Devolution: A Firsthand Account of the Rainier Sasquatch Massacre

Chapter 13

From my interview with Senior Ranger Josephine Schell.

Dr. Reinhardt was right. He didn’t know jack about primates. All apes practice some kind of faunivory, which is a fancy way of saying they eat other animals. Apes have all the biological hardware to be predators. Canine teeth for gripping and ripping flesh. Forward-facing eyes for locking on a moving target. And a brain designed to outthink food trying to get away. I heard a theory once that if aliens ever do come calling, they may very well be hostile, because the same brains that mastered spaceflight learned to think by hunting.

Different primates have different preferences, of course, with gorillas and orangutans tilting sharply toward the fruit and veggie side. That’s why they have such big bellies. Their guts are packed with plant matter, which takes a long time to break down. That’s not how eyewitnesses describe Sasquatch. What they do describe, consistently, is an omnivorous diet.

Fish seems to be their main source of protein. One story has them stealing drying fish from a cabin, another where they were digging for clams. And the guy in that movie who took the lie detector test. He says it grabbed his fishing net. With all the rivers we have here, all the salmon and trout, they probably had more than enough fuel for those gigantic bodies of theirs. Until Rainier’s eruption drove them from their traditional fishing spots. Throw in the bad berry harvest and you’ve got a biological imperative to adapt.

She refers back to the map, specifically the spots where dead deer were found.

You know that old saying, “If you can’t be with the one you love, love the one you’re with?” In the animal world, it’s called “prey switching,” where a predator ends up developing a preference for a certain food source simply because it’s more abundant than their traditional prey.

I think that’s what happened with the deer we found and it must have just happened or else we would have been finding these bone fragments for centuries. Rainier must have been their ecological tipping point, which has to make you wonder what was ours.

You know that’s how we got started, right? We were the first apes to start cracking bones. Way back in Africa, when the first skittish little scavengers climbed out of the trees. Using rocks to get at the marrow, realizing what a caloric jackpot meat was. A lot less energy to convert animal into animal than vegetable into animal. And the brain boost we got from that bonanza. Tools, language, cooperation. You can see the incentive for all the advances that make us human. More meat. Bigger brains. Bigger brains. More meat. I wonder what it looked like, when we first tasted fresh blood. What did we think? What did we feel? That moment when everything changed. From scavenger to predator. Hunted to hunter.

The knocking interrupted Reinhardt.

It was clear and consistent, so much so that I think a few of us thought it might be mechanical. A loose pipe or maybe, just for a second, an approaching vehicle. But as we all quieted down to listen, I could definitely make out the undertone of animal grunts.

Carmen stated the obvious. “Do you hear that? It’s them.”

thock-thock-thock

I couldn’t see anything. Nobody could. They must have been farther away. Among the trees or on the other side of the ridge.

Effie asked, “What do you think it means?”

No one answered at first. Not even Reinhardt.

The more we listened, the more we could make out a single source. A branch against a trunk? I’m not sure if the grunts were meant for us. Something about them; soft, low, chaotic, like they didn’t want their voices to drown out the knocks. That’s, at least, what I think now. I didn’t have a clue at the time.

I glanced at Dan, who was equally perplexed, and then at Mostar, who seemed to be waiting for something. For the knocking to end, or change? I didn’t ask.

“That’s communication!” Vincent surprised me. I would have expected it from Reinhardt. I looked over at him, the gasbag prof, who was, amazingly, yielding the floor.

Vincent stepped out of the circle, head craned toward the trees. “They’re trying to talk to us!”

“They’re friendly,” said Reinhardt, who, I think, was trying to get a jump on the next possible conclusion. “They must be! Communication implies intelligence, which implies an innate desire for peace.”

Is that true?

The Boothes seemed to believe it, or wanted to, along with Carmen and Effie. But Palomino, she kept her eyes locked on Mostar’s dubious face.

“Maybe we should…,” she started to say, but Vincent cut her off with, “Hello! Hello there! Friends! We’re friends!”

