Chomp

THIRTEEN

Wahoo was accustomed to his father’s snoring, which sounded like a dump truck stripping its gears. That’s not what awakened him.

It was a dream about Tuna.

Her dad was furiously chasing her around the Walmart parking lot, and Wahoo was trying to tackle him so she could get away. In the dream, Tuna’s father had no face-only a slab of pocked gray flesh where his mouth, nose and eyes should have been. Wahoo’s imagination simply couldn’t picture a man who would try to harm his daughter that way.

Wahoo crawled from his sleeping bag and emerged from the tent he shared with his father. A light rain had fallen overnight, and the sky remained overcast. The sun had been up for an hour, but the air beneath the tree canopy was cool and funky-smelling from the exotic vegetation. In the distance, a great blue heron croaked defiantly.

Mickey Cray arose with a series of wolverine snuffles. Anticipating a demand for hot coffee, Wahoo restarted the campfire. There was no breeze, and the mosquitoes were delighted to see him. Tuna came out of her tent, mumbled a sleepy “G’morning” and sat down cross-legged on the ground.

Wahoo’s father noticed the script in her hands and asked, “What’re you readin’, hon?”

“Shakespeare,” she answered, casually flipping over the script to hide the title page. “I’m playing Ophelia in a summer production of Hamlet.”

Wahoo was impressed by her quick thinking and the classy-sounding fib.

“Shakespeare, huh?” said Mickey, with no shred of interest. He reached for the pot of coffee. “Hey, you wouldn’t happen to have any more of those headache pills, would ya?”

Tuna said, “I’ll trade you two of ’em for a cup of that java.”

“Fair enough.”

“Pour one for me, too,” said Wahoo.

Mickey laughed. “Since when do you drink this stuff?”

“Take your pills, Pop.”

Tuna suggested that they go get breakfast at the main camp, from which tantalizing smells wafted through the bay trees. Wahoo’s father again insisted on cooking, a humble but tasty serving of bacon and powdered eggs. He said that dining with Derek Badger would ruin his appetite.

Soon they heard airboats, which meant that the crew of Expedition Survival! was preparing to load the gear and ride to the location of the opening scene. Tuna, Wahoo and Mickey hurried through the woods and joined up with the others, who were filling canteens with cold water from a fifty-gallon cooler and stuffing their pockets with granola bars. Raven Stark was there, though Derek had not yet arrived.

It took a while to pack the equipment and get everybody seated. Tuna, Wahoo and his dad were assigned to ride with Link, who wasn’t exactly overjoyed to see them.

“Not you,” he growled from the driver’s platform.

Tuna gave a friendly little wave. “Play nice,” she said, and wedged herself safely between Wahoo and Mickey.

Link poked Wahoo’s father in the back. “I keep my eye on you. We clear?”

Mickey ignored him. Wahoo looked up and said, “We are absolutely clear.”

“Clear as a church bell,” Tuna added.

The ride lasted longer than Wahoo had expected, the three airboats flattening pathways through a prairie of tall saw grass that hadn’t been crossed in a long time-at least not by humans. After almost an hour, the lead boat carrying the show’s director halted at the edge of a wide-open pond that was teeming with dragonflies and wading birds called purple gallinules. The other boats stopped in the same place, and all the passengers removed their earmuffs.

A walkie-talkie attached to Link’s belt began to crackle with instructions. Wahoo recognized the director’s voice.

“Four minutes,” he announced. “Be ready.”

In the first boat, a cameraman scrambled to position himself on the bow. At the front of the second boat stood Raven, wearing a flamingo-pink sun hat as wide as a sombrero. Derek Badger was nowhere to be seen.

“Where the heck is he?” whispered Tuna.

Mickey snickered. Wahoo pointed to an object in the sky. It was a helicopter approaching rapidly from the east, the thwock-a-thwock of its rotors growing louder.

“He’s gonna do the Jump!” Tuna exclaimed. “Sweet.”

Parachuting into the wilderness was one of Derek’s signature moves, although other TV survivalists occasionally used the same stunt. The difference was that Derek insisted on jumping from the aircraft while blindfolded. This was not only dumb but also pointless, as Wahoo’s father remarked whenever they watched the program.

