Devolution: A Firsthand Account of the Rainier Sasquatch Massacre

Chapter 5

From my interview with Frank McCray, Jr.

As far as emergency supplies, or lack thereof… Look, I don’t blame Tony, even back then, when they first discovered what was left of Greenloop.

You can’t blame Tony, not as an individual. That’s just how the tech industry thinks. They don’t plan for what can go wrong. They “move fast and break things.” It didn’t occur to Facebook that the Russians might hijack their platform to hijack our elections, even though they’d been doing it to other countries for years. It doesn’t occur to Google, still, that while they’re racing, balls out, to corner the market on driverless cars, terrorists could hack those cars and drive them into crowds.

Hell, I was at a Menlo Park conference once where a guy showed us how he’d hacked his hand, literally. Attached electrodes to the skin above the muscles in his forearm to play the piano. He didn’t know how to play. Just typed in the commands, clicked “execute,” and shazam! “Mary Had a Little Lamb.” And that was just the beginning. What about a full exo-suit that could stimulate the entire body?

“Think of the possibilities.” That was what the guy kept saying. Disabled individuals. The elderly. “Think of the possibilities.”

I could think of a few. I raised my hand and asked, “Isn’t it possible for someone to hack that suit once you put it on, force you to pick up your perfectly legal assault rifle, and walk down the street to the local preschool?” He looked like I’d just kicked over his sandcastle. He hadn’t wasted one neuron on that thought, because, in his mind, it was just that. A waste. All positivity all the time. Learn to fly, even if it’s in the Hindenburg.

Move fast and break things.

Potatoes. That’s why Mostar sent me to Yvette’s meditation class. “We need them,” she said. Again with “need” and “we.” She’s convinced that potatoes are the “perfect” survival food, that you can actually live on them alone. I was charged with trying to get a few seed potatoes for the garden.

Which I’m not supposed to mention, along with any defense of Mostar. “If they say anything, go along with it.” She was very clear about that. “Agree, contribute, laugh with them, even at my expense. Be diplomatic.”

Nobody needs to tell me how to do that. I’m a diplomat by nature, and still not really on board with Mostar’s crazy plans. But I will say my mental needle’s moved a little bit in her favor since I heard the news. And there’s been a lot of news. Vincent listened to the car radio for an hour after the meeting, until Tony offered to relieve him. According to both of them, the reports from Rainier are pretty bad.

There’s something called a “lahar,” a boiling mudslide. According to the radio, it’s what killed thousands of people at a place called Armero[16] in the ’80s and it’s exactly what’s happening to Rainier now. The reports seem to focus on the far side of Rainier, the side facing all those towns: Orting? Puyallup? (Did I spell them right?) I’ve heard of Tacoma, which is supposed to be in danger right now. We seem to be safe, just like Tony predicted, but it looks like we’re also cut off. The valley below us, the main road, Vincent thinks he heard something about it being covered by a lahar.

“Some people might have been killed.” That was Bobbi. “They tried to drive away and got stuck in their cars when the mudflow came.”

Yvette sighed. “That could have been us,” and she reached out for a group hug. “Imagine what could have happened if we’d all just driven down into the valley last night, if Tony hadn’t predicted the road being gone…”

Wait, wasn’t that Mostar?

Hadn’t she been the one to talk about the road being gone? What happened to Tony’s argument about false alarms and traffic jams? No one seemed to remember that. Or maybe they did, and figured the result was the same. Both Tony and Mostar had pushed for staying, but now, Yvette said with moistening eyes, “Tony saved our lives.”

I kept my mouth shut, nodded with all the others. I didn’t even react when Yvette said, “I wish Mostar was here.” This was after we broke our embrace, when we were just taking our places on the floor. “We all need each other now more than ever.”

It was a test, the kind I’ve been passing since preschool. Sometimes obvious. Sometimes snarky. This one came wrapped in concern. “I hope she’s okay.” That was Carmen. Sympathy all around. “After what she’s been through.”

What has she been through? I might have asked but got cut off by Yvette. “Has anyone talked to her?”

There it was. The line in the sand.

Shaking heads, myself included. A pained sigh from Yvette. “Maybe she’ll show up tomorrow. I think she needs healing more than anyone.”

That gave me a little churn of stomach acid. I can pass the test but it always comes at a price. I hate lying, hate conflict, hate having to choose sides. At that moment I hated Mostar for putting me in this position as much as I hated myself for allowing her to.

