Dan Versus Nature (23 page)

It’s my penance for indulging in adulterous thoughts about Penelope.

My eyes slide to the side.

Penelope is asleep. So adorable. Such a cute little chin. Such rich, full lips. Such —

Cut it out, Dan!

I lift my head and bang it hard into my moss pillow.

Ow! Crap.
Not as spongy as I thought.

I want to reach up and massage the back of my skull, maybe feel for blood, but I don’t want to wake Penelope and risk her moving away from me. Breaking our contact. Our connection.

Oh, God, this is so stupid.

Sure, she kissed me once — but only because she thought she was going to die. But it awakened something inside of me. A passion that’s burning out of control. Like the fire in my ass.

No. Just . . . no.

I clench my eyes shut and try to avoid thinking about Penelope
or
whatever evil is going on in my sphincter. Erin. I’ll think about Erin. But my will is like a sugar cube in boiling water, Erin’s face dissolving into Penelope’s, until suddenly I’m at risk of breaching the hull of our leafy enclosure.

Between the ill-timed boners, the traitorous lusting, and a wildfire raging inside my butthole, this is going to be the longest night of my life.

“Wake up, Dan. We need to go.”

My eyes flutter open, and there’s Hank, crouched over me, his hand on my shoulder.

“You’re — you’re alive!” I croak, my tongue feeling thick and furry.

“Can’t get rid of me that easily, bud,” Hank says.

A jolt of adrenaline spikes through me. Has he put it all together? Does he think I actually shot him on purpose?

“Ha.” I force a laugh and push up onto my elbows. “That’s funny. Seriously, though. I’m glad you’re all right. We were freaking out last night.”

“It’s all good,” Hank says. “Come on. Let’s get a move on. We want to get back to camp.”

I make a big production of climbing from the debris bed, using the leafy cover to surreptitiously scratch my burning butt cheeks.
Uhhnnhh.
It feels like someone gave me a cayenne-pepper enema while I was sleeping.

I squint into the morning light. Charlie is pulling on his rinsed-out pants and shirt. Penelope is climbing back into her sweats.

What a shame.

I turn back to Hank. “Are you sure you’re OK to walk?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he says, looking down at his leg. “It still hurts like hell, but at least I can put some weight on it.” He nods at the debris bed. “Nice job, by the way. You guys were amazing last night.”

“Thanks,” I say, grabbing my damp shirt off the branch and pulling it on. It feels gross. Cold and clammy. “The bed was Charlie’s idea.”

“Really?” Hank laughs. “With all the dirt and everything?”

“Options needed to be weighed,” Charlie says. “Sacrifices were made for the greater good. I’ll decontaminate when we return to our encampment.”

“Speaking of which . . .” Hank looks into the forest. “Does anyone know the way back? I’m afraid I was a little . . . preoccupied when we departed.”

“Sure,” Penelope says. “Follow me.”

A half hour later, we are still tromping through the forest seemingly no closer to camp. Penelope is leaving us in her dust, marching forward with little regard for those of us falling behind.

“Are you sure this was the right way?” I call up to her, my butt burning so badly I can hardly see straight.

“Not a clue,” she announces.

“Wait, what?” Charlie stops. “But you said —”

“Somebody had to make a decision,” Penelope says, “or we’d still be sitting back there lost in a fog of rhinotillexis and mucophagy.”

I look to Charlie for a translation.

“Picking our noses and eating it,” he says, rolling his eyes. “Can you believe what a pretentious sesquipedalian she is? It’s kind of pathetic.”

“Right,” I say, watching Penelope march on.

Hank is not looking well. His face is pale and drenched in sweat.

“I think we need to take a break,” I call ahead.

But Penelope charges on. Charlie and I get on either side of Hank and help him hobble along.

Fifteen minutes later, Penelope shouts back to us, “Found it! Or what’s left of it.”

“Holy . . . crap,” Hank pants, when we finally catch up to Penelope. “It looks like . . . it was hit by . . . a tornado.”

The four of us stand there at the edge of the clearing, staring at the remnants of our camp. There are pieces of backpacks scattered everywhere. Bits of torn clothes, papers, and little plastic medicine bottles flung far and wide. Our sleeping bags ripped to ribbons, fluffs of cotton and polyester strewn to the four winds.