The chopper slowed down until it froze in a hover high above the fleet of airboats. A familiar-looking figure could be seen at the open door, his boots braced on the skid. Poised beside him was another man aiming a video camera.

“Five,” said the voice coming over Link’s handheld radio, “four, three, two, one… and action!”

The figure let go of the helicopter and dropped free, spreading his limbs like a spider. A moment later the chute opened, a green-striped starburst against the drab background of gray clouds. Mickey cupped his hands over his forehead to better follow the path of the glide.

“I told ya!” Tuna said excitedly. “Look at him fly!”

Wahoo anticipated a clumsy landing, but the parachute came in softly and right on target, fluttering to rest in the center of the pond.

“Cut!” the director shouted into his walkie-talkie. “That was brilliant! Now let’s go get him.”

All three airboats blasted off in unison; nobody had time to fit on their earmuffs. Link was the first to get there. He cut the engine and coasted on a line toward the billow of silk. Wahoo could see that Derek had successfully detached himself from the parachute and was treading water.

Link stepped past the other passengers and poised himself for the retrieve. Once he was within reach, he grabbed the straps of Derek’s skydiving pack and hoisted him aboard. Everybody applauded except Wahoo and his father.

Because it wasn’t really Derek. It was a professional stuntman whose safari shirt had been padded with foam and whose hair had been dyed orange-blond to match that of the TV star.

As soon as the stuntman peeled off his blindfold, Tuna stopped clapping and her face fell.

The director called out, “Nice job, Ricky!”

“Easy ride,” said the stuntman.

He was at least ten years younger and thirty pounds lighter than Derek, and his tan looked real-not sprayed on.

“Did you know about this?” Tuna demanded of Wahoo. “Did you know the Jump was bogus?”

Wahoo said, “I swear I didn’t.” But he wasn’t all that surprised.

“Okay, people, heads up!” The director raised both hands clasped together, as if aiming a gun.

The helicopter had looped back around and was slowly descending toward the airboats gathered in the pond. A large metal basket with a man inside was being lowered on a cable. The man was dressed the very same way as the parachutist, and his pudgy bare legs dangled through the canvas webbing of the basket.

“Pathetic,” Tuna said.

As the chopper dropped lower, the gusts from its whirling blades churned the surface of the pond and made the lily pads flutter and shimmy. When the dangling basket was almost touching the water, the real Derek Badger stood up, tied on his blindfold and hopped out.

The helicopter shot straight up, dragging the basket out of the scene.

“Action!” barked the director, and the cameraman in the front of his boat resumed taping, zooming in on the now-swimming figure.

On cue, Derek began grunting dramatically with each stroke. Within seconds he’d managed to tangle himself in the cords of the waterlogged parachute.

“Help!” he gasped.

The director responded with an enthusiastic, upraised thumb.

“No, I’m bloody serious,” Derek bleated. “Somebody help me before I drown!”

“Cut!” Raven Stark shouted. “Cut! Cut!”

“Okay,” the director said impatiently. “Let’s cut.”

Mickey Cray looked quite amused when he turned to Wahoo and Tuna.

“His Phoniness has arrived,” he said.***

The director called a short break before the big scene in which Derek would trek alone across the saw grass plain. Having seen the script, Wahoo knew what was coming. His father didn’t.

“Yo, Mr. Cray!” the director shouted. “Can we have a word?”

The other airboat drew closer, and Mickey stepped aboard. The meeting was brief. Mickey slipped into the waist-deep water and motioned for Wahoo to do the same.

As they waded through the lily pads, Wahoo said, “They need a snake, right?”

“In fifteen minutes. How’d you know?”

“What else did they tell you?”

“They want me to make it swim up to Dorko so he can grab it.”

“Pop, there’s something else.”

“Lemme guess.” Mickey’s eyes moved back and forth across the pond, scanning for slithery movements. “He’s gonna kill it.”

“That’s right.”

“And cook it for supper.”

“So they showed you the script?” Wahoo asked.

“Naw, they didn’t have to.” His father lunged forward and reached into the water. He came up empty-handed, saying, “That was just a little bugger.”

