Appalachian Trail Visitor's Log

March 2, 2018

I saw a Pterodactyl today. The old man had said I wouldn't be around that long. "The large breeds won't appear until the final stage, long after our species has been eradicated." On that single point, I proved him wrong.

I don't believe I'm the only survivor; I'm sure there are a few left in far off villages in third world countries not considered enough of a threat to be targeted. There are probably even others like me; ones that picked up the signs in time to escape. Some of them may have even thought to record what happened, but none of them are likely to have understood why it happened. After all, it was only because of a chance encounter in a bar with a man from Europa that I gained this knowledge. Now, I have no illusions that the tale I write in this Appalachian Trail shelter logbook will ever be read, but if by chance you survived and somehow made it up here, I think you deserve to understand why we lost our planet; at least as much of an understanding as I can relay.

I estimate that it's been fifteen months since my encounter with the old man at the hotel bar on Ninth St., but since I have no calendar, I'm not entirely confident of that fact. I do remember with absolute clarity, however, that it was just shy of seven days between the afternoon I met him, and the morning I scrambled up the side of this mountain to escape the genocide he and his brethren unleashed on humanity. That I remember because it happened just when he'd predicted it would.

There were three days left of Winter Break the day I walked into O'Leary's bar. The only other patron was the old man sitting alone at a table, staring out a window which faced the snow covered street. It had been the sweet Sasha I'd hope to chat with, but she was involved in some deep cleaning project and only bobbed in and out of the storage room to replenish drinks. All my friends having left for the holidays, I was desperate for conversation. And that is how I found myself pulling up a chair near the old man. The conversation had started out ordinary enough; talking of brutal New Hampshire winters and how the Bruins were a real contender for the Cup this year. He mostly nodded his head and smiled, not really adding much to the conversation. I noticed his blue denim overalls with a familiar pest control symbol and asked about his job. That is when he began to open up a bit, talking about his many years in the business and how busy the last few days had been; it was also when I noticed his words had a slight slur to them.

Seeing as he'd mentioned that he worked in this area, I asked him why I had never seen him in the bar before. I'd been frequenting O'Leary's for nearly two years, beginning the day I turned twenty-one, and knew all the regulars. He thought for a long moment as if contemplating how best to answer my seemingly simple question, then replied with a yellow stained smile, "That's because I've never been in here before." He took a sip from his whiskey glass, "You see friend, Alcohol is forbidden to me."

"Why is that, against your religion?"

His grin broadened, and he replied "Not at all, it's more of a contractual agreement with my employer. Something agreed upon before my arrival so many years ago."

"You had to sign a no-alcohol agreement to be an exterminator?" I asked.

"Of course" he replied, "You know the saying; loose lips sink ships and all."

His reply was confusing, but I let it go and continued instead by asking how it was that he was now allowed to drink, and if his employer no longer cared.

His voice tightened when he replied, "I no longer care." He paused a minute, then added in a more even tone, "You see friend, I retired today."

Sasha dropped off a Sam Adams to me and another whiskey for the old man, but I had begun to feel that our conversation had just about run its course and pushed my chair back, planning to head to the bar, with the hope that Sasha would find a little chat-time. But when I went to excuse myself, the old man spoke up, "Want to hear a story?"

Of course I didn't want to hear an old man's stories about war or lost loves or whatever, but I also could not be rude. Besides, I was the one who'd interrupted his staring-out-the-window time. So I sat back down and tried to appear interested, hoping it would be a quick one.

It wasn't long before I'd decided the old man was a lunatic. Oh, I tried to keep a straight face. But the story was way out there, like something from a movie or wacko religion. The details are somewhat sketchy since, at the time of his unveiling, I mostly nodded my head and hoped for an opportunity to politely exit the conversation; although now I wish I would have listened more closely from the start. He was convincing as he told his story of our planet's history, though he said he was not from here. He claimed he'd come here from Europa, a moon of Jupiter.

I can picture the smug look I must have been wearing as he talked about how we humans (himself included) were an invasive species to earth; how we were never supposed to be here. He told of how the first humans unintentionally spread a disease that raged through the large reptiles which roamed the earth long ago. Ancient scientists had come from a faraway star system and had built a research facility on Europa to study this planet of large reptiles that we now call earth, but during their visit, they brought with them a disease in which the reptiles had no defense against. Consequently, in a very short time, all of the large reptiles were gone, along with over ninety-nine percent of the smaller varieties.

