Devolution: A Firsthand Account of the Rainier Sasquatch Massacre(61)

Then the howling began, Vincent’s pain drowned in a bellowing chorus.

Like a starting gun, that’s how I think of it now, because the sound seemed to launch Bobbi at Reinhardt.

She caught him mid-turn. I could see where her nails scratched his ear. He reached up to grab the wound just as Carmen and I reached out to hold her back. “You told him it was okay! You let him go!” Thrashing like a hooked fish. “You’re letting him die!”

My mind flashed back to Vincent’s departure. Did he confer with Reinhardt before leaving? Ask his advice? Is that why Reinhardt had been so generous with the ice cream? Guilt?

“Bobbi, just think…” Reinhardt, hands out, palms open, lip quivering, steam rising from his glistening forehead. “Think…”

“You!” Bobbi screeched, kicking up, out, barely missing his face. “YOU!”

“What do you want!” I jumped at the bass, the sheer volume of Reinhardt’s voice. “What do you want from us?” He smashed his hands against his face, frantically rubbing, like he was trying to wipe off reality.

“They’ll KILL US, Bobbi!” His hands out, clawing the air in front of her, punctuating each word. “THEY—WILL—KILL—US—AAALLLL!”

Instinctively, I pulled Bobbi back. I thought he was going to hit her, the way he came at her like that. But he wasn’t coming at her. His face. Shock. His knees hit the ground, hands out, mouth open.

Carmen yelled, “Grab him!” Reinhardt keeled forward just as Mostar and Dan caught him under the arms.

I let go of Bobbi, jumped over to help Mostar. God, he was so heavy, hot, damp. “We can’t”—wheezing—“can’t…”

Mostar kept calling his name. “Alex! Alex, look at me! Can you hear me?”

Slack-jawed, glass-eyed, drool dripping from his bottom lip.

“Are you taking something?” Mostar grabbed his jaw, turning his face into hers. “Medication? Do you have pills at your house? Alex, listen to me! Alex!”

thmp

The first stone landed right next to us, throwing a cloud of dust in our faces.

thmp-thmp-thmp

“Get inside!” Mostar grunted, struggling to lift Reinhardt. “In the Common House!”

As we pulled him through the door, Effie and Pal slammed it behind us.

Mostar barked, “Lights!”

The room went dark as we guided Reinhardt to the couch. He oofed into the cushions, hands on chest, rasping.

Mostar ran to the sink, shouting, “Everyone down! Away from the windows!”

China clinking. Rocks hitting the roof. Bobbi’s soft sobs. Reinhardt’s defiant mmm! as he pushed at the water Mostar’d gotten. All of it in half-light. All to the soundtrack of distant wails.

Mostar gave the water one more try. Reinhardt shoved so violently it spilled on me. Then he leaned to the side, gagging. Mostar crawled for the trash bin. Reinhardt retched, gagged, spat on the floor. Mostar got the can under him just in time. I turned away as the room filled with vomit stink.

Reinhardt groaned, spat again, croaked something like, “Can’t…can’t.”

“Hold his head!” Mostar took my hand and cupped his slippery forehead with it. As he dry-heaved again, she went back to the sink to moisten a dishcloth.

He was mumbling by that point. Words and groans strung together.

I felt so sorry for him, so helpless. He was suffering right there and there was nothing I could do. That helplessness. Vincent. Bobbi. Feeling so powerless, victimized. I’m not sure when my sympathy turned.

Maybe when the pleading started, high, meek. “Want…want to go home.” That phrase, again and again. “Want to go home,” punctuated with tiny, infantile whimpers. Once he said someone’s name. “Hannah,” I think, right before, “Home. I want. I want.”

Die.

I tried not to think it, feel it.

Die! Just die!

Biting my lip, glaring at him in the darkness.

Please just shut up and fucking die!

That was six hours ago, five hours since the rocks finally stopped. Mostar made us wait an hour. Sitting there in silence, ensuring it was safe to move. Reinhardt was asleep by then. Or catatonic. We can’t be sure. It took four of us to get him safely home. He’s on his living room sofa now. His breathing is steady. Carmen is watching him.

We still don’t know if he actually had a heart attack. Effie thinks it might be something called “stress cardiomyopathy.” A panic attack that mirrors cardiac arrest. Effie’s not sure though. She reminded us that she and Carmen are psychologists, not psychiatrists. But even if they had gone to medical school, would that solve anything? Without the right drugs and equipment?

Siri, how do you treat a heart attack in your own home?

We agreed to at least watch him in shifts. If he doesn’t wake up, we’ll have to think about how to take care of him. Needs like feeding and, yes, going to the bathroom. We’ll all have to pitch in.

And everyone has. Mostar’s our leader now. And everyone who can is working to build her defensive perimeter.

Effie and Pal are home cutting bamboo stalks into stakes. Mostar and Dan are outside collecting more. I can see them clearly, just across the driveway, crouching in the outside lights, rhythmically moving to the flash of their bread knives. Mostar doesn’t want anyone outside alone, not while it’s still dark. “Just in case they get bold enough to try.”