Wahoo hadn’t even seen it. His dad’s eyesight was astounding; obviously the double vision had gone away.

“So, what are you gonna do?” Wahoo asked.

“Just wait and see.”

“Hold on, Pop-not a cottonmouth!”

Mickey smiled mischievously. “ That would be intense.”

“No, that would be crazy. You’ll wind up in jail.”

Cottonmouths, also known as water moccasins, were foul-tempered and hard to handle. They were also highly poisonous.

“Don’t even think about it,” Wahoo warned his father.

“It’s not like the man’s definitely gonna die-I’m sure these folks are smart enough to keep a snakebite kit in the first-aid bag. But if not…”

“Okay, Pop, that’s enough.”

“Hey, I’m only kidding. You need to chill.”

Wahoo spied a small ribbon snake scooting through the reeds and started sloshing in pursuit. His dad told him to let it be. By now they were fifty yards from the airboat. Wahoo could see Tuna standing in the stern, close to Link. They appeared to be talking, although Wahoo couldn’t imagine what the conversation might be.

“Whoa!” Mickey signaled for him to stop. “There’s a good one.”

“I don’t see anything.”

“Be still, son. He went down.” Mickey stared into the tea-colored water, ready to pounce.

“Is it a moccasin?” Wahoo was trying not to sound anxious.

“Aha!” his father exclaimed, and thrust both arms underwater. He brought up a banded water snake about three feet long.

Wahoo was relieved. Water snakes release a foul musk, but they aren’t venomous. This one whipped back and forth, snapping wildly, before Mickey got a grip behind its neck and dunked it again, to wash off the stink.

“Four minutes to spare,” he reported after checking his wristwatch.

“Not too shabby,” Wahoo admitted. He’d never seen a better snake catcher than his father.

But now what? he wondered.

As they slogged back toward the boats, Mickey didn’t seem upset about what was supposed to happen to the newly captured reptile.

“Hey, let’s call him Fang,” he said.

Wahoo shook his head. “Let’s not.”

“How come?”

“Because.” Wahoo was annoyed. Why give the poor thing a name if it would be roasting on Derek’s TV campfire by sunset?

The director’s grin seemed to split his sweaty beard.

“Super!” he crowed when Mickey showed him the captured snake. “Derek, have a peek at tonight’s delicious entree!”

“Oh, surprise me,” said Derek, who was busy getting his tan freshened and his facial makeup retouched.

As soon as Wahoo climbed back in Link’s airboat, Tuna grabbed the fleshy part of his left arm and twisted.

“Ouch!”

“You said your old man wouldn’t let ’em do this,” she hissed. “You promised!”

“I didn’t think he ever would.”

“That’s not good enough, Lance.”

“Look, we really need this job,” Wahoo said.

“Not. Good. Enough.” She gave another sharp twist and let go.

Derek entered the water gingerly as the helicopter rumbled into position above.

Tuna leaned close to Mickey Cray and cupped a hand to his ear. “Where’s the blankety-blank?”

“Huh?”

“The snake,” she whispered.

“Oh. You mean Fang.”

“That’s real funny.”

Wahoo’s dad unbuttoned the last three buttons of his shirt so that Tuna could see where he was stowing the pretty rust-and-tan-colored reptile, which was now curled up peacefully.

“Nerodia fasciata,” she said. “But that’s not from Linnaeus. He called it Coluber fasciatus.”

“I like Fang better.”

“You would.”

Wahoo slid closer. “So, what’s the plan, Pop?” Hoping he had one.

“Heat,” Mickey replied with a wink.

Tuna made a puzzled face. “What?”

Mickey jerked his chin toward the snake, which was resting against his bare belly. “Heat is good,” he said.

Tuna shrugged. “Whatever.”

But Wahoo understood what his father had in mind. Maybe it’ll work, he thought, and maybe it won’t.

The director ordered all the airboats to move behind a nearby tree island so that they wouldn’t be visible to the camera up in the hovering chopper. For Derek’s adventure to be believable, the Everglades had to appear empty and never-ending.

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.

