Chomp

TWELVE

Susan Cray said her husband had the ideal occupation because he got along so much better with animals than he did with people. Sometimes that included his own family.

“Let me get this straight,” Wahoo said curtly to his father. “You went into the water-”

“That dumb goon threw me.”

“-with the cell phone in your pocket! Seriously?”

“He was way outta line-tellin’ me I don’t know a dead gator from a live gator!”

Wahoo tossed another branch on the fire. “Fantastic, Pop. Now we’re in the middle of nowhere without a phone.”

Mickey seemed unconcerned. “We can always borrow your girlfriend’s.”

“Not to call China we can’t,” said Wahoo. “And she’s not my girlfriend.”

The Crays had pitched their own small camp away from the TV crew because Mickey didn’t want to be around Derek Badger. Deep in the hardwoods, they were shielded from a breeze that would have otherwise kept away the mosquitoes. Now they were losing blood by the pint to the ravenous swarms.

Wahoo had set up a separate pup tent for Tuna, who poked out her head and said, “I hear you two characters talking about me.”

Mickey didn’t miss a beat. “Does your cell have one of those international chips? Don’t worry, I got a credit card.”

Barely, thought Wahoo.

Tuna pointed up at the clouds. “No signal way out here, Mr. C. Maybe when we’re back at the dock.”

“Sorry, son,” Mickey said to Wahoo, pretending Wahoo was more bummed than he was. Twice they’d tried to reach Susan Cray from the house before leaving on the Everglades trip, but all they’d gotten on the other end was static.

Tuna announced she was taking a walk. Wahoo’s father told him to go with her.

“What for?”

“ ’Cause you’re a gentleman.” Mickey looked serious. “Don’t make me ask twice.”

Wahoo brought a flashlight, mainly to make sure they didn’t step on any water moccasins or pygmy rattlers. A curtain of low ragged clouds blocked out the stars and the moon. The night air was warm and heavy; Wahoo wondered if a thundershower was coming. Above the western horizon they saw white pulses of heat lightning.

Centuries of water flow had shaped the island like a teardrop, the tallest trees clustered at the fat end. Tuna rattled off their Latin names as she walked: Myrica cerifera (wax myrtle), Annona glabra (pond apple) and Magnolia virginiana (swamp bay).

Wahoo asked if she had a photographic memory.

She said, “No, dear, I just study.”

Before long they heard voices, and through the trees they saw the campsite of the Expedition Survival! crew. No fire was burning, but the clearing was well lit by cheesy bamboo tiki torches.

A young woman from the catering company was cooking T-bone steaks on a big stainless-steel stove of the type used at fancy river camps in places like Alaska. The director, cameramen and sound technicians sat in a half circle of folding chairs, drinking beer, slapping at bugs and laughing boisterously.

“Turn off the flashlight,” Tuna whispered to Wahoo. “Let’s get closer.”

“No way. We’re not gonna spy.”

“It’s not spying, Lance, it’s observing.”

They crouched in a thicket of coco plums and inched forward. The crew members were taking turns telling stories. Wahoo couldn’t make out every word, but he got the gist. Even the catering lady was giggling.

“Who are they talking about?” Tuna asked Wahoo.

“Take a wild guess.”

“Not Mr. Badger?”

“I’m pretty sure.”

They stopped moving so they could hear better. The next story, which was recounted uproariously by the show’s director, involved a close-up scene in which Derek accidentally snorted a live earthworm up his nose.

“They make him sound like a horse’s ass,” Tuna whispered cheerlessly.

“You know how people talk when the boss isn’t there.”

Tuna hadn’t been around Derek long enough to know the truth. She was a genuine fan, one of millions, so it would take a while for her to accept that the real-life Derek was a different person from the one she saw on TV. Earlier, Wahoo had noticed her disappointment when she’d learned Derek was staying at a luxury hotel, not roughing it in the swamp as he pretended to do on the show.

She tugged Wahoo’s sleeve. “Somebody’s coming!”

“Be still.”

One of the cameramen had left his chair and was cautiously making his way into the unlit wooded area where Wahoo and Tuna were hiding. He was only a few steps away when he stopped beside a bay tree and began to unzip his pants.

Oh no, thought Wahoo. Not here.

In the shadows he couldn’t see Tuna’s expression, but he could sense her alarm. He touched her arm so she would stay calm-if the two of them were caught snooping, Raven would immediately fire Mickey, just as she’d threatened to do.

Tuna gently pushed Wahoo’s hand away. Next she did something completely unexpected: she grabbed one of the coco plum bushes and began to shake it.

The cameraman who was about to relieve himself froze at the rustling noise in the darkness. Tuna wasn’t finished. She let out a low, rising growl that an untrained ear could easily have taken for an unhappy bear or an ill-tempered bobcat, or even a mama panther.

With a yelp, the cameraman wheeled and took off running for the campsite, crashing out of the tree line at full speed.