I tried to play along. Tried to focus, relax, feel the “physical manifestations of this traumatic event” and give myself “permission to release my pain and guilt with deep cleansing breaths.”

I tried to picture “Oma,” that guardian of the woods spirit Yvette had mentioned in our last session. The embrace. Warm, soft arms holding me. It worked the last time. Not now. I wasn’t in the mood for guided imagery.

I tried to act like my “burden had been lifted” when the session ended, and tried to appear as nonchalant as possible when asking for potatoes.

“I was thinking of making hash browns this morning.” More lies. More acid.

And all for nothing.

Again with the concern, and this time it seemed sincere. Carmen and Effie looked truly sorry that they didn’t have any, and Yvette told me to stop by for anything else.

Bobbi, though. I won’t say she acted weird. I mean, how would I know what’s weird when I don’t know her well enough to know normal. But I know what it feels like to be uncomfortable, so well that I’m pretty good at reading it in others. Bobbi seemed genuinely uncomfortable when she answered. I could be wrong. It could be the news.

I watched everyone head home, Bobbi with this, yes, weird look over her shoulder, Yvette over to Tony, who, I just realized, was still sitting in his Tesla listening to the radio, Carmen and Effie waving up to Palomino, who stared down at them from her upstairs window like in a ghost story.

I’m sorry. That’s not fair. But it is how I felt. Spooky little horror-film girl maniacally squeezing her beanbag fidgeter.

I had to go for a walk. Clear my head. Dan was asleep when I got home, and I assumed Mostar was mercifully out as well. “We’ll work at night,” she’d said before I left, “so no one will see us.”

Craziness. I had to get out, calm down. I can’t sleep when I’m overtired. I figured if I could just recapture the comfort of that first mystical day.

Bad idea. I should have gone right to bed.

Remember what you told me about empathy, about how I’ve got too much of a good thing? Picturing other people, visualizing others’ lives as clearly as I live mine.

That’s what I ended up doing on my hike, trying and failing to stop imagining those people in the path of the lahars. I pictured this tsunami of steaming mud, bulging with boulders, torn-up trees, pieces of broken homes. I pictured people in their cars, listening to the radio, distractedly looking down at their phones, complaining about the traffic while they yell at their kids in the back seat to get off their tablets and look at the world.

Maybe they see something in the rearview mirror, or wonder why people are suddenly running past their cars. I thought about what would have happened to me if I was there. My car getting bumped from behind. I’d turn back angrily, but never angry enough to raise my middle finger. I’d probably reach for my insurance first, have it in my hand, ready to talk about damages like a civilized adult as I turn to open the door. Maybe the door couldn’t open because another car was jammed too close. That’s when I’d see it, twisted halfway around to look behind me, hearing the rumble as this cliff, not a wave, a cliff, like I’d once seen in that YouTube video of the Japan tsunami.

Knowing me, I wouldn’t think to open the window and slide out to run. I’d probably close the door, close my eyes, convince myself it wasn’t happening as the metal and glass squeezed around me. Smashed, drowned, boiled alive.

But then I realized that nightmare fantasy couldn’t have happened because the eruption had been at night. Most people wouldn’t be on the roads. That’s what our neighbors told us about the Northridge quake. When we first moved to L.A. Who was it? That old couple across the street who had to sell their house. What were their names? Hadn’t the wife said something about how lucky the city was that the quake hit at night when everyone was safe at home? The idea gave me a moment of relief, a very brief moment because then I pictured those homes in the path of the lahars.

Would they have been asleep, like us? Dreaming? I pictured myself, snug in bed, translating the rumble into whatever subconscious story I was living. Would I have woken in time to see the roof collapsing down on me? The sharp edge of a snapped beam or splintered stick of furniture lancing through my chest?

Hopefully, I wouldn’t have woken up. Hopefully, a lot of them didn’t either. But the ones who did. The ones who might still be alive, pinned under rubble? How many were hurt? Trying to call for help? Gasping with one lung? Coughing up blood? Broken bones. Pain. Fear.

Why do I go there? Where’s my, what do you call it, “ego-defense mechanism”?

Maybe I was trying to build one on that hike, surround myself with a wall of pleasant senses, positive memories. I should have realized it would only make things worse. Rainier was smoking now, angry. Standing on the top of the ridge, I could see little black columns rising in the distance behind it. Forest fires? Burning homes? The mountain’s smoke was darkening the sky, a gray blanket blotting out the sun.

