The Call of the Mild

Chapter Thirty-One

Now it starts, Gus thought. Any second now my heart rate is going to jump up, my breathing will turn into a series of harsh gasps, my pulse will become ragged and thready-and I don’t even know what that means except they always say it on TV before the really bad stuff starts to happen. Then the panic will take over completely, and I’ll start to run blindly. The last thing I’ll feel is the empty air under my left foot as I step off that cliff…

There was certainly plenty of reason for Gus to panic. They were stranded in the wilderness. And this wasn’t the parklike forest of his recurring dream. This was the top of a granite mountain hundreds of feet above the tree line. Wherever he looked, he saw a vast sea of wild country spread out below him, broken only by the jagged peaks of the rest of the mountain range. It would take a day of hiking just to get to the kind of green wasteland he was used to.

And Gus’ rescue-his only hope for rescue-the glorious, luxurious helicopter that had brought them to this high-altitude hell, was nothing but a tiny speck disappearing in the distance. It was already indistinguishable from the enormous birds of prey that circled over the mountain-no doubt vultures waiting to pick the flesh off his broken carcass.

Gus took a breath, expecting his throat to close up and choke off his airway. To his surprise, clear, clean mountain air flowed down easily into his lungs. It flooded his bloodstream as his heart pounded slowly and steadily. It took him a moment to realize exactly what was going on here: He wasn’t panicking.

Not only was he not panicking, but he actually felt better here at the top of this mountain than he had in days. The hiking shoes Hector had given him were so firm and springy that Gus had to force his legs not to start walking. His new outfit was even better. He had bright blue tees in long and short sleeves, both made of some miracle material that was supposed to wick all moisture, body odor, and, according to the label, bad karma away from his body. His shorts looked like generic cargos, but they were breathable, water- and wind-resistant, and also spent their spare time wicking bad things away. Best of all were the zippers that ran around the bottom of each leg; in his pack were extensions that would turn the shorts into long pants in case it got cold. Even the socks seemed to have been woven by wizards. His feet had never felt so snug.

And he’d taken a moment to glance through the backpack that had his name on it. There were several changes of those wonderful socks and underwear, a Swiss Army knife, a full first-aid kit, two one-liter bottles of water, and a sleeping bag and pad strapped to the pack’s bottom. A fat, yellow plastic cylinder hung off a clip on the pack’s frame; Gus realized this must be the emergency beacon. And then there was the food. Lots and lots of freeze-dried food. Gus had tried freeze-dried food before-his parents had hidden a stash of powdered eggs, pemmican bars, and Tang in their basement during the Cuban missile crisis, and Gus had sampled it all when he and Shawn found the stash decades later-but what he had in his pack was nothing like that. He had kung pao chicken and beef Stroganoff and shrimp Newburg and huevos rancheros. For side dishes he had peas and corn and bacon-infused mashed potatoes; desserts included fudge brownies and banana cream pie and blackberry cobbler. In their current state they all weighed just a little bit less than nothing, but once Gus added water, it would be like he had the entire buffet from a high-end Indian casino.

Gus was feeling so good it took him a moment to realize why Shawn looked so grim as he walked over to him. It wasn’t just the hazard-warning red of his high-tech T-shirt; he was seriously troubled.

“You sure you’re okay?” Shawn said.

“I’m not going to let something stupid like a recurring dream get me down.”

Shawn studied him carefully. “You be sure to tell me if you begin to hallucinate. Because I know how disturbing a recurring nightmare can be.”

“That’s the second time you’ve said that,” Gus said. “But you never told me what your dream is.”

“Let’s just assume it has something to do with pudding, and leave it there,” Shawn said. “Anyway, if you’re really okay, the others are ready to start walking. The only thing stopping them is that they’re still fighting over which of six different paths they should take.”

“Six?” Gus glanced over to see the lawyers in heated debate. Even though they had all changed out of their suits and into the same kind of comfortable sportswear that Gus had on, but in varying colors, they still looked like they were arguing in front of a judge. Except, of course, for Jade, whose short, formfitting emerald dress made her look like Rima the Jungle Girl arguing with the rest of the Super Friends. “There are only five of them.”

“Balowsky was fighting for the southern route, but when it looked like Mathis was going to agree with him, he changed to an eastern path just to keep the fight going for a little longer.”

Shawn moved closer to Gus to make sure they could talk without being overheard. “I checked my pack,” he said, “and it looks like we’ve got enough food for six days, just like Rushton said. Unfortunately it’s going to be two weeks before these people can agree which way to go. Then it will merely be a matter of which side of the mountain to roll our bones down.”

“Maybe we should just choose one and go,” Gus said. “See who follows us.”

“That would be a good idea if either of us had the map,” Shawn said. “I have an alternative plan.”

“What’s that?”

Shawn fingered the emergency beacon hanging off Gus’ pack. “ET phone home.”

“And then ET get sued out of existence,” Gus said.

“Not if we unmask Mathis as the killer first,” Shawn said. “He’ll run, we won’t be able to catch him, and the exercise is ruined.”

“Along with our agency,” Gus said. “I have a better idea. We figure out which way to go, and we use the day’s hike to confirm that Mathis is our killer. Then, once we’ve got incontrovertible proof, we use the beacon.”

“You sure about this?” Shawn asked, studying Gus’ face for any sign of panic, despair, or hallucination.

“I’m really fine,” Gus said. “I guess being out in the wilderness is like going to the dentist. The anticipation is much worse than the reality.”

“Funny, I’ve always found that having people jam razor-sharp pokers into my gums a lot worse than thinking about it,” Shawn said. “But if you’re really okay with this, then I guess it’s time to start moving.”