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

I leaned over my father, fixing my gaze on the passive, cool, utterly unresponsive brain. Because that was all he’d become now; no heart, no soul, nothing but dispassionate gray matter. “You stayed. You hid. You didn’t make a difference.” I didn’t realize I was crying until I saw a tear stain his shirt. “You didn’t even try.” Through blurring vision, I sputtered to Alex, “And you won’t either, when they come for you, you won’t resist.” Over my shoulder I said, “You’ll just lie there and die.”

Passing the kitchen, I heard Mother putting away the dishes. I couldn’t condemn her for not coming to my defense. She never had. She never knew she could. Amid the china clatter and the dull thud of cabinet doors, I could hear her muttering to herself. Soft and steady with the repetitive musicality of prayer. As the door closed behind me, I caught the last lines of the Hashkiveinu.

I’ve just read back over all my previous entries. I don’t recognize who wrote them. A life lived by a stranger. Somebody I can barely remember.

If only time travel was as easy as turning a page. Flip back to a couple days ago, warn that person I used to be.

That morning, October 13, the alarm woke me at seven, hours later than I’d planned. Dan told me he’d reset my phone after waking up around midnight. He thought sleep was more important than helping him with stakes. I saw that he still had a few more to finish but he just smiled and said, “Why don’t you check the garden.”

He already had, saw what had happened, knew how happy it would make me.

It felt like Christmas morning. More pale arches rising from the soil. Yesterday’s strongest seedlings had managed to raise their entire bean up into the air. I could see the beginnings of tiny green leaves growing from the split. More little shoots, volunteers from the compost. Rice grass taller by at least half an inch. All in one night!

“You’ll need to support them,” that was Dan calling from the kitchen, “I mean, when they get taller. Isn’t that what you do for plants, you tie them to things, like tomato cages? Or baskets? What are they called?” He was behind me now, hand on the doorframe, smiling down at me. “We still got, like, a whole ton of little thin bamboo branches. Once we get time, you know, down the line, I can help you turn them into those cage-things or whatever.”

His arms around me, his kiss goodbye. Off to work, coconut stabber on his hip, spear in one hand and bread knife in the other. The Common House was almost denuded of bamboo. A dozen or so stalks to go. It wouldn’t take long, and when he stepped out onto the driveway, we couldn’t see or hear anything from the ridge. Still, I couldn’t help but utter “Be careful,” and got a grunting, caveman spear to chest in reply. I returned his salute with one of my own, a raised middle finger and the silently mouthed, “Love you.”

I stayed in the open doorway, shivering in the freezing air, watching him pass Effie and Palomino on their way to Reinhardt’s. It was Effie’s turn to take over from me, and despite her friendly wave, I suddenly worried that she thought I’d abandoned him. Of course, she didn’t, and of course I didn’t need to run over and explain how he’d kicked me out. But I did anyway, and ended up being grateful for the chat. She had good news. Finally, some positive stories from the Boothes’ car radio.

She told me they’d got that crazy shooter on the I-90. The road was open now, supplies in, evacuees out. The Canadians, just like in Katrina, were also on their way. The president had finally swallowed his pride (that’s what Carmen thought) and allowed foreign relief efforts in through the north. And because Seattle was “secured” (I guess that means no more riots), the authorities could focus on the towns damaged by Rainier.

Effie said, “That means they’ll be finding us soon.” She rubbed her daughter’s back vigorously. “When they start spreading out again, looking for survivors, they have to come across us!” I’d never seen her so animated. “Maybe we should put out a HELP sign. You know? Like they always do after storms? On roofs and stuff? I can’t believe we never thought about that until now! Maybe we could use a sheet”—she gestured to the grassy “helipad” in front of the Common House—“or just write it in all these”—a nod to the thrown rocks at our feet.

“Good idea,” I responded, but tempered it with, “once we make sure to finish—”

“Oh yeah!” She cut me off. “The ‘perimeter,’ of course! Definitely.”

I could see reality begin to cloud her zeal, reminding her of what still faced us. “Maybe tomorrow,” she tried.

I answered, “Maybe,” and, looking down at Pal, asked, “but for now, you still up for working in the garden?”

Her head bobbed enthusiastically as her mother headed for Reinhardt’s.

“It’s so beautiful,” I said, leading her inside. “When we finally get some time, we can start putting aluminum foil up on the wall.” More happy nods as she stopped to check each little plant. “And we should start thinking about supporting them,” I continued. “Dan had a good idea about how to use extra bamboo for…”

A muffled scream.

Distant, from Reinhardt’s.

We rushed back outside just in time to see Effie stumbling from his front door. I told Pal to go home, to find Carmen, and ran to catch Effie before she collapsed.

Eyes wide, voice and body shaking. Even before I got to her, I thought, Another heart attack. The first one was real and he’s just had another one last night! Effie didn’t talk, she couldn’t. Hyperventilating, trying to get the words out, she just waved frantically inside. Darting past her, into the living room, I’d already imagined what he must look like, lying on the couch, cold and blue. “Please don’t let his eyes be open.”

I saw the blood trails first. Two of them, narrow and wide, running parallel to each other from the hole in the back door to the empty, red-soaked couch. I felt Dan’s arm around my shoulders. I couldn’t look away. I couldn’t stop reading the story in front of me, imagining what must have happened while I slept peacefully at home.

They’d been so silent, pushing the cracked kitchen glass, testing it, waiting for a sound that would send them running. Patient, thoughtful. They must have edged the crinkling pane just enough from its frame to reach one long arm inside. Fumbling with the lock, solving the simple puzzle of the small metal switch. Sliding the frame open, pulling back the drapes, edging the table away. To accomplish all that with the dexterity and focus to not wake him up. Only one had come in, I could tell by the bloody footprints. A small one, maybe? Princess, or the younger, barely pubescent male? Would this have been his coming of age trial? A test of stealth, intelligence, and the strength to tear Reinhardt’s head off?

Because that’s what it did. Twisting, pulling. The darkest, deepest stain was at the base of his pillow. And he hadn’t struggled. Nothing was disturbed. Even his books, lying neatly stacked on the coffee table next to his glasses. He’d probably read them for a little while, realized he was too sleepy to concentrate. Set them aside, switched off the lamp, pulled the afghan up to his neck. He probably hadn’t heard it come in until it was standing over him. Did he wake up? A brush of fur against his face, the feeling of rough skin over his mouth? God, I hope he didn’t. Please, God, let him have slept through it all.

And yet, why does the alternative keep running through my mind? The story of him waking to this black hovering hulk. Pinprick eyes, warm breath, the clench of fingers around his throat. Why do I keep imagining that he chose not to fight back? As those fingers crushed his windpipe while another hand held him down. No kicking, no scratching. No attempt to save his own life. Why do I imagine that his few seconds of waking consciousness were frozen in terrified acceptance?