As I turned from the sight, heading farther down the trail, I tried to find the blackberry bush from before. It was there, but all the berries were gone. Even the hard, little green ones. I tried pulling one of the branches aside, pricked my finger on a thorn. Reflexively I drew my hand to my mouth. The wound wasn’t deep, but enough to taste my own blood. The flavor made my stomach rumble. I realized then how hungry I was, and that sensation sent my mind swirling back to last night’s calorie list.

After cataloging all our food, Mostar’d told me to come up with a “ration plan.” I figured that was simple enough. No different, I thought, than any of the thousand diets I’d been on my whole life. I calculated our ages, heights, levels of physical activity, and approximate fat reserves, which I can’t believe I’d actually written down! I even used the two calorie calculators on my phone (yes, I have two), which allotted 1,200 for me, 2,100 for Dan, and another 1,200 for Mostar although I’m not really sure about her exact age.

I thought I was being harsh, but when I showed it to Mostar, she just shook her head and laughed. “So American.”

I felt myself flush. I’m proud that I managed to push back. I explained the dangers of crash diets, the risks of long-term health damage.

Again, she clucked. “This isn’t dieting, Katie, this is rationing. Dieting is choosing to eat less. Rationing is eating less because you don’t have a choice. It can drive you crazy, that lack of control. Especially for Americans. You’ve never known starvation, not like the rest of the world. Not even in the darkest days of your Civil War, when you still grew enough wheat to sell for profit.”

How does she know that? Why does she know that?

“Here”—she swiped the pad from me and started scribbling—“I’ll show you what I mean.”

Eight hundred calories for Dan.

Five hundred for Mostar.

And one thousand for me.

“Not right away,” she explained, “not while we’re still setting up. But in a week or so there’ll be nothing to do but sit back and digest ourselves, which is why I’ve given you the most, bye the by, since you’ve got the least,” and she reached over to tap my butt. I gave a surprised squeak, turned to say something about violating personal space, but she was back outside for another pot full of dirt.

I should say that I actually had no intention of following her crazy punishment plan then. Just another diet to cheat on. But now, after hearing the news and realizing that this crazy old lady might not be so crazy after all, I started to rethink everything she’d said last night. I even started to feel guilty about expending so many calories on this hike!

And as I looked for other bushes that could have been missed before, I realized, angrily, that I might very well be standing in the middle of a natural buffet. The leaves, the bark, the mushrooms. So many mushrooms! White, black, brown, pink, purple. Purple! Are any of them safe to eat? How would I know? So much for my so-called smartphone, this useless little rectangle I still carry out of habit.

All right, not entirely useless. But even though it still functions as a clock, calendar, flashlight, step counter, Dictaphone, notepad, camera, video recorder, video studio, videogame arcade, and God knows how many other applications that would have been mind-blowing just twenty years ago, the one thing I need it for, the one thing it was originally designed for was communication.

“Siri, what can I eat here?”

I don’t know what made me feel worse, that I suddenly didn’t have the world’s knowledge in my pocket or that up until that moment, I’d always assumed I was entitled to it. I couldn’t have been more grateful for the hummingbirds that flew across my vision. They were darting around those same flowers, giving each other those little loving kisses. I was so happy at first, hands to lips. Thank God! That’s what I was thinking. Thank God there’s at least one beautiful thing left. But then I looked closer and saw that they weren’t kissing. One was trying to kill the other, stabbing rapidly with its needlelike beak. That was what they’d been doing that first day, when I’d only seen what I’d wanted to see.

And then they flew away, startled by the same sound that made me jump. I saw the ferns ahead and to the right of me whipping back and forth. They were moving in a line, too fast for me to react. Something burst out of the bushes right in front of me. It was small and brown and I’m pretty sure it was a rabbit, although it was gone in a split second. Two quick leaps shot it across the trail and into the opposite underbrush. It didn’t stop, or even slow. I watched the motion line recede, and started to wonder if maybe something might be chasing it.

Then I smelled it. Just a quick whiff in the breeze. Rotten, like eggs and old garbage. It brought back a memory from last night’s meeting, when the group was breaking up. Carmen had complained about a horrible smell, a trace of sulfur when they’d opened the window. Reinhardt explained it away as gas emissions from the volcano. He’s probably right. That’s what I thought as the smell wafted away.

