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

The comfortable chair, Reinhardt’s rhythmic breathing.

I didn’t know what happened until my head suddenly jerked up to a dark sky with Reinhardt coming out of the entryway bathroom. Must have been the flushing that woke me. After half a couple disoriented seconds, I realized that Reinhardt was supporting himself against the wall. I jumped up to help him but he waved me away with, “I’m okay, I’m okay.”

He clearly wasn’t. Even as I struggled to get him back onto the couch, I could see how pale his lips were. I asked if he was hungry and he nodded weakly. I remember thinking that must be a good thing. Don’t really sick people lose their appetites?

There wasn’t much, at least when it came to frozen diet meals. But I did find plenty of “secret goodies,” little packets of gummies and candies squirreled away. He must have hidden them all upstairs, like the ice cream, when I came over to catalog his food. Now they were everywhere, stuffed into drawers and cabinets all over the kitchen. It actually gave me a little bit of sympathy to see all those caches. I’d hid more than a few Twix bites from Mom.

Shame.

I didn’t feel too sorry for him though, not when I asked if there was anything he could and couldn’t eat in his condition. I got a feeble, “Anything is fine, I guess.”

You guess? Aren’t you supposed to know if you have a heart condition? Lord knows his library isn’t much help.

Hey, Flaubert, what can’t a heart attack victim eat?

I settled on his second to last packet of insta-waffle. The kind you eat from a cup. Just add water, stir, and nuke. I tried not to keep reflexively checking the windows, or note that there were no kitchen knives to be seen. The man has probably never cooked anything in his life, or has had people do it for him.

Amazing how your perception of a space can change so quickly. If I’d been invited into Reinhardt’s kitchen two weeks ago, I might have just thought about the décor (or lack thereof). Then, when I came in with Dan a few days ago, all I could think about was what there was to eat. Now all I could think about was what I could use to defend myself. Same room, different priorities.

The microwave chirped and I stuck a spoon in the expanded, muffin-looking thing. Reinhardt was sitting up now and swallowing with obvious delight. “No sugar?” I told him it looked like it already had plenty but his “aw, c’mon” shrug sent me back to the kitchen. “Some salt too…” I heard him call from the living room (with what sounded like a full mouth) and then, after probably realizing his tone, he added, “Please?”

I grabbed the salt shaker off the counter, the box of white sugar from the pantry, and returned to discover that he’d practically finished.

The world-famous scholar looked up at me like a ten-year-old boy. “Couldn’t wait.”

Something rattled. I jumped and spun. My eyes flicked to the source of the noise. It was the kitchen door, the cracked glass rattling in its fixture.

Reinhardt said, “It’s been doing that. The wind.”

I apologized, told him that Dan would be happy to look at it, and felt my body relax. That was when the yawn came out, big and loud, and I covered my mouth with embarrassment. As my eyes opened, I saw Reinhardt looking at me with an expression I hadn’t recognized before, a kind, almost fatherly smile.

He said, “I’m the one who’s sorry. I shouldn’t have kept you here to watch me. You’ve got to get home and to bed.”

I told him that I was fine, to which he responded, “Balderdash,” and asked how many hours I’d slept in the last two days. I confessed to a couple of catnaps.

“Aha!” A tiny twinkle, a wag of the finger, and a dramatic, two-hand sweep toward the door.

“Do you want me to set the alarm?” Then, remembering all the window damage, said, “At least the internal sensors? Maybe just the kitchen?”

“What if I need a midnight snack?” He patted his stomach lightly. “You think I know how to disarm that infernal apparatus?”

“But you can’t make it to the kitchen,” I protested, “if you get dizzy, fall, and hit your head or something…”

“Go, go. I think it was a…” He hesitated before saying, “Nerves… I used to get… when I was young… these spells… I could have been more forthright last night.” He scowled at the floor. “It’s a cruel joke, those formative years, when your brain learns the rules of the universe. Your childhood is spent being nurtured, protected, loved unconditionally while your adulthood is spent searching in vain for substitutes. Mate, government, God…”

He suddenly looked up at me, embarrassed, angry. “Sorry.” He waved his hand like those words had been a bad smell. “Intellectual coward.”

I felt so bad for him, all that puffed up veneer stripped away. Embarrassed old man, admitting his weakness.

All I could say was, “It’s all right, I mean, who doesn’t want to be taken care of when things get scary?”

He repeated that phrase, “taken care of,” and blinked hard with a long, wet sniff.

I suddenly found myself asking, “Do you want to stay at our place, you know, just in case it isn’t a panic attack? If you need something in the middle of the night?”

He paused at that, genuinely surprised, then said with a smiling swat, “Will ya get outta here already?”

“Just let me clean up first,” I said, and carried his cup and spoon to the kitchen. It didn’t take long, spoon in the dishwasher, disposable cup in the trash. But when I came back, he’d already managed a trip to the bookshelf. Three small, thick, red hardbacks were sitting on his lap. I’d noticed them before but couldn’t read the Latin titles. “Childhood friends,” he said, “Cato, Varro, Columella, their writings on agriculture.”

And of my questioning look, he answered, “I overheard you telling Effie about the sprouts. I wasn’t really asleep.” He opened the first book, grabbed his glasses off the table, and said, “Maybe I can find something useful in here.” Then with a derisive snort, added, “Maybe I can be useful for once.”

And with a really bitter chuckle, he muttered, “Work sets you free.”

Where have I heard that before?

I told him not to stay up too late. He said, “I won’t, I won’t,” and shooed me away with a smile and a big yawn.

That was about an hour ago. I’m home now in my kitchen, writing all this down before getting back to work. Dan’s on the floor, sitting cross-legged amidst a pile of bamboo. Two piles, actually, a smaller one of finished stakes and a much larger, rougher pile resting across his lap. He’s out, by the way, back against the fridge, snoring, half buried in his bamboo blanket.

I thought about waking him to go upstairs, but I know he’ll just want to get back to work. I think I’ll crash on the couch for a couple hours, set my phone for midnight. Then I’ll get up, maybe wake Dan as well, and the two of us can saw spikes till morning. Mostar thinks we’ll have enough by tomorrow night to completely ring the neighborhood.

And after that?

I keep getting up to check on the garden, to see how all my little sprouts are doing. They’re so beautiful, so vulnerable. I gotta figure out the best way to raise them.

Raise?

Whatever, so tired.

Tomorrow, or rather the day after tomorrow, after I get a really good night’s sleep, after the perimeter is done. By that time Reinhardt might have found some tips in his books. I hope he’s okay. As I started to leave, back turned, my hand on the knob, he said, “Good night, Hannah.”