He paused his story a moment to take a sip, then began again by telling how, once the scientist realized what they'd done, they began to rescue as many of the unhatched eggs as possible and placing them in deep freeze containers in hopes of one day re-populating the planet with these unique life forms. They made several trips to and from the research base on Europa, where they'd built a giant storage compound to preserve the salvaged eggs with the intention of storing them until the planet had ample time cleans itself of the catastrophic disease. After the scientists had safely secured the eggs on Europa, they abandoned the moon to head back to their own star system, leaving the repopulation project for a future team.

It was later discovered, however, a small band of the ship's slave-labor crew did not leave on the last flight from Earth to Europa; it is believed they chose to remain here and face the hardships of isolation rather than continue a life of forced labor.

He went on to tell how, once the research team arrived back in their own star system, the repopulation project was immediately tabled due to civil unrest in the homelands. He then told of how scientists from later generations discovered the reports and decided to reopen the research facility on Europa and resurrect the project. When they arrived back on this planet so many millennia later, however, they found, to their deep consternation, the unique reptile planet had already been repopulated by another species; their own.

It is almost funny as I think back to his story; think about how I dismissed it all, and even took jabs at the old man. I compared to one of those religions that believe we're all descended from aliens.

To his credit, he did not look offended at my remarks; he just offered a tired half-smile and replied, "No, friend, those stories are much too complicated, the real story is quite simple, all we want is for the great reptiles to live again and allow them to roam the planet as they did so long ago. You see, in our home star system, there are many thousands of planets, each one larger than this one and each one teeming with human life. This small planet is not even as significant as one grain of sand in a child's overflowing sandbox. But, as a planet of large reptiles, it was extremely rare.

His story was beginning to wear on me at this point so I thought I'd summarize what I believed the ending would be, and asked with a smirk, "So you're here to bring back the dinosaurs? Like Jurassic Park, only this time we'll hopefully do a better job with our caging systems."

The old man drained his glass and then leaned in as if he wanted to make sure I understood that we had reached a critical part of the story, "I'm afraid not. You see, my young friend, it was decided that the large reptiles and humans could not co-exist. It was decided that humans would not allow the great beasts to roam freely over the earth, as they had done so many millennia ago. It was further decided that modern humans, with their advanced weaponry, would remain in control of the planet and allow only a slight few, if any at all, of the large reptiles to survive...and even then only in captivity.

He paused as a look of sympathy crossed his liver-spotted face, and then continued, "You see, we are here to clean the planet." He wiped away some moisture that had accumulated in the dark pockets beneath his eyes, and then added, "We are here to eliminate all possible obstructions to the grand mission; to eliminate the unlawful human trespassers."

I remember letting a short laugh escape and asking the old man how exactly he and his cohorts planned to rid the planet of the human race. I condescendingly asked if it was going to go down like War of the Worlds or Independence Day. I even tossed out the possibility of Killer Klowns from Outer Space, even though I'd never actually seen the movie. But again he did not seem to catch the sarcasm or, if he had caught it, he did not seem to take offense.

He simply replied, "We are just the sowers of the seeds." He let that comment hang in the air for a long moment, then continued, "You see friend, our task is complete. We'll parish with the rest of humanity. "Actually", he corrected, "Most of us will save ourselves some pain and exit the stage a little early."

My memories of our conversation up to this point were a little hit-and-miss, some things the old man said I remember verbatim; while others faded away at nearly the instant he spoke them. But the next part of the story is as vivid as if he'd just told it to me minutes ago; he'd cast his line and his fish was biting.

His expression grew darker when he'd begun to explain how it would end. I had no doubt the old man was nuts since it was obvious that he believed each word he spoke. That's what made the remainder of his story so disturbing...and alluring. When I finally left the bar that evening I felt exhilarated, like when you've just seen a great suspense movie and the conclusion continues to occupy your thoughts hours after the credits have rolled. But that feeling was tempered by the idea that the old man that told it to me was actually convinced he was speaking fact instead of fantasy. Regardless, the last days of Winter Break passed and I'd all but forgotten about the old man and his delusions, at least until I stopped in the bar six days later and Sasha told me of his suicide.

Although I felt bad about the old man, I was not yet truly concerned. It wasn't until she had mentioned the developing news reports regarding extremely high suicide rates that I took notice. The reports, she said, claimed that hundreds of working class citizens in and around the Boston area had killed themselves within the last few days. "It's like a post-holiday, blue collar suicide cult" she'd said. She also mentioned reports of suicide rates across the country that seemed to be following a similar pattern.

The old man had said that would happen. I was certain when all the data came back, they would find that the majority of those suicides were from janitorial, housekeeping, pest control, or other jobs that had access to the sub-levels of building across the country. If what the old man said was true, eventually they'd find this phenomenon was happening in every city and town, in every country of the world. I may not yet have believed the old man, but I felt something was wrong. Maybe the old man actually was part of some wide-spread cult. I no longer felt like being in that bar.

