Devolution: A Firsthand Account of the Rainier Sasquatch Massacre(73)

Effie said, “That means they’ll be finding us soon.” She rubbed her daughter’s back vigorously. “When they start spreading out again, looking for survivors, they have to come across us!” I’d never seen her so animated. “Maybe we should put out a HELP sign. You know? Like they always do after storms? On roofs and stuff? I can’t believe we never thought about that until now! Maybe we could use a sheet”—she gestured to the grassy “helipad” in front of the Common House—“or just write it in all these”—a nod to the thrown rocks at our feet.

“Good idea,” I responded, but tempered it with, “once we make sure to finish—”

“Oh yeah!” She cut me off. “The ‘perimeter,’ of course! Definitely.”

I could see reality begin to cloud her zeal, reminding her of what still faced us. “Maybe tomorrow,” she tried.

I answered, “Maybe,” and, looking down at Pal, asked, “but for now, you still up for working in the garden?”

Her head bobbed enthusiastically as her mother headed for Reinhardt’s.

“It’s so beautiful,” I said, leading her inside. “When we finally get some time, we can start putting aluminum foil up on the wall.” More happy nods as she stopped to check each little plant. “And we should start thinking about supporting them,” I continued. “Dan had a good idea about how to use extra bamboo for…”

A muffled scream.

Distant, from Reinhardt’s.

We rushed back outside just in time to see Effie stumbling from his front door. I told Pal to go home, to find Carmen, and ran to catch Effie before she collapsed.

Eyes wide, voice and body shaking. Even before I got to her, I thought, Another heart attack. The first one was real and he’s just had another one last night! Effie didn’t talk, she couldn’t. Hyperventilating, trying to get the words out, she just waved frantically inside. Darting past her, into the living room, I’d already imagined what he must look like, lying on the couch, cold and blue. “Please don’t let his eyes be open.”

I saw the blood trails first. Two of them, narrow and wide, running parallel to each other from the hole in the back door to the empty, red-soaked couch. I felt Dan’s arm around my shoulders. I couldn’t look away. I couldn’t stop reading the story in front of me, imagining what must have happened while I slept peacefully at home.

They’d been so silent, pushing the cracked kitchen glass, testing it, waiting for a sound that would send them running. Patient, thoughtful. They must have edged the crinkling pane just enough from its frame to reach one long arm inside. Fumbling with the lock, solving the simple puzzle of the small metal switch. Sliding the frame open, pulling back the drapes, edging the table away. To accomplish all that with the dexterity and focus to not wake him up. Only one had come in, I could tell by the bloody footprints. A small one, maybe? Princess, or the younger, barely pubescent male? Would this have been his coming of age trial? A test of stealth, intelligence, and the strength to tear Reinhardt’s head off?

Because that’s what it did. Twisting, pulling. The darkest, deepest stain was at the base of his pillow. And he hadn’t struggled. Nothing was disturbed. Even his books, lying neatly stacked on the coffee table next to his glasses. He’d probably read them for a little while, realized he was too sleepy to concentrate. Set them aside, switched off the lamp, pulled the afghan up to his neck. He probably hadn’t heard it come in until it was standing over him. Did he wake up? A brush of fur against his face, the feeling of rough skin over his mouth? God, I hope he didn’t. Please, God, let him have slept through it all.

And yet, why does the alternative keep running through my mind? The story of him waking to this black hovering hulk. Pinprick eyes, warm breath, the clench of fingers around his throat. Why do I keep imagining that he chose not to fight back? As those fingers crushed his windpipe while another hand held him down. No kicking, no scratching. No attempt to save his own life. Why do I imagine that his few seconds of waking consciousness were frozen in terrified acceptance?

It has to be the bloody footprints. The space between those two enormous feet. So close together. I’ve seen them run, the stride would have only left a pair of prints between the couch and kitchen. These were too close, too numerous, and mixed with far too much blood. The parallel trails, thicker one left by the body, thinner by the head. Reinhardt’s head, splattering across the walls and floor, as if the killer, holding it by the mouth, had let it swing back and forth. Unhurried. Unafraid.

And why not? Why fear us when we can be invaded so easily, when we won’t even try to fight back?





    Many people are horrified when they hear that a chimpanzee might eat a human baby, but after all, so far as the chimpanzee is concerned, men are only another kind of primate….

—JANE GOODALL, In the Shadow of Man





From my interview with Senior Ranger Josephine Schell.


Boulder, Colorado, 1991. The town looked like a paradise. Lush and green and totally unspoiled by humans. Only it wasn’t unspoiled because it wasn’t supposed to be there in the first place. The area around Boulder is naturally semi-arid. It was the townsfolk who pumped in all that water for their lawns and fruit trees. And when the fruit trees came, so did the deer. Locals loved it. “Hey, Honey, there’s a deer in our yard!”