Taping that part of the scene proved easy, thanks to the steady hands of the helicopter pilot and cameraman. The director had supervised from behind the island, using a portable video monitor and a two-way radio.

To the pilot, he said, “Another masterpiece, Louie!”

“Thanks, buddy. We’ve got some weather moving in, so we’re gonna head home and refuel.”

“Be back here at six to pick up the boss and Ms. Stark.”

“That’s a roger.”

The director holstered his radio and turned to the airboat drivers. “Okay, let’s hurry up and roll!”

Derek was in a grouchy mood when they got to the spot where he was waiting, truly a lone figure on the horizon. “What took you so bloody long?” he whined. “There’s a whole flock of buzzards waiting for me to keel over.”

The cameraman in the director’s airboat eased carefully into the water. He was toting an expensive Steadicam that allowed him to wade beside Derek while shooting, with very little motion or bumpiness in the picture.

“Everybody ready?” the director hollered. “And… action!”

Derek said, “Wait! What’s my line?”

Raven stood ready with a copy of the script. “Your line is: I’ve been fighting my way through this swamp for four, possibly five hours straight-I’ve lost track of the time.”

“Right,” said Derek. “Let’s do it.”

“Take two. Action!”

“I’ve been fighting my way through this swamp for hours and hours-I’ve lost all track of time…”

When he got to the part where he was supposed to feel something swim between his legs, Derek stopped. The director brusquely motioned for Mickey to get in the water.

“Where’s your scaly little pal, Mr. Cray?”

“Right here. What’s my cue?”

“The line is: Ah! There it goes again! That’s when you release the snake near Derek.”

“No problem.”

“And be sure to keep your paws out of the shot!” Derek interjected.

Wahoo thought: Uh-oh. Here we go.

Yet somehow his father remained calm. “All due respect, Mr. Beaver, this ain’t my first rodeo,” he said mildly.

“It’s Badger, not Beaver!”

Gently Mickey removed the newly named Fang from inside his shirt. Its reddish tongue flicked inquisitively as the snake coiled around Mickey’s forearm.

Hearing a distant rumble of thunder, Wahoo and Tuna glanced up at the darkening sky.

The director looked, too. He clapped and said, “Okay, ready? Three, two, one and… action!”

Derek continued:

“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-ha! There it goes again!”

Reptiles are cold-blooded, which means their energy and alertness vary greatly depending on the temperature. During periods of chilly weather, a snake’s metabolism slows down, and it becomes sluggish and sleepy. The warmer the air, the more active and lively it becomes.

By letting the banded water snake rest for so long against his skin, a comfortable 98.6 degrees, Mickey Cray had made sure the creature would be wide awake and full of attitude by the time he released it back into the pond. He also knew it would not take kindly to being grabbed again.

“Gotcha!” Derek crowed, carelessly snatching the snake by its middle.

From that moment on, the script was in tatters.

As Mickey had anticipated, Fang went nuts. First it bit Derek on one arm, then it bit him on the other. It bit him on a knuckle. It bit him on a wrist. It even bit him on the chin.

“Crikey!” he whimpered over and over, but he wouldn’t let go of it.

Tuna pressed against Wahoo’s shoulder. “Wow” was all she said.

The director was so stunned by what he saw that he forgot to yell “Cut!” Sitting behind him in the airboat, Raven Stark hunched down and covered her eyes.

Meanwhile, the cameraman toting the Steadicam dutifully zoomed in on the bloodbath. Derek struggled in vain to gain control of the twisting, squirming, snapping reptile while at the same time he tried to recite his lines:

“Looks like it’s not-ouch! — your lucky day, mate.”

His determination to kill and eat his supercharged captive was fading with each new puncture wound. Still, he labored to keep a brave face for his TV fans.

“Dinner!” Derek squeaked unconvincingly. Then: “Aaaggghhh!”

Nerodia fasciata had found one of his thumbs and begun to chew.

Derek flapped his wounded hand and toppled backward, producing a barrel-sized splash. By the time three guys from the crew had fished him out, he was spitting up pond water and the snake was long gone.

“Good Fang,” Mickey said quietly.

Tuna looked at Wahoo, and Wahoo looked away, trying hard not to laugh.