When I reached my dorm I immediately switched on the T.V. and bounced between news networks. It was the usual political crap now, intermingled with an occasional murder or burglary. But, just as I began to laugh away my overactive imagination, I came across a local news story that had been introduced as "A Strange Occurrence". It opened with two men in hardhats standing in front of a factory. One of the men began talking excitedly about what he'd found in the crawl space, where he'd been fixing a ruptured water line. The story then cut to a previous shot, displaying what appeared to be dozens of dead rats. One of the rats had been pulled from the crawl space and laid across a workbench, where a gloved hand spread the rodent's limbs apart to expose a tear in its underside. A teaser then came on which said, "What killed hundreds of rats beneath this factory in southern New Hampshire? Stay tuned, you won't believe what these men found drowned beneath a burst water pipe."

Only I didn't need to wait, I already knew what they'd find. I ran through the time scheme the old man had said. "All the seeds were sown today." That was six days ago. It would take one day for the creatures to hatch after placement under a heat source, one more day for them to find and burrow into a host, such as rats, mice, squirrels, or any other small warm-blooded animal, where they would die after dropping thirty to thirty-five eggs each. It would then take up to two days for the eggs to hatch inside the host, feed on the guts of that host, and then scatter in search of another food source.

When the program came back on, they showed a creature that was the size of a small salamander. But it was an unfamiliar species, and when they focused on it with the camera, it looked like the miniature prehistoric thing the old man had described. The reporter seemed to believe it was some previously undiscovered species of lizard. I knew better. I knew, if it had lived, it would have grown to the size of a large cat. I knew it would have resembled a miniature Tyrannosaurus Rex in head and body, but instead of the thick legs and short arms of the T-Rex, it would have had long knotted limbs that ended with curved razor-sharp claws, resembling a hawk's talons.

The old man estimated it would take only three days for the creatures he referred to as 'Cleaners' to eliminate the small prey. Then they would turn to the large, slower humans. He'd said "They are primitive, all their energy goes into feeding, and they do not know fear. They are the perfect killers. And the best part is, once the primary food sources are depleted, they'll suffer a mass die out, making room for the large species of reptiles that are waiting to hatch."

I calculated I had a mere couple of hours to escape; if there was an escape. I decided the only place where I had even a small chance of survival was this Appalachian Trail Hut, as it was high enough in the White Mountains to hopefully not draw the creatures from the town below, and primitive enough to not warrant the effort to infest--after all, nobody hiked the A.T. in the winter.

Time was short; I grabbed anything I thought necessary, packed up the Civic and headed toward Wal-Mart, the only store around still open. I emptied my checking account on food and necessities for an extended stay in the mountains. Just as I was leaving, I heard a shrill scream from somewhere in the back of the store, followed by more screams; each scream extinguished abruptly as if someone slammed a sound-proofed window a split second after the scream began. I didn't wait to see what came next.

"When it begins, it will be like turning on a switch, it will be a race for food," he'd said, "like throwing a single rabbit into a packed cage of starving dogs."

I threw everything in the car and didn't look back. The radio was only static as I drove off. I checked my cell; no bars. It was just as the old man had said, "All communication services would go in the first wave, along with all government buildings, power companies, military, law enforcement, and factories."

The sun was just breaking over the town as I reached the on-ramp and headed toward the mountains, but as I merged onto the expressway, I saw bodies strewn throughout the streets. I saw people frantically running to houses and shops seeking cover, just as the old man had said they would, "When it goes down, everyone not already indoors will instinctively seek shelter in their homes, their neighbor's homes, or public buildings. Of course, what they will not realize is that these man-made structures are the places where the outbreak originated; where the seeds were sown under furnaces and water heaters."

When I arrived at the trailhead, there were no other cars in the small dirt parking lot. I'd stuffed my old backpack to the point of tearing with food and necessities, along with a full gym bag, knowing it would have to last a long time. I made two more trips to the car over the next couple months to retrieve the remaining food--each time wondering it that would be the day the razor-clawed creatures would finally discover me. The day they would put me out of my misery.

The dreams that haunt me each night are more vivid than reality; I see thousands of disemboweled corpses; men, women, children, spread across miles of unnamed streets, throughout hundreds of cities across the globe. I may have escaped into these mountains, but there's no escaping my own mind. No escaping survivor's guilt.

I'm setting off toward Seabrook coast today, I'm out of food and far too lonely. I believe the 'Cleaners' died off months ago. And who knows, maybe there are others like me.

It's time to try and live in this New World. Time to live among Dinosaurs.

--Thomas C. Buckley