Bobbi let go of his hand and lightly slapped him on the shoulder. “They don’t speak English!” she scolded playfully, to which Reinhardt yelled out, “Bonsoir, mes amis!” The Boothes and the Perkins-Forsters laughed. Vincent, grinning from ear to ear, snatched Mostar’s bamboo spike.

“Everyone, shhh,” he whispered, smacking it against the wall of the Common House. Three hits, then paused.

The knocking stopped. We all froze. The grunts grew louder. Vincent beamed. The knocking resumed, faster this time, louder.

THOCKTHOCKTHOCKTHOCK

“Okay, yes, yes!” Vincent whispered to us and banged back faster with his pole. I heard him whisper “Friends, friends, friends” as he hammered the Common House wall. After a dozen rapid strikes, he stopped. They responded in kind.

Vincent waited for a crazy tense three count, then gave it another few whacks. Nothing came back. I could see the sweat beading up on his forehead, his glasses beginning to fog. Bobbi saw it too because she took them off, wiped them gently on her sleeve, and wrapped her arms around her husband.

We waited, we listened. Silence.

How long before someone spoke? Time really does crawl in those moments. But it couldn’t have been that long before Vincent looked back at us with earnest surprise. “We did it.”

Did he permit the group to accept this outcome or did they permit him? Once he said it, the sighs that broke out, the sudden choked sob from Bobbi. “We did it!” A hissing whisper, squeezing her husband’s waist, shutting eyes that sparkled at the edges. “You, you did it!”

Carmen hugged her daughter with one arm and reached out to touch her wife with the other. And Reinhardt, nodding as if he approved, gave Vincent a hand-rolling salute.

From my interview with Senior Ranger Josephine Schell.

Wood knocking seems to be pretty common in eyewitness encounters and no one knows for sure what it means. Likewise, no one knows how a wood-knocking response will be received. Language is tricky, even among our species.

She holds up her rounded thumb and index finger.

In this country it’s “a-okay,” in Brazil it’s “you’re an asshole.” And when you include the extra layer of inter-species contact…

She raises her head slightly, showing a discolored scar under her chin.

Six years old, over at my cousin’s one time, I didn’t know their old beagle would take my staring contest as a challenge. And for all we know, wood knocking denotes a challenge, which Vincent Boothe unwittingly accepted.

The mood shifted; it was suddenly like a cocktail party. Everyone hugging and chatting, and a few people, Bobbi and Effie, wiping droplets from the corners of their eyes. Reinhardt was the first to leave. Beaming proudly for some reason, he placed a hand on Vincent’s shoulder and said, “Tomorrow, I believe we should begin collaboration on a paper detailing this historic anthropological discovery.”

Vincent, who was a little overwhelmed by his own achievement, just nodded. “Yes, yes, by all means, tomorrow… thank you!” And with a dramatic bow, Reinhardt stumped off.

“We should all have dinner tomorrow night!” That was Bobbi, correcting herself with, “Tonight!” It was after midnight by then. “Here in the Common House, all together. We need a healing moment.”

Carmen echoed, “We do, that’s brilliant! Like when we first welcomed them!” And, smiling at me, she gave Bobbi a big hug.

“Tonight”—Bobbi waved back at us—“see you tonight.”

Carmen called, “Thank you, Vincent,” as he, arm around Bobbi, headed home.

I watched them a little ways, her head on his shoulder, hand rubbing his back, before Carmen’s next conversation caught my ear. She was talking to Dan about coming over tomorrow to “muck out” one of their two biodigester tanks. I knew Dan, “new Dan,” would totally be into it. A gross demanding job that only he, the village handyman, could do. He practically did the Superman stance, hands on hips, with, “Don’t worry, I got this.” And as I turned, Carmen made sure to invite me over to pick out their payment. At that moment Effie, who clearly had something to say, touched Carmen’s arm. “Oh, and we were thinking,” that was Carmen, “if it’s all right, could Palomino volunteer to help in the garden?”

