Devolution: A Firsthand Account of the Rainier Sasquatch Massacre(66)

That’s where the handle holes come in. Place those holes against the outside of the shaft, mark them with a pen (Sharpie, if you got one), then do it again on the other side. See where I’m going with this? You bore those holes out with a paring knife. Take your time. Don’t rush. Mostar showed me where she chipped off the edge of a couple of paring knives, ruining them forever. Checking for light shows if they all line up. I got it right the first time, and Mostar seemed impressed. Apparently, that’s the easiest way to screw up, not matching the holes, and the more you drill, the more you weaken the bamboo.

Next, you sew the knife in, and that’s what the wire’s for. Mostar used a five-foot section of electrical cord from a floor lamp. After cutting the cord free (a regular scissors will do), pull the two sections apart (if it’s that kind). Set the extra section aside for another spear, and start threading the wire through the top hole. Sounds simple enough, but my first few tries only produced frustration. The tip kept getting stuck because I’d impatiently skipped a step. Shaving down the wire’s end rubber to a point turns it into a needle, which makes a world of difference!

Once the wire exits the second top hole, pull it through nearly to the end and tie the last inch or so into a secure knot. Then wrap the cord tightly round and round the bamboo until you get to the two bottom holes. Then thread it through, tie it off, and you’re done!

A real spear!

Mostar took the weapon from me, held it in her hands, checking the balance, squinted with one eye at the knotted wire, then handed it back. “Well done, Katie.” It was the first time she smiled all day.

I felt so proud. For a minute, I just handled my creation—vertical, horizontal. I even gave a short thrusting motion with both hands and accidentally banged the back end into the garage door.

“Sorry.” I felt my cheeks redden at the dent.

Mostar waved it away with, “Forget it.” Then, “I knew you’d be a natural at this. You have a logical, methodical mind. Much more than me.” She gestured to the aborted prototypes. “This is how it works. Try, fail, learn, then pass on eventual success for improvement.”

That sparked my own idea for an improvement. “What about melting the rubber? Won’t it hold the blade even more securely?”

“It might”—Mostar gave me that nod an encouraging teacher gives a well-meaning but totally wrong first-grader—“but it would ruin the wire, which we might need to make more spears.”

She gestured to a collection of shorter, thinner shafts. “That’s what worries me about the javelins. Losing a good knife every time we throw one. Although I guess they’ll just slide right out if I don’t figure out a way to make barbs.”

Another idea stirred, but this one was far more nebulous. I looked at the 3-D printer but couldn’t manage a cohesive thought. Instead, I ended up yawning, which gave me a sympathy yawn from Mostar.

“You need to sleep”—she glanced up at the wall clock—“when you take over watching Reinhardt. I don’t think he’s woken up yet. You’ll rest then. And eat.”

Eat.

I suddenly felt sick to my stomach. I’d been so wrapped up in making the spear, so engrossed in the step-by-step process. But with some of my focus freed…

I must have glanced over to the door, the kitchen, Vincent’s head in the freezer.

“We’ll bury him later.” Mostar, the mind reader. “When we’re safe, when we have time.”

I felt my head swim, lurching for the table.

“Take a breath.” Mostar took my spear, guiding me to the workbench’s little stool. “Try to relax.”

I did, closing my eyes tightly. I felt the dam bursting in my brain.

To be someone else’s food.

You’re a person. You think, you feel. And then it’s all gone, and what used to be you is now a mushy mess in something else’s stomach.

Carnage, blood, smiling yellow fangs. Gnawing flesh. Licking bones.

“Look at me.” The hand on my chin, forcing me to open my eyes.

“I know.” Mostar’s sad smile, the sigh. “It’s a blessing and a curse, the human mind. We’re the only creatures on Earth that can imagine our own death. But”—she held up my spear—“we can also imagine ways to prevent it.”

That was when the doorbell rang.

Palomino stood in the entry, holding a rolled-up yoga mat. “What are you doing here, Little Doll?” Mostar grabbed her and pulled her inside. “You know you’re not supposed to be outside all alone. Do your parents know where you are?”

She shook her head, then pointed, with the mat, to something outside.

Then I got it. The mat was to keep her knees clear of dirt. “Hey, Pal, I’m sorry I don’t have time to garden with you right now. I’ve got to get over to Mr. Reinhardt to…”

Wrong. Pal shook her head at me, then shifted back to Mostar with a second gesture to…what?

I looked but couldn’t see anything. Not a specific house, not the volcano, and (thank God!) no dark forms staring down from the trees.

She was facing southeast, and, to my knowledge, there was nothing in that direction. Again, Mostar seemed perplexed. “I’m sorry, I don’t…”

Then, “Oh,” followed by a quick glance back at her wall clock. “Ohhhhh!” This big, broad smile broke her mouth wide open and I’m pretty sure the corners of her eyes began to sparkle.