… afraid of it.”

“Can we make bonfires?” Carmen asked, glancing over the counter at the door. “Surround the village?”

“Nothing… to burn.” Mostar, pulling herself up, holding on to the counter for support. “Too wet… the trees…” Another deep breath, fighting for control. “Maybe… we have some more time, finish the stakes, before they get over the shock. And we can make torches too if we need them. More weapons.”

My head was clearing by then, the adrenaline draining.

I shifted slightly, signaling Pal to step back. Grabbing my hand, we got up together. Her eyes, looking up into mine. “I’m okay”—stroking her hair—“it’s okay.” Then over to Mostar, who was still fixed on the door.

I reached out to touch her shoulder. A gentle rub. “Thank you.”

And when she turned.

A hard slap, loud, knocking me sideways.

“What were you thinking!”

Grabbing my cheek, facing her glare. “Were you thinking?” Before I could answer. “Either one of you?” And another hard slap, this one up to Dan’s chin. “Children!”

Dan, white, shaking, “W… we…”

Silenced him with a finger. “You! Help finish the stakes.” The finger swung toward Carmen and Pal. “Stay with them. Stay together!”

I flinched as she faced me, turning to protect my swelling cheek. “And you, you come with me. Now!”

I followed Mostar to the kitchen door, pausing while she checked the quiet ridge. It was empty now. They’d pulled back to the other side. Mostar moved her head slowly from the edge of the Perkins-Forsters’ yard to the Boothes’. It took me a second to realize what she was looking for. Vincent’s head was lying at the bottom of the slope, within the moat-like depression around one of the apple trees. He was staring right at us. Eyes and mouth wide open. Frozen in time? His last expression? Fear? Regret? Was he thinking about Bobbi or his childhood? Was he cursing himself for making such a horrible decision, the way I cursed myself for mine? That face. Will I ever forget? With enough time and therapy? Hypnosis or a drug I’ve never heard of? Is there something to help me “unsee”?

But Mostar, she didn’t seem to mind at all. Picking it up, like a basketball a kid had accidentally thrown over her fence. She crouched on her knees to grab it, tucked it under her arm, then gave me a quick glance just to make sure I was still in tow.

We ambled straight into the kitchen. Nonchalant. Inhuman. She reached under the sink, took out a white plastic garbage bag, dropped the head inside, then, after washing her hands—washing her hands!—she opened the freezer and rolled it inside. “Don’t tell Bobbi.” Covering his head with ice. “She knows he’s gone. She doesn’t need to know about this.”

“Here.” She held up an ice pack from the freezer door, pressing it to my cheek, waiting for me to take it. When I did, she raised her eyes to within inches of mine. “Are you here?” Her voice was softer now, her face.

I didn’t intend to sob, it just escaped quickly like a cough.

Her eyes hardened. “I need you here. Are you here?” I straightened, nodded.

“You need to focus on what I’m about to teach you”—her hand, still on my face—“because what you did today was selfish and irresponsible. And stupid, because you went out there without a proper weapon.”