Chomp (6 page)

“All depends.” Sometimes Derek needed a dozen tries to get the campfire dinner scene just right. “I should think no more than a pound or so,” Raven speculated.

“A slam dunk,” he said gaily.

“You do know we’re talking about fly larvae, right?”

He leaned closer to the mirror and started brushing his hair. “Speaking of food, who’s doing our catering? Please tell me it’s Candy and Anabelle.”

Although loyal viewers of
Expedition Survival!
never would have guessed, Derek Badger dined like a king during his televised survival missions. No matter how remote the jungle setting, his contract required sumptuous five-star menus: steak, lamb, lobster, sockeye salmon, homemade pasta, pheasant or venison, accompanied by fresh garden
vegetables and of course an array of rich, artery-clogging desserts.

Naturally, these feasts were consumed off camera, so as not to spoil the illusion of hardship.

“Candy and Anabelle are on a job in Argentina,” Raven Stark said, knowing her boss would be miffed. “We’re using Leticia Oxford’s outfit.”

“Not again! That fool nearly poisoned me,” Derek cried. “Remember that dreadful Brie?”

There had been an incident, two years earlier, involving a wheel of spoiled cheese. In Leticia Oxford’s defense, the temperature that day in the Guyanese rain forest had reached 107 degrees, and the supply of ice had been limited.

“It’s Bear Grylls, isn’t it?” Derek whined, referring to one of his rival TV survivalists. “I’ll bet that’s who Candy and Anabelle are catering. Tell the truth, Raven. Are they cooking for that little twerp?”

“The rain’s stopped.”

Derek cocked his head to listen. “Well, so it has.”

“Alice awaits,” Raven said.

“Yes, in all her glory.” He put down the hairbrush and inspected his turtle-nipped nose once more in the mirror. Then he mashed the horn on the steering wheel, flung open the door of the motor coach and hollered, “Get a move on, mates.
La siesta
is over!”

*  *  *

The first time Mickey Cray got chomped, he was only four years old.

His mom (Wahoo’s future grandmother) was sweeping the patio when she let out a yell. Mickey ran outside and found her waving a broom at a small garter snake, which he promptly snatched up by the tail. The frightened reptile twisted around and sank its sharp little nippers into Mickey’s tender wrist.

He stood there, staring in wonderment. It was just about the coolest thing he’d ever seen.

From that day on, Mickey Cray was fascinated with creatures small and large, furry and scaly. He spent every minute of his spare time in the woods and wetlands, chasing after snakes, chameleons, turtles, toads, eels, even baby gators. If it slithered, scampered or hopped, Mickey would grab for it.

As a result, he frequently got bitten. That wasn’t his favorite part of the outdoor experience, but the pain was nothing, really, compared to the fun he was having. Rare was the evening when he rode his bicycle home with no fresh puncture wounds or bloody spots on his jeans. His parents knew better than to ask about the squirming pillowcase he’d be carrying, as long as he remembered to lock whatever creature it held in the utility room.

Mickey’s family had hoped his passion for wildlife was just a youthful phase, but he never outgrew it. His mother and father were amazed when he met a bright and seemingly normal young woman who didn’t mind his motley
collection of animals, and they were even more amazed when she agreed to marry him.

But that was Susan—she was amazing, period.

Mickey missed her like crazy, and she was 8,297 miles away. Wahoo had gone on the Internet and computed the distance, which had turned out to be depressing for both of them.

Not only did Mickey have a heavy heart, he was fighting another skull-splitting headache.

“The Curse of the Iguana,” he muttered to himself, slouched in the rain.

The falling droplets dimpled the brackish pool. Two fat bubbles appeared, and Alice rose slowly. Only her plank-sized snout and knuckled brow broke the surface.

“You’re lookin’ good,” Wahoo’s father said to the gator. “Heck, you
always
look good.”

In his world, Alice was a much bigger star than Derek Badger. Mickey had found her when he was a teenager and she was practically a hatchling, so she was as close to being tame as any ravenous, pea-brained dinosaur could be. Female alligators rarely grew so huge in the wild, but Mickey fed his favored specimen generously, and often.

“We’ll be out of your hair tomorrow,” he said to Alice, who hovered motionless and unblinking. “This TV guy, he’s a royal bonehead. Just roll with it, okay?”

