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

Holding it to the light, I said dramatically, “I have never seen its equal.”

“ The Princess Bride. ” Bobbi smiled at the reference and said, “You’re actually pretty close to the truth. It’s not a Zwilling clone. Bob Kramer custom made it for Vincent. They knew each other for ages, and when Bob found out that Vincent had cancer, and we were trying a vegan diet…” She paused, sniffed slightly, and ran her fingertip over the handle. “It worked, you know. Veganism, or at least, it didn’t hurt. Vincent used to love a good porterhouse, but with the full remission…”

Her eyes suddenly glazed. Her cheeks flushed. I was going to give her a hug when she turned and said, “I’m sorry. I’ve got to get back to work,” and trotted outside to help Carmen.

I tried to push her feelings, and mine, away and focus on what I was doing. I was about to begin measuring the blade for a standard spear shaft when my mind came back to the soba kiri. I’d initially envisioned a three-, maybe four-foot shaft for the new axe, and that image made me realize I hadn’t constructed any indoor weapons! Spears were too long. Javelins too weak. Yes, we could use regular paring knives, and Dan had his coveted coconut killer, but they were so small and you had to get so close.

We needed something in between. Not the axe (although I’d still make it) because the swinging motion needs a lot of room. The idea of a cut-down mini-spear sent me jogging over to Reinhardt’s house, to the book that was still lying right where it had fallen.

Vanishing Cultures of Southern Africa.

And there was the picture, the short Zulu Iklwa.

It didn’t go quietly. The grip, I mean. Like a lot of the high-quality knives, the grips couldn’t just be smashed away with rocks. I had to chip, chisel, and whittle a lot of material away with paring knives. I even ruined a perfectly good six-inch blade, literally broke pieces of steel off trying to chop through the aluminum pins. I feel bad about destroying that cook’s knife, but it was worth it for a new axe, and a really lethal-looking Iklwa.

I wonder if Shaka would accept it? I know Dan will. I’m going to give it to him tomorrow. Along with the new shield. It’s a nutty idea, I admit, but after seeing the pictures in the book, and mulling over how these creatures fight, I wondered if it might not be worth the time to make one. And it really didn’t take that much time. Half an hour to lift one of the steel mesh shelves off its support poles, tie up a handle of electrical wire, and wrap the front in aluminum foil. That last part is the whole reason I made the shield. I don’t expect it to stop one of their punches. The impact would probably break my arm, but if Dan has to get close with the Iklwa, maybe the reflected light could distract them long enough to get a shot in. I’ve been going over Dan’s iPad footage, how their eyes locked on each new source of light, and how most of their attacks were overhead blows. It might work.

And the steel grating might also provide some protection from thrown rocks. I’ve actually never thought about that until writing it down just now. I’m also thinking about finding a use for the shelves’ steel support poles. They must be as strong as bamboo, and hollow, but how could I ever drill holes for the knives? If I only had more time to experiment.

But I don’t. From Mostar’s workshop I can see everyone asleep in the Common House. I can see everyone sleeping, curled up in comforters and sleeping bags. Bobbi on the couch. Effie, Carmen, and Pal on cushions. Dan on an air mattress we found in the Durants’ house. Probably my imagination but I think I can hear them snoring.

That’s not all I can hear.

That’s why I can’t make any more shields, or Iklwas, or anything else anymore. For the last few minutes, the woods have been coming alive. Branches breaking, the occasional grunt. I hope my work didn’t attract them, the high-pitched metallic banging. Maybe it’s just time. They’re fully digested, well rested.

There it is, the first howl.

They’re back.

No motion lights yet. The sounds seem far away. Maybe they’re psyching themselves up. Harder to hunt on a full stomach?

Deep hooting cries now. Alpha. Rallying them to finish us off.

I wish we had more time. If just to practice with the javelins. No chance now. I probably shouldn’t have wasted all this time writing. But just in case something happens to me, I wanted there to be a record. I want someone, anyone who reads this, to know what happened.

The hoots are getting louder now.

Time to wake everyone and apologize for not getting their keepsakes. I’m good at apologizing. Specialization.

I thought I’d be more afraid. Maybe I am and just don’t feel it. Maybe I’m just too tired to care.

Fear and anxiety. I’ve lived with the latter all my life. Now it’s gone. The threat is here. I feel strangely calm, alert, focused.

I’m ready.

Another howl. Closer.

Here we go.

My man is dead.

It was hard to wake Dan up. He was sleeping so soundly. I had to shake him a couple times. He looked up at me, started to ask something, then got his answer from the distant grunts.

We roused the others. No need to explain the plan. Everyone knew their jobs. Palomino hid under blankets behind the couch while the rest of us headed to the workshop for our “bait.” So heavy, slowing us down. I worried about the sound of the flapping tarp, the smell catching their noses before we were ready. If they’d jumped us at that moment, unarmed, hands full, in that narrow stake-and-glass-free path.

Once the “bait” was placed, we started the knocking. Short, wide bamboo rods, hollowed out for maximum sound.

thock-thock-thock

Slow and synchronized, striking them together like kindergarten woodblocks.

thock-thock-thock-thock-thock-thock…

We drummed for a full minute, standing in a line outside the Common House door. I glanced back inside at the wall clock, held up my hand for silence.

They didn’t answer.

We waited. I held my breath, straining to hear some kind of reply. I started to think, hope, that maybe they weren’t coming. Maybe my theory about the full belly was right. They were done with us, watching from a respectful distance before slinking away for good.

I really did hope that was true. And yet, there was this tiny part of me, no point in denying it now, just the barest thread of disappointment.

“Do you…,” Carmen started to say.

thk

We almost missed the first one. My hand went back up.

thkthk

Soft and muffled, the other side of the ridge.

thkthkthkthkthk

I looked at the group and we answered as one.

Thckthckthck!

Faster. Louder. I could feel my palms moisten, my ears warm, and suddenly I really needed to pee.

More knocks followed by the howl. Long, powerful. Familiar.

I knew that voice.

I answered it with mine.

I’m sure I sounded ridiculous. Trying to match those lungs was like a flute taking on a tuba. But I did try. Laying my knock-sticks down, stepping forward and raising my head to the ridge, I let go the deepest, harshest boom my diaphragm could muster.