to her own daddy?”
The man finished his beer with a burp and headed for the door. “Long story,” he said.
I’ll bet it is, thought Sickler.
EIGHTEEN
They searched all afternoon and couldn’t find Derek Badger. The helicopter had to quit early because of mechanical trouble with something called a trim actuator. When the boats returned at sunset to Sickler’s dock, the mood was grim.
Contrary to what TV viewers were led to believe, never in the history of Expedition Survival! had Derek actually been lost. He always stayed close to the snacks and beverages.
Raven had no confidence that the made-for-television survivalist would last very long alone in the Everglades, a fear shared by the show’s director. Derek did not have a surplus of common sense, and it was only a matter of time before he accidentally ate a toxic berry or stepped on a deadly cottonmouth.
Assuming he wasn’t already dying of rabies.
“You’re Mr. Expert,” Raven said sharply to Mickey Cray. “Any brilliant ideas?”
“Yeah. We try again tomorrow.”
The director looked up from his iPhone. “Bummer. The forecast calls for more rain.”
“So we get wet,” said Mickey.
Raven threw up her hands. “That’s your plan? Seriously? We get wet?”
“It’s big country out there, lady. Plus, we’re hunting for a knucklehead who doesn’t want to be found.”
“But that’s ridiculous! Why would Derek be hiding?”
“Beats me. Critters I can figure out just fine. People like him? I got no clue what goes on in their itty-bitty brains.”
Link, who’d hardly spoken a word all day, shocked the group by saying: “That man be wreckin’ my airboat, I break him in two.” He demonstrated by snapping a tree branch over one knee.
Raven immediately called for a private strategy session in Derek’s motor coach. Mickey told Wahoo and Tuna to set up the tents while he was gone.
They selected an open area near some picnic tables at the edge of Sickler’s property. The mosquitoes were thick and fearless, stinging any patch of bare flesh that wasn’t coated with bug repellent-eyelids, earlobes, even armpits. Tuna and Wahoo swatted themselves constantly as they worked. Their cheeks, already windburned from the airboat ride, became pink and puffy from self-inflicted slaps.
Tuna paused to examine a mashed attacker in the palm of her hand.
“Okay, what’s the verdict?” Wahoo said.
“I’m guessing Aedes aegypti.” She flicked the dead insect away. “There are forty-three different species of mosquitoes in the Everglades, but only thirteen kinds like to bite humans. Isn’t that weird?”
Wahoo smiled ruefully. “Where are the friendly ones?”
After the tents were in place, he and Tuna unrolled their sleeping bags. She wanted to build a campfire, but a big yellow sign warned against it. As darkness fell, they ate a tube of Pringles and washed it down with Gatorade. Wahoo was glad that Tuna seemed her usual perky self again.
“Who gave you the fish name?” she asked, out of the blue.
He told her about the agreement his parents had made soon after they were married. His mom would choose the name of the first baby-who turned out to be Julie, his older sister-and his father would get to name the next one.
“Too bad for you,” said Tuna.
“When Pop was little, his favorite pro wrestler was a guy called Wahoo McDaniel. He was part Choctaw Indian, strong as a bear. He also played linebacker for the Dolphins.”
“What’s your mom think? Does she seriously call you Wahoo?”
“She’s not thrilled about it, but she says a deal’s a deal.”
“You a wrestler, Lance?”
“Nope. I’m not on the football team, either.”
“But don’t you get picked on at school? Because of that goofy name?”
“I used to,” Wahoo said, “until this happened.” He wiggled the bony nub where his right thumb once had been. “Now the jocks leave me alone. Anybody who gets bitten by a gator and walks away, they think he must be super-tough. But that’s got nothin’ to do with it.”
“I’m not so sure.” Tuna opened her tote bag and saw, among her journals and nature books, the Expedition Survival! script. “I guess we can throw this thing away,” she said.
“Wait, let’s see how it was supposed to end.” Wahoo took out the flashlight and sat on the sleeping bag beside her. They turned to the last page:
CLOSE-UP OF DEREK’S SWISS ARMY KNIFE, chipping away at the core of a log.
Only the log isn’t just a log anymore. It’s a dugout canoe, like the traditional craft once used by Seminoles to skim across the grassy shallows.
CUT TO MEDIUM SHOT of the finished canoe.
DEREK (exhausted): Isn’t she a beauty? I worked all night, and she’s finally ready to float! I can’t wait to get out of here, too.
Crikey, I thought I was a goner after that monstrous gator ambushed me. One thing’s for sure: I don’t have the strength to fight off another one. It’s time to go.
He straps on the HELMET CAM and grabs a tree limb for a paddle. Then he steps carefully into the canoe and pushes off.
CUT TO ANGLE FROM HELMET CAM, Derek’s point of view, as he slowly makes his way across a lily-covered pond toward a sea of saw grass.
DEREK (breathing heavily as he paddles): Everything looks the same in this part of the Everglades, no matter which bloody direction you go. By noon the sun will be so scorching hot that it could cause fatal heatstroke. My only hope is that somebody finds me way out here before it’s too late…
ANGLE LOOKING UPWARD FROM HELMET CAM, buzzards circling. Derek keeps on paddling, the saw grass nicking his sunburned arms, until…
DEREK: Maybe I’m hallucinating, but I swear I hear an airplane!
CUT TO A SHOT FROM HELICOPTER CAMERA, looking down from high over the scene.
Derek’s standing in the canoe and waving frantically. A small single-engine plane passes above.
DEREK (shouting desperately): Hey, mates, down here! Come back!
After several tense moments, the plane banks slowly and begins to turn around. Derek cheers and raises both fists in the air. The pilot dips a wing to signal that he sees the solitary traveler.
CUT TO HELMET CAM SHOT of the aircraft, now circling closer.
DEREK: Yes! Yes! Yes! What a fantastic sight!
CUT BACK TO HELICOPTER CAMERA, pulling away, higher and farther.
DEREK (now visible as just a dot on the immense Everglades prairie): For a moment, as I battled for my life against that ferocious gator, I wasn’t sure this expedition would turn out so happily. Now it looks like I’m actually getting out of this place alive!
See you next week!
ROLL CREDITS.
Tuna tossed the script to the ground. “Nobody can chip out a whole canoe with a dinky pocketknife! Gimme a break.”
“Welcome to the reality of reality TV.” Wahoo switched off the flashlight, which was attracting a cloud of insects.
In the final layer of twilight, before the swamp darkness settled in, he heard Tuna say, “What if he croaks out there?”
“You mean Derek?”