Wahoo’s father sometimes held one-sided conversations with the animals, but he wasn’t a whack job; he never
imagined that they could actually talk back. They all came to know his voice, though. Of that he was certain.

Finally the rain stopped and Mickey straightened up, dripping like a dog. Alice sank slowly toward the depths of the pool.

An air horn blew, and then a man hollered something about a
siesta
. The words were hard to make out, but the Australian accent was unmistakable.

“Mr. Dork Badger,” Wahoo’s father said to himself.

Then, to his favorite reptile, now at the bottom of the pond: “Don’t worry, princess. He tries anything funny, I’ll personally bite his head off.”

The underwater camera, bolted to an aluminum rod, was operated by remote control. Another camera was stationed at ground level by the side of the pool, while a third was mounted with a microphone on a high boom extending above the set.

Derek Badger waded in up to his ankles; he wore a spotless safari shirt and creased khaki hiking shorts. Strapped to one leg was a black-handled diver’s knife.

“Don’t worry—it’s just a prop,” said Raven Stark. She was fanning Derek’s face while the TV lights were being arranged.

“Looks like a real knife to me,” Mickey Cray said. He was down on one knee, chewing a wad of bubble gum. Wahoo could see the bulge from the .45 pistol tucked under his dad’s shirt.

Alice was still ten feet deep, invisible.

Derek peered into the pond. “Well?” he said.

“Go for it,” the director told him. “We’re rolling.”

“ ’Kay, mate.”

Derek slipped up to his neck into the water, careful not to muss his hair. “No mistakes!” he shouted at the crew, and went breathlessly into the script:

“Soon the sun will be setting over the Everglades, and I find
myself in a perilous predicament. I must now swim across this deep, murky pond to reach dry ground, where I can camp for the night and hopefully start a fire
.

“Getting across this water is absolutely crucial to my survival, but here’s the problem—in the bush I’ve discovered fresh signs of an extremely large alligator, and I mean HUGE, lurking close by! Unfortunately, I don’t know where this massive beast is hiding right now, but it surely can’t be far.…”

Wahoo glanced over at Mickey, who didn’t look enthralled.

Derek was treading water, facing the camera mounted on the shore:

“The American alligator is one of the most primitive brutes on the planet. In millions of years this toothy species hasn’t changed hardly at all, and there’s a good reason for that. You see, gators are perfect predators—powerful, silent and unbelievably fast!

“If that monster were to attack me right now, the only chance I’d have of escaping alive would be to fight back ferociously, desperately, and gouge it in the eyes.…”

Wahoo watched his father’s expression darken.

Meanwhile, the guy with the remote control for the underwater camera was urgently pointing at the screen of his video monitor, trying to get the director’s attention. Apparently Alice was on the move.

Mickey Cray stood up. Wahoo’s eyes flicked toward the cattails, where he’d concealed a long bamboo pole. The pole could be used to poke the alligator if she decided to attack.

Derek slowly began swimming across the pool, calling back to his imaginary viewers:

“Well, wish me luck. Here I go!”

Wahoo and his father sidled closer to the video monitor and peeked over the cameraman’s shoulder. The screen showed a view from the submerged camera—Derek’s pale arms stroking and his legs kicking, leaving a wake of foam and bubbles.

And there was Alice, suspended beneath him, gazing up at the odd, obnoxious creature that had invaded her space.

“This is insane,” Wahoo whispered.

“Naw, she won’t touch him,” said his father. “Not on a full belly.”

But there was an edge of tension in Mickey’s voice.

“What if you’re wrong, Pop?”

“Don’t think like that. Who knows Alice better than I do?”

Sure enough, Derek Badger made it safely across the pond and slogged up into the shallows. The last line of the scene was supposed to be:
Whew! That was a mighty close call!

But what he said was: “Hey, where was that stupid bloody gator?”

Mickey looked pleased. Wahoo felt a wave of relief—Alice had been a good sport.

The director assured Derek that the scene had turned out fantastic. “Your tippy toes were just millimeters from her jaws! Incredible stuff!”

Derek trudged around the bank of the pond and rejoined the crew. “I want to do another take,” he said sullenly.

“But why? Come see the replay—it’s perfect.” The director looked at Raven for backup. She pleaded under her breath with Derek, but he wouldn’t budge.

With a sigh of surrender, the director said, “Okay, then. Let’s try another one.”