Then the howl, faint, distant. Not a wolf, or, at least, not like the wolves I’ve heard in movies. I know what coyotes sound like and I’m pretty sure that wasn’t one of them. I’m still not sure it was an animal. It could have been the wind shifting through these tall trees, or some trick echo across the mountains. What do I know about what sound does up here? The howl faded into a trio of short, deep grunts, the last one sounding just a little bit louder, or closer, than the others. I didn’t move, holding my breath, listening for another sound. Any sound. The whole forest seemed to go still.

Then I felt eyes on me.

I know you’d say it was all in my head, and I can’t think of any reason to argue. Standing there, all alone, under that eerie, smoky sky with a guilty head full of apocalyptic musings. But I’ve had that feeling before, on the playground or when Mom judged my outfits from across the room. That intuition is how I met Dan, freshman year, through the crowd and the music. I just knew. I felt. I looked up and there he was.

I didn’t see anyone this time. Even when I turned back to the house. I didn’t run. I’m proud of that. I just walked slowly, purposefully, and the feeling was gone halfway home. And now all I feel is embarrassed. I can’t believe I freaked out for no reason, that I let imaginary monsters pollute my happy place. I feel ridiculous, sitting at the kitchen table, looking out the back door, hearing Dan snore blissfully upstairs. The wind’s kicked up, the sound of the trees is so soothing. Maybe I should go back out there, finish my walk on a high note.

Nope. Just tried. Legs like oatmeal. Mmmm, oatmeal. I just finished an instant pack. Half, actually. Enough to quiet my stomach.

I can feel the irritation coming on. Dieting angst. I’m still not 100 percent sure that I should be torturing myself with Mostar’s batshit “rationing.” Even if she’s right about being cut off. How long can we possibly expect it to last?

I really need to sleep. Crawl in bed next to Dan. With earplugs. And maybe half an Ativan. A good night’s, day’s, rest. Give the world a chance to get itself together. And if it hasn’t, at least I can get myself together with a nice evening stroll in the woods.

From my interview with Senior Ranger Josephine Schell.

I call it a “Massoud Moment,” connecting the dots only after it’s too late. I got the name from Ahmad Shah Massoud. He was this Afghan guerrilla leader who fought the Russians and then the Taliban. I don’t expect you’ve ever heard of him. I didn’t until the day he died. I’d just gotten into New York. It was a late flight, like one or two in the morning? The cabdriver at JFK was listening to the BBC World Service. They were talking about how Massoud had just been assassinated by terrorists pretending to be journalists. I wasn’t paying much attention and I think I might have even asked the driver to switch stations. I mean, c’mon, I was just starting my vacation. I’d never been to New York, my friends were waiting. We had Producers tickets.

That was September 9, 2001, and I only learned later that killing Massoud was the opening act of the World Trade Center attack. I couldn’t have known that at the time. Nobody would’ve expected me to connect the dots. Still, I think about that moment a lot, about connecting the dots. I’ve thought a lot about it since….

She glances up at the map.

We found these bones. Pieces of them. Smashed fragments, like someone’d gone crazy with a hammer. You could tell they were deer, hooves, a few teeth, patches of fur. There wasn’t much left. No meat. Licked clean. Same with the leaves. Just enough residue to tell they’d been splashed with blood. I remember seeing this rock, big…

She holds out her hands in the size and shape of a soccer ball.

…with blood, marrow, bits of brain on one side. And it was reasonably fresh, a few hours maybe? But I didn’t stop to check. We didn’t have time. Remember this was Day Three after the eruption. None of us had slept, all those missing people… that’s why, looking back, I didn’t think much of the tracks. I probably wrote them off as ours, everybody just tramping sloppily through, nobody paying attention to anything except getting where we needed to be.

It wasn’t until after we’d discovered Greenloop—shit, it wasn’t until after I’d read her journal… that entry about discovering the remains? That was when I started asking around. And some of the other rangers, guardsmen, a few civilian volunteers, they had this “oh yeah, right” moment. And when I began to map and time-stamp everyone’s recollections…

She stretches an arm to the map, touching a collection of small, black pins I hadn’t noticed before.

That’s the first discovery, Day One.

She touches the next pin.

Day Two.

Again.

Day Three. My team.

She continues to move her fingers down the pins, drawing a clear, straight path toward Greenloop.

The “Massoud Moment,” connecting the dots.