“Something big’s out there!” he hollered to the other crew members. “I heard it!”

A wave of laughter followed, for the frightened fellow had neglected in retreat to pull up his zipper.

Tuna said, “That was seriously rude. He almost peed on our heads!”

Wahoo was on edge. “Let’s get outta here.”

“Wait a minute-he dropped something.”

“Come on, Lucille! Before one of the others needs a potty break.”

“I said hold on.”

She darted up to the bay tree and snatched an object off the ground. Wahoo, who was already slipping away, heard twigs cracking as she hurried to catch up. Only when they were safely out of sight, deep in the trees, did he turn on the flashlight to see what the cameraman had left behind.

“What is this?” Tuna asked, riffling the pages. “Some sort of book?”

Wahoo took it from her and held the cover sheet up in the narrow beam of light. He said, “It’s not a book. It’s a script.”

The title, printed on the first page, was Expedition Survival! Episode 103-Florida Everglades.

Tuna gave Wahoo an inquiring glance. “Guess we oughta give it back, huh?”

“For sure,” he said. “First thing tomorrow.”

She chuckled. “But tonight you’re gonna read it, aren’t you? Don’t lie to me, Lance.”

“I’m absolutely gonna read it,” he said.

What better way to prepare for another Derek Badger fiasco?

NOON-ANGLE FROM HELICOPTER-high above the Everglades.

A dark speck is moving ant-like through the endless, shimmering marsh. Gradually the aerial camera ZOOMS CLOSER AND CLOSER on our lone figure, sloshing and slashing through the dense grass.

It’s DEREK BADGER. He is plainly exhausted from his hike, dripping sweat. His cargo pants are filthy and torn, and his shirt is unbuttoned to the waist.

CUT TO CLOSE-UP with a Steadicam, moving side by side with DB.

DEREK: I’ve been fighting my way through this swamp for four, possibly five hours straight-I’ve lost track of the time. The heat is virtually unbearable, and the mosquitoes are so thick that I have to stop every few minutes to cough them out of my lungs!

You can see why they call this place a river of grass. But it’s not the same soft green grass that’s growing in your backyard. Check this out-

Derek bends down and breaks off a piece of saw grass, which he holds up for the camera.

CUT TO CLOSE-UP of Derek’s forefinger as he slides the edge of the grass blade across his skin, drawing blood.

DEREK: See? Like a barber’s razor! They don’t call it saw grass for nothing.

He licks the droplet from his finger and continues his lonely trek…

DEREK: Time is running out. It’s absolutely essential that I locate a safe place to build a small fire and dry out these soggy clothes, hopefully before the sun goes down. That’s when the predators come out-alligators, panthers, bears and pythons big enough to devour a full-grown man!

As always, I’ve brought no food or water on this expedition. Everything I eat and drink-and, believe me, I’m bloody famished-will come from the natural bounty of this savage but magnificent wilderness.

CUT TO MEDIUM SHOT: Derek digs into a pocket and pulls out a Swiss army knife and a plastic straw.

DEREK: See? This is all I brought-my trusty Swiss knife and a clean straw. Two simple-but essential-tools of survival.

DB marches on.

CUT TO STEADICAM SHOT from Derek’s point of view, the saw grass flattening ahead of him as he trudges forward.

DEREK’S VOICE (surprised and hushed): Whoa! What was that?

CUT BACK TO MEDIUM SHOT OF DEREK, as still as a statue. He’s peering with great intensity into the brown, shin-deep water.

DEREK (whispering): I just felt something slither between my ankles! It was either an eel or a snake, hopefully not a poisonous one. The Everglades is literally crawling with deadly cottonmouth moccasins. One bite, even from a baby, and I could be a dead man.

Ah! There it goes again!

Derek drops to his knees with a splash. He stabs both arms into the murky water, probing and groping until…

DEREK: Gotcha!!!

He pops to his feet, holding up a very confused, very angry.

DEREK: Crikey, what a feisty little bugger.

CUT TO CLOSE-UP OF THE …

, writhing and snapping.

DEREK: I’m afraid it’s not your lucky day, mate.

Dangling the, he turns to look into the camera.

DEREK (triumphantly): Dinner!

CUT TO MEDIUM SHOT OF DEREK, turning a shoulder to the camera as he twists the neck of the, killing it instantly.

He coils its limp body and places it in a pocket of his cargo pants. Then he resumes his journey.

DEREK (somberly): I get no pleasure from taking the life of any wild creature, but if I don’t eat, I won’t have the strength to keep going. When you’re in a desperate survival situation, you must do whatever it takes to stay alive.

Hovering above, the helicopter-mounted CAMERA pulls back its focus until once again Derek is a speck on the savanna, which unfolds in all directions as far as the eye can see. He is completely alone…

Wahoo slapped the script closed. “I can’t show this to Pop. He’ll go ballistic.”

