Devolution: A Firsthand Account of the Rainier Sasquatch Massacre(55)

Across the room, Dan grunted, “Look out,” and plopped the second shelf on the desk. Then restocking; files, printer paper, printer—the Ikea desk groaned under their weight. But they held! An audible thmp, a quick sliver of light between cushion and windowsill. But it held! I did the same, hands free, stepping back. A soft thmp and rattle of something hard and loose on my shelf.

Barely audible above the rest of the bombardment. That’s what Mostar called it, resting on the floor, back to the wall. “They never warn you,” she breathed, “they always come in before the sirens.” I heard her sniff, hard, then cough. “Never get caught in the open, always away from the doors. The old streets are best, narrow. They shield you from shrapnel.” More cryptic Mostar-isms.

She yawned, breathed some indecipherable foreign phrase, and then dropped right off to sleep. Seriously! Snoring! Louder than Dan’s! He’s at it too, now, by the way. Both of them, like characters in a Disney movie.

At least Dan waited for the “shelling” to stop. It petered out about an hour ago. Maybe ten minutes in total? God, what a ten minutes! Mostar’s still sleeping upright against the wall. Dan’s curled up at the foot of the closed office door. I was worried that we’d suffocate in here, but he insisted we keep it shut. “The alarm’s out.” Those were his last words before dropping off. “I’ll fix it tomorrow…fix it…I’ll fix it.”

I guess I shouldn’t worry. The barrier’s not airtight. I can feel little drafts of cold air drifting down around my desk. That’s where I am now, next to it, wedged into the corner, writing all this down.

My fingers are cramping. I need to pee. I want to sleep but I also don’t. I’m afraid of tomorrow.

Why did the rocks stop? Why did they start? What does it mean?

I can’t hear anything outside.

I really need to pee.





From my interview with Senior Ranger Josephine Schell.


Like wood knocking, rock throwing is deeply embedded in the lore. Again, there’s a lot of conjecture. It might very well be a peaceful…well…nonlethal means of intimidation. That might explain the howls as well. One theory is that they use it to drive another troop or individual away. That would make sense, given that chimps sometimes throw rocks at each other, or at people, like at that Swedish zoo.* Santino probably wasn’t looking to kill anybody, just make them leave.





JOURNAL ENTRY #12 [CONT.]


So much to do this morning, so much to do today. I have to get this down quickly while it’s still fresh. The pain in my neck woke me up. Sleeping on the floor, on my side, arm for a pillow. I’ve had neck aches before but oh my God. Shoulder, ribs, face! And so cold! Last night it was kind of nice. The room was so hot and stuffy. But now, the chill outside, it must have dropped twenty degrees. I can see my breath. This is what Frank must have been talking about, that plunge in temperature right before winter.

While the rest of me was freezing, my bladder was absolutely burning. Not only did it cause me discomfort, but when I opened my eyes, I almost peed out of fear. Dan and Mostar were gone, and the door was wide open!

I called out for both of them, and got nothing back. I stood up, shivered, sneezed repeatedly, then poked my head out of the office. The house looked empty, the front door was open. The curtains covering the living room window were raised. I checked my phone, a little past eight, but the darkness…Lead gray, obscuring everything. I couldn’t see lights from the other houses, or the other houses. It was like they’d had been teleported to another world.

I ducked into the hall bathroom quickly, then came out and called again for Dan. No answer. I could hear voices, distant but clear. I hobbled downstairs, rubbing the blood into my needle-stung right leg, and half limped over to the front door.

Fog!

Dark and thick. And cold! I could feel it through my skin, seeping into my bones. The village was barely visible, but I could just make out the small group by the Common House.

Dan was there, talking to the Boothes, along with Carmen and Reinhardt. Vincent was all decked out in his hiking gear, boots, poles, CamelBak. The pack itself was bulging, crammed with stuff it wasn’t meant to hold. So was the laptop bag on his hip, round and overstuffed. And Bobbi’s pink yoga mat on the other hip, tied around his shoulder with an improvised rope of shoelaces. And around the mat was a blanket, one of those ultra-soft airport types you buy at Hudson News. It was wrapped with more tied-together laces that typified his entire ensemble.

“I don’t need to worry about getting lost.” Vincent kept gesturing down the road. “Just follow the driveway to the bridge…”

Dan countered with, “But then what? If there’s no bridge…”

“I’ll just follow the lahar.” Vincent swallowed. “It must have cooled by now. Or hardened, whatever the proper term…”

Dan persisted. “But does that make it safe to cross?”

Bobbi cut in. “He doesn’t need to cross. Like he said, he’ll just be walking alongside it, following it down where the stream used to be.”

“To where?” Dan saw me enter the group, slid an arm around my waist, then swooped his free hand to the sky. “You can’t see anything!”

“It’ll burn off.” Vincent didn’t make eye contact, just nodded quickly to the ground. “It does.” Then, to his wife, “Last fall, remember, by midday…” She nodded back, clutching his arm, trying to smile.