Devolution: A Firsthand Account of the Rainier Sasquatch Massacre(76)

Yvette cut her off with a chattering, “What-no-I-don’t-know-anything-about-any-animals.” Skin steaming in the cold air, head quivering with each syllable.

“Don’t-know-what-you’re-talking-about.” Her breath, five feet away. I could smell the starvation.

Mostar, caring, concerned. “You must have heard the screaming. Vincent? You heard him, right?”

At that, Carmen put a comforting arm around Bobbi.

Mostar continued with, “And now, last night, Alex…”

“I-don’t-know-anything!” Yvette chattered. Her accent, upper class English, gone. This new one, old one, a thick Australian twang. “You-need-to-go!” Head bobbing maniacally at the door. “Go…go-go-go-go!”

“We all need to go,” Mostar said slowly. “We need to take what we need to live on, and all move into the Common House, where we can protect each other.”

I was already thinking, planning ahead, as to how we’d take care of them. The shower, first, hot water and a scrub. We could hold her down, if we had to. At least Tony might go quietly. Two more mouths to feed. And clothes, I’d wash theirs by hand. I wouldn’t mind. Clean, safe. They’d come around. They’d have to. All of us together, cramped, sharing everything. No choice.

“You need to hurry,” Mostar continued, enunciating each word slowly. “Don’t take anything, just come with—”

“No-no-no!” Yvette backed up a step, jutting out her lower jaw. A cornered animal, that was all I could think of, a monkey in a cage. “You-need-to-get-out! All-of-you-out-c’mon-now-now!”

Tony had sat back down by then, melting into his sleep stain on the couch. He didn’t seem to acknowledge what was happening around him. Didn’t look or move.

“Yvette, please!” Mostar, losing patience, almost pleading, holding out her hands with a desperation that tightened my abs. “We don’t have time for this! They’re not afraid of us anymor—”

She never finished.

At that moment her head happened to face the huge living room window behind us.

I turned just in time to see the dark shape standing right in front of the curtained window, right before that window collapsed.





*1 At the time of this writing, ten humans have been killed in North America by cougars since the death of Scott Lancaster.

*2 Majmune jedan: You ape.





    If this had been a bluff charge, they would have been screaming to intimidate us. These guys were quiet. And they were huge. They were coming in for the kill.

—Primatologist SHELLY WILLIAMS, BBC News, on the “Mystery Ape” of DR Congo





JOURNAL ENTRY #15 [CONT.]


The scramble.

Shouts and running bodies. An elbow in my chest, hair in my face, a shin tripping mine. I started running before I’d fully turned. I stumbled, fell, tried to get up, and slipped again on a copy of Eco-Structure magazine.

My face hit the carpet just as the head-sized fist whooshed into the wall above. I heard the crack, felt the vibration, then looked up to see Dan’s face through the blue cloud of denim insulation. His hands shot out, cupping me under the arms.

Pal! That was my first conscious thought. Where was Palomino? My head spun around the room. All I could catch was Tony, sprinting over the couch, practically flying through the door to their garage gym. Yvette, a step and a half behind him, calling his name, reaching for him as the hooting colossus reached for her.

The flash of a moving figure outside (Mostar?) disappearing from sight.

A stampeding sound above my head. Small feet on the second floor. Human feet?

“Pal!” I shouted to the ceiling as Dan pulled me to my feet. A loud “C’mon!” in my ear, and a hard tug on my arm.

Together, we rushed toward the kitchen door. Around the table and chairs, just a few more steps. I was already reaching to slide it back. A shape loomed in front of us, a recoiling fist.

“Back!” Dan pulled me away as the veined safety glass wrapped, literally wrapped, itself around the attacker. Blinded for a second, thrashing in the crunching coat.

“Here!” A shout over our shoulders, Mostar beckoning us from outside the hole in the living room window.

She’d waited for us. She could have gotten away and she waited.

Mostar.

We dashed across the living room, past the creature trying to batter its way into the exercise room. A grunt of recognition. A look of terror from Mostar. It must have turned toward us, followed us as we jumped through the window’s car-sized opening.

Mostar shouted “Run!” and gestured with Dan’s spear. Then a thrust, an inch or two past my face. I spun just in time to see the huge bloody hand, still gripping the blade.

The wail, that painful, sustained bawl. It rang in my ears as Mostar pulled me forward and kicked me, actually kicked me, in the direction of my house. “Go! GO!”

I sprinted across the driveway, dodging moon-cratered rocks. I thought they were right behind me. Mostar and Dan. I even held the door for them. But they’d broken left instead of right, around the other side of the Common House. Mostar’s idea? Multiple targets? Or was the ultimate goal her house? Her workshop? Her weapons? Watching them reach the door, I felt this sudden rush of panic, like a little kid whose family got on the other subway car.