Tuna looked bothered. “What kind of animal is the blankety-blank supposed to be?”

“Whatever’s handy. A snake, a frog, a turtle-you’ve seen the show. Derek always fries up something.”

They were hunkered by the dwindling campfire and using the flashlight for reading. Mickey Cray snored in his tent.

“I watch his show every week,” said Tuna, “and I never knew the whole thing was written out beforehand. I thought all that stuff just, you know, happened.”

Wahoo had to remind himself that most people had no idea how nature programs were produced. Lots of time and money were spent making every animal encounter appear spontaneous and real, even though the scenes were carefully planned in advance.

“Derek’s probably piggin’ out on a big juicy steak at the hotel tonight,” Tuna said morosely.

“And a humongous slice of Key lime pie.”

“Then why does the script say he’s gotta go kill a blankety-blank for food?”

“Because,” Wahoo said, “that’s one of the things he’s famous for.”

Tuna planted her chin in her hands. “All those times on TV when he swallowed some little mouse or salamander, I thought he was really starving. Am I stupid or what?”

“You’re not stupid. They don’t exactly advertise what goes on behind the scenes.”

Wahoo stood up to stretch. He was still stuffed from their modest camp dinner of hot dogs, black beans and rolls. For dessert Mickey had handed out Chips Ahoy cookies.

Tuna said, “Your old man’s not gonna go along with this scam, is he? Trap some poor old snake or toad just so Derek can cook it up on the show?”

“Not Pop. No way.”

“Good!”

“It’s late. I’m going to bed,” Wahoo said.

“I might stay up and read some more.”

“Are you sure you want to?”

Tuna nodded. Her brown eyes were bright and intent in the amber glow of the fire.

He handed her the flashlight and the script. “Remember, it’s just show business.”

“Not to me,” she said.

When Derek Badger became agitated, he sometimes misplaced his fake Australian accent.

“You call this a lobster?” he snarled at the attendant who delivered his dinner to the hotel room. “I’ve eaten bloody shrimp that were bigger!”

The man mumbled an apology, covered the tray with a silver lid and rolled the cart out the door.

“And next time bring me a real one from Maine,” Derek barked after him.

The star of Expedition Survival! was marinating regally in the Jacuzzi, which had a grand window view of Biscayne Bay and the Miami skyline. All evening he’d been thinking about the Everglades show-specifically, how to make it the most thrilling, hair-raising episode in the history of reality TV.

Derek was highly motivated to do something spectacular. His contract with the Untamed Channel expired soon, and his agent was bargaining to get him a new three-year deal for a lot more money.

And he definitely needed it. During the off-season, he’d purchased a ninety-nine-foot yacht that was currently being refurbished at a boatyard in West Palm Beach. Among the additions were a billiard parlor, a mini-movie theater and a gymnasium that Derek probably would never use. It was an extremely expensive project, more expensive than he’d ever dreamed. Just painting a new name on the yacht’s transom-he was calling it the Sea Badger — cost eighteen hundred bucks.

Those cheap weasels at the network had offered to renew Derek’s contract with a 10 percent raise that he considered highly insulting, and well below what was necessary to maintain the proper lifestyle of an international television star (and now yachtsman). That’s why the Everglades episode had to be his best ever, a blockbuster. Then, fearing that another outdoor show might try to hire him away, the suits at the Untamed Channel would have no choice but to accept Derek’s extravagant demands.

The scene with Alice the alligator had turned out marvelously terrifying-by now Derek had replayed the clip at least twenty times-and he felt inspired to make the rest of the program equally memorable. Lolling in the Jacuzzi tub, watching the jets of water make his belly quiver like a bowl of vanilla pudding, he envisioned many future talk-show appearances for himself, captivating Jay Leno or Anderson Cooper with breathtaking tales from the Florida swamp.

Most people who were nearly drowned by a twelve-foot gator would feel grateful to be alive and not eager to repeat the foolhardy behavior that had gotten them into that situation. No such contemplations entered the mind of Derek Badger as he sipped French wine and admired through soapy toes the twinkling lights of downtown Miami. His reckless brush with death actually made him feel invincible.

Ironhearted.

Indestructible.

“Here’s to Alice,” he said, raising his glass in a private toast.

The decision not to use any more of Mickey Cray’s animals was risky, but risk was exactly what Derek desired. He knew that wild critters were more aggressive and unpredictable than captive ones. The disappointing python scene was a prime example-Cray’s lazy snake was about as fierce as a garden hose.

To capture maximum drama on video, Derek wanted the real deal, wild and raw. The caution and common sense that would govern the actions of a clear-thinking person were in his case overpowered by a blinding hunger for more fame and wealth.

He was very much looking forward to being poked, stung, scratched, clawed, chewed and chomped by authentic denizens of the Everglades.

And he would get his wish.