Wahoo’s father stepped forward. “Naw, we’re done. You got what you need.”

Derek, who was smoothing his hair, gave no sign of hearing a word. Raven said, “Just one more take, Mr. Cray. That’ll do it.”

“Only if he gets rid of that bleeping knife.”

“But I told you, it’s just a toy—”

Wahoo’s dad reached over and snatched the dive knife from the sheath on Derek’s leg. He pressed the point of the blade to the tip of his forefinger, and a crimson bubble appeared. Raven cleared her throat. Derek shrugged, turning away.

Mickey wiggled the knife and arched his eyebrows. “That’s some toy.” He closed one hand firmly around the handle, as if testing the grip.

The mischievous glint in his dad’s eyes made Wahoo uneasy. “Give me that thing, Pop. I’ll put it somewhere safe.”

“Don’t worry. I got just the place.”

Mickey wiped the blade on the collar of Derek’s safari shirt, the blood droplet leaving a small brownish smear.
Then he tossed the knife high in the air and watched it spiral down into the middle of the pond, where it disappeared with a
sploosh
.

Derek was now paying attention. “Are you totally, completely out of your mind?”

Mickey clicked his teeth. “You got fifteen minutes, brother. One more shot.”

The TV crew began scrambling. Somebody brought Derek a clean shirt, and Raven retouched the makeup on his nose. The director checked the angles on all three cameras while his assistants adjusted the lighting.

A swelling appeared in the glassy pool—Alice, rising to take a breath. This time the full breadth of her back broke the surface, the black scales glistening like barnacles. She was as wide as a railroad track.

Derek said, “Ha! Nice of you to finally make an appearance.”

Everyone on the crew stopped to gaze at the enormous creature that floated only a few feet away. Wahoo could tell they were impressed. He could also see they were jittery about being so close to such an animal.

“Don’t you move!” Derek barked at the reptile. He wheeled on Mickey: “Make sure she stays right there till I’m back in the water.”

Wahoo’s dad just shook his head.

The director yelled, “Action!” and Derek jumped into the pond. He was about as graceful as a potbellied pig.

Alice immediately sank out of sight.

“No! No!” Derek squawked. “Where’d she go now?” He was dog-paddling in circles.

Wahoo was glad that the dive knife was sunk out of Derek’s reach—there was no telling what he might do to provoke the gator. Watching the underwater monitor, Wahoo saw her hunkered once again at the bottom of the pool.

“Start your lines!” the director called.

Derek refused. “Not till that silly bloody lizard pops up again.”

Raven leaned close to Wahoo and inquired how long Alice could hold her breath.

“Hours,” he replied.

“Are you serious?”

“Her personal record is three,” Mickey interjected. “Three hours and fifteen minutes. It was during one of the hurricanes.”

“Oh, brilliant.” Raven glanced crossly at her wristwatch. “We don’t have three hours to kill.”

The director said, “Yeah, let’s bag it.”

“No, keep rolling!” It was Derek, now tangled in the lily pads. “Keep rolling!”

Wahoo’s father murmured, “What a jackass,” and headed for the house.

“Where are you going?” Raven asked.

“To get some aspirin.”

“Bring the whole bottle,” she said.

Ten minutes passed, then fifteen more. Derek continued to flounder around the fake Everglades lagoon while Alice remained out of sight.

The man operating the remote control for the underwater camera said the battery was running low. “Want me to put in a new one?”

“Don’t waste your time,” the director said. “This is hopeless. We’ll just use the first take.”

Wahoo looked toward the house and wondered if his dad was all right. He would have gone to check on him, but he didn’t want to leave as long as Alice was alone in the water with Derek.…

Five, ten, fifteen more minutes dragged by. Finally the director said to Raven, “That’s enough. Get him out.”

Derek angrily waved them off. “No way! I’ll stay here all night if I have to—”

“Hey!” It was the guy in charge of the underwater camera. “Look at this.”

They gathered closely around the video monitor—the director, the cameraman, Raven and Wahoo. Slowly but surely, Alice was rising from the bottom of the pool. Her great fluted tail fanned the water gently, stirring a haze of greenish mud.

On the way up, the alligator paused with her blunt nose only inches from the camera’s lens. Even with her mouth shut, the lethal downward teeth were on full display, a crooked picket fence along her upper jaw.