Devolution: A Firsthand Account of the Rainier Sasquatch Massacre(53)

Carmen echoed, “We do, that’s brilliant! Like when we first welcomed them!” And, smiling at me, she gave Bobbi a big hug.

“Tonight”—Bobbi waved back at us—“see you tonight.”

Carmen called, “Thank you, Vincent,” as he, arm around Bobbi, headed home.

I watched them a little ways, her head on his shoulder, hand rubbing his back, before Carmen’s next conversation caught my ear. She was talking to Dan about coming over tomorrow to “muck out” one of their two biodigester tanks. I knew Dan, “new Dan,” would totally be into it. A gross demanding job that only he, the village handyman, could do. He practically did the Superman stance, hands on hips, with, “Don’t worry, I got this.” And as I turned, Carmen made sure to invite me over to pick out their payment. At that moment Effie, who clearly had something to say, touched Carmen’s arm. “Oh, and we were thinking,” that was Carmen, “if it’s all right, could Palomino volunteer to help in the garden?”

I said, “Sure,” then added that there really wasn’t much to do at this point since nothing had come up. Effie spoke for herself this time. “Maybe you could dig for worms. I’ve heard they aerate the soil and their castings make great fertilizer.”

As I gave a positive shrug, Carmen added, “Palomino would love to do that. In fact, it was her idea.”

I think, if it had been any other time, she might have matched the enthusiasm of her moms. But at that moment, all that little girl could do was dart her head around like a nervous squirrel. From the trees, to the spaces between the homes, to Mostar, where her eyes lingered just long enough for contact. And that contact, Mostar’s face. The exact same expression she wore at the end of our first emergency meeting. “So, this is what I’m working with.”

She didn’t say that out loud. Instead, as we walked home, her only comments were, “I hope Vincent’s right. I hope they all are.” Now it was her turn to scan the ridgeline. “You two should get some sleep. You’ll need it. And I’ll need you later tomorrow after you’re done in the garden and,” to Dan, “shoveling shit.” I should note that she was gesturing to us with the bamboo spike. “And if you need me, I’ll be…”

We didn’t need to ask. In her workshop sawing more bamboo. And that eventually, we’d have to join her, and that, probably, if no one else came on board, that perimeter of stakes would only encircle our two houses. Nothing had to be said, with her or between us.

Dan and I didn’t talk about what had just happened, or if we believed in what Vincent had done. We didn’t talk about anything on our way home except Dan’s new and dangerous job. And I really was convinced it was dangerous. I mean, crawling around in other people’s feces? Who knows what kind of germs would be crawling around with him? Isn’t human sewage dangerous? Doesn’t it have to be treated? Heavily? What if he got an infected scratch? What if he just inhaled something?

I can’t believe I did that, bombarding Dan with worries. But just like with the solar panels, I didn’t care about looking like a nag or about his feelings, or about anything except keeping my partner safe. And he took it, all the way back to the house. No argument, no obvious ego wounds. Nothing but acknowledgment and, I believe, genuine acceptance of my argument.

Until, about two steps from our front door, he suddenly turned on me and stuck out his hand for silence. My heart jumped. I thought I’d gone too far. I was swirling between surprise, fear, and, yes, sudden anger at being shushed. Then I realized that his eyes weren’t on me. He was looking out toward the night, listening.

I shut my mouth, opened my ears.

thmp

That’s what he must have heard. Soft and dull. Nothing like the sharp hard knocking from before.

thmp

There it was again. A little louder. Closer?

Now I was looking out too. Up to the trees, over the rooftops.

I saw it from the corner of my eye. Small and fast. Coming down in a puff of gray dust near Reinhardt’s house. I took Dan’s hand, led him out to where I saw the impact. Although I didn’t know it was an impact until I spied the other one right in front of us. It had landed about halfway between Mostar’s and the Common House, lying in a “crater,” which is the only way to describe it.

You know those pictures from the moon, the ringed holes? That’s what we were looking at, except this hole had a grapefruit-sized lump half-buried in the middle. We knelt to examine it as another thmp sounded on the other side of the driveway. Dan dug in the dust and held up a jagged, roundish rock.

Two more thmps sounded, one far, one so close we both jumped, then a crisper thnk as a third rock hit and rolled off the Common House roof.

Then a loud KSHHH as someone’s window shattered.

And suddenly the sprinkle became a torrent.

A thmpthnkthnkthmpthmpthmpthnk of rocks all around us, crashing down amid the rising howls from the darkness.

“INSIDE!” My voice over Dan’s shoulder, turning him, pushing him, running through the hail.

I don’t know how we managed to make it home without being hit. Were they aiming for us? Could they see us? They must. One or two at least. Purposeful shots.

I remember the whistle. I couldn’t have imagined that. The cliché I’ve always heard of a bullet speeding past someone’s ear. This version wasn’t so much a high whistle as a deep whoffff. Right past me, bouncing off the front doorframe just before we jumped inside.