I said, “Sure,” then added that there really wasn’t much to do at this point since nothing had come up. Effie spoke for herself this time. “Maybe you could dig for worms. I’ve heard they aerate the soil and their castings make great fertilizer.”

As I gave a positive shrug, Carmen added, “Palomino would love to do that. In fact, it was her idea.”

I think, if it had been any other time, she might have matched the enthusiasm of her moms. But at that moment, all that little girl could do was dart her head around like a nervous squirrel. From the trees, to the spaces between the homes, to Mostar, where her eyes lingered just long enough for contact. And that contact, Mostar’s face. The exact same expression she wore at the end of our first emergency meeting. “So, this is what I’m working with.”

She didn’t say that out loud. Instead, as we walked home, her only comments were, “I hope Vincent’s right. I hope they all are.” Now it was her turn to scan the ridgeline. “You two should get some sleep. You’ll need it. And I’ll need you later tomorrow after you’re done in the garden and,” to Dan, “shoveling shit.” I should note that she was gesturing to us with the bamboo spike. “And if you need me, I’ll be…”

We didn’t need to ask. In her workshop sawing more bamboo. And that eventually, we’d have to join her, and that, probably, if no one else came on board, that perimeter of stakes would only encircle our two houses. Nothing had to be said, with her or between us.

Dan and I didn’t talk about what had just happened, or if we believed in what Vincent had done. We didn’t talk about anything on our way home except Dan’s new and dangerous job. And I really was convinced it was dangerous. I mean, crawling around in other people’s feces? Who knows what kind of germs would be crawling around with him? Isn’t human sewage dangerous? Doesn’t it have to be treated? Heavily? What if he got an infected scratch? What if he just inhaled something?

I can’t believe I did that, bombarding Dan with worries. But just like with the solar panels, I didn’t care about looking like a nag or about his feelings, or about anything except keeping my partner safe. And he took it, all the way back to the house. No argument, no obvious ego wounds. Nothing but acknowledgment and, I believe, genuine acceptance of my argument.

Until, about two steps from our front door, he suddenly turned on me and stuck out his hand for silence. My heart jumped. I thought I’d gone too far. I was swirling between surprise, fear, and, yes, sudden anger at being shushed. Then I realized that his eyes weren’t on me. He was looking out toward the night, listening.

I shut my mouth, opened my ears.

thmp

That’s what he must have heard. Soft and dull. Nothing like the sharp hard knocking from before.

thmp

There it was again. A little louder. Closer?

Now I was looking out too. Up to the trees, over the rooftops.

I saw it from the corner of my eye. Small and fast. Coming down in a puff of gray dust near Reinhardt’s house. I took Dan’s hand, led him out to where I saw the impact. Although I didn’t know it was an impact until I spied the other one right in front of us. It had landed about halfway between Mostar’s and the Common House, lying in a “crater,” which is the only way to describe it.

You know those pictures from the moon, the ringed holes? That’s what we were looking at, except this hole had a grapefruit-sized lump half-buried in the middle. We knelt to examine it as another thmp sounded on the other side of the driveway. Dan dug in the dust and held up a jagged, roundish rock.

Two more thmps sounded, one far, one so close we both jumped, then a crisper thnk as a third rock hit and rolled off the Common House roof.

Then a loud KSHHH as someone’s window shattered.

And suddenly the sprinkle became a torrent.

A thmpthnkthnkthmpthmpthmpthnk of rocks all around us, crashing down amid the rising howls from the darkness.

“INSIDE!” My voice over Dan’s shoulder, turning him, pushing him, running through the hail.

I don’t know how we managed to make it home without being hit. Were they aiming for us? Could they see us? They must. One or two at least. Purposeful shots.

I remember the whistle. I couldn’t have imagined that. The cliché I’ve always heard of a bullet speeding past someone’s ear. This version wasn’t so much a high whistle as a deep whoffff. Right past me, bouncing off the front doorframe just before we jumped inside.