Devolution: A Firsthand Account of the Rainier Sasquatch Massacre(62)



Try what?

She thinks we’ll be safe in daylight, especially within the confines of the village. That should give us enough time to finish the perimeter. A couple days maybe. One more night. She doesn’t think they’ll “work up the nerve” for a home invasion. That’s what she told me once we got Reinhardt home. “And besides,” why did she have to add this part, “their bellies are full for now.”

Vincent.

Bobbi. She cried herself to sleep just now, curled up with her head in my lap. I can see why she said it. “We’ll…find him…dawn…we’ll look for him…find him…we will…” Denial. Hope. Xanax.

It’s obvious why she wants to search for him, but why did I agree to help?

I guess that’s obvious too.

I need to do something, to make up for what I thought about Reinhardt. That’s not me. Won’t be. A quick nap now, set my phone alarm for sunup. At least it’s still good for something. So am I. Who thinks thoughts like that?

Who am I?





From my interview with Senior Ranger Josephine Schell.


Have you ever seen chimps hunt monkeys? They form a tight team. Every member has a job. You have the “flushers,” climbing the trees, shaking the branches, screaming bloody murder to scare the smaller primates into running for their lives. Terror is a powerful weapon. Terror clouds thought. The flushers are counting on that. Intelligence surrendering to self-preservation. If they can get just one to break away from the group. That’s key. There’s strength in numbers, even for prey.

Children are the most vulnerable, the easiest to isolate. But even a full-grown adult can be rattled enough to slip up. Fear-soaked brain switched off, running, climbing, jumping, hopefully, right into the arms of the other chimps lying in wait. If the monkey’s lucky, it’ll die quickly, a twist of the neck or having its head swung into a tree. If not…I’ve seen a red colobus trying to pull itself away, shrieking for its life while the chimp holds it down with one hand and rips its guts out with the other.

The only term I can think of is “bloodlust,” because that’s what it sounds like when chimps tear a monkey apart. It’s not like any other kill you’d ever see, not like when a leopard brings down a gazelle or even sharks rip into a seal. Those are cold, mechanical. Apes go crazy. Hopping and dancing. Don’t tell me they don’t enjoy it.

And don’t tell me that the hunt only exists for pure sustenance. They pass out that meat according to rank. The leader standing over the corpse as the others wait, literally, with their hands out. They treat it like currency. The same social order which allows that kind of disciplined, coordinated attack is maintained by the attack’s bloody spoils.





    At first Bauman could see nobody; nor did he receive an answer to his call. Stepping forward, he again shouted, and as he did so his eye fell on the body of his friend, stretched beside the trunk of a great fallen spruce. Rushing towards it the horrified trapper found the body was still warm, but that the neck was broken, while there were four great fang marks in the throat.

The footprints of the unknown beast-creature, printed deep in the soft soil, told the whole story.

The unfortunate man, having finished his packing, had sat down on the spruce log with his face to the fire, and his back to the dense woods to wait for his companion. While thus waiting, his monstrous assailant, which must have been lurking nearby in the woods, waiting for a chance to catch one of the adventurers unprepared, came silently up from behind, walking with long, noiseless steps, and seemingly still on two legs. Evidently unheard, it reached the man, and broke his neck [by wrenching his head back with its forepaws] while it buried its teeth in his throat. It had not eaten the body, but apparently had romped and gamboled round it in uncouth, ferocious glee, occasionally rolling over and over it; and had then fled back into the soundless depths of the woods.

—PRESIDENT THEODORE ROOSEVELT, The Wilderness Hunter





JOURNAL ENTRY #14


October 13

It was irresponsible what I did. Selfish. And stupid.

I knew it was wrong, otherwise I would have told someone. Bobbi was asleep. Reinhardt too probably, with Effie watching him. I’d seen her take over for Carmen, who’d gone back to cutting more stakes with Pal. I figured Dan and Mostar were doing the same thing. No one saw me slip out of the Boothes’ house, and I managed to get a quarter of the way up the trail before hearing, “Wait!”

Dan was coming up behind me, spear in one hand, javelin in the other. He was using them like hiking poles, pushing himself at twice my speed. His red face, that clench-jawed determination. I turned to face him, ready for the fight:

“No, Dan! No, you can’t stop me! I’m going to find Vincent and there’s nothing you can do about it! And there never was. You’re done holding me back, and I’m done babying you. No, no, keep your mouth shut! Here’s what’s going to happen, I’m going out to find Vincent while you turn your ass around and make yourself useful until I get back.”

Wouldn’t that have made a great speech? It was already in my head, probably stored, in one form or another, for years. But it never got a chance to be said, because just as I raised my hand to stop him, Dan gave that open hand the javelin and trudged right on by. I gawked at his back for a moment before he twisted to offer his free hand. And that’s how we traveled. Hand in hand, mutually supportive. Hiking up the trail the way I’d dreamed about since Day One.

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