I zombie-walk through the wreckage — furtively digging a finger into my itchy ass crack as I go. I pluck up articles of clothing, one of Max’s arrows, Barbara’s shattered phone, Baby Robbie’s muddied sweater . . .

Under a pile of sticks, I find my sketchbook, dirty and trampled upon but still intact. I flip to the back and find my last drawing of Erin. I mean . . . Erilin. The Desert Princess.
My
princess. I press the baby sweater onto the page, my emotions swelling.

How could I have wavered in my devotion to her? I must have gone temporarily insane. Look at her. How beautiful she is. Those eyes. Her secret smile.

I glance over at Penelope. Back to my drawing. Back to Penelope. There’s no comparison. Penelope is just a cute, geeky, super-smart girl who lacks social skills.

But Erin. Erin is the hot sword-wielding maiden of my destiny.

I look down at my ID bracelet. A blue EKG squiggle blipping slower and slower on the screen. Baby Robbie’s heartbeat. Decelerating. Weakening. Until at last.

It flatlines.

“Doesn’t look like we’ve got much,” I say, dropping my loot on the minuscule pile of salvaged junk by the fire pit.

Besides a few of Charlie’s medical supplies and some clean, unshredded clothes for Penelope (lucky her), we didn’t find much else. None of our prank stuff seems to have survived. Not that I’m too worried about it now. If this shit show of a trip hasn’t convinced Hank that he should keep a healthy distance from the Weekeses, then I don’t see how some reeky feet or a viciously itchy crotch is going to make much difference.

“We’ll keep looking,” Hank says.

“I doubt we’ll find much more,” Penelope says. “Max and my mother have already been here and left. I’m sure they grabbed most of the usable appurtenances.”

“How do you know they’ve been back?” Hank says, settling down on a log.

“Max’s knife is gone,” Penelope explains. “And the remnants of their backpacks have been rummaged through. Also, my mom left me this note.” She holds up a dirt-smeared piece of paper and reads: “‘Penelope. I’m praying you are OK and still with the others. Max and I returned to camp and waited for you all night. We have decided our best option is to return to the lake and hole up there until the plane arrives. If you and the others get this note, please head there as well. Hoping to see you there soon. Much love, Mom.’”

“Why wouldn’t they have kept waiting here for us?” Charlie asks. “They must have known we’d come back for our supplies.”

“I told you,” Penelope says, crumpling the note and tossing it on the ground. “My mom knows a golden opportunity when she sees one.”

Hank looks around. “Well, I think we should go through what we’ve collected and then start heading toward the lake too. It’s going to take us a lot longer than it’ll take them to get there.”

I shift from foot to foot, my ass cheeks feeling like someone is holding a million lit matches to them.

“I think . . .” I croak, trying not to scream. “I think . . . I need to take . . . a bio break.”

“OK, but make it snappy,” Hank says, picking up the broken pieces of Max’s satellite phone and trying to fit them together. “And stay within shouting distance.”

“Will do.” I dart into the woods, desperate to get my pants off and have a look at the increasingly inflamed situation down below — and maybe violate a tree till my rear is so raw that it no longer has sensation.

I head toward the big Douglas fir I defiled last night, preferring to stick to a familiar route — though I stay well clear of the exact
spot
I contaminated. I scoot down my bloodstained sweats and my boxers and twist around to try to have a gander. I don’t see anything out of the ordinary.

But the pain is coming from
inside
my butt crack. I spread my legs, bend over, and —

Holy Hawkman!

My inner thighs, the entirety of my butt crack — everything down there is glowing red. There are clumps of tiny crimson pimples scattered everywhere.

I grab my ankles, straining forward to try to get a better look.

“You do understand that, on a purely physiological level, that’s a nearly impossible feat you’re trying to perform.”

“What?” I bolt back up, my hands clapping over my junk. Penelope stands ten or so yards in front of me. “I’m not . . . doing . . .
that.
I would never . . . I was just . . . I needed to —”

Penelope crosses her arms. “Strange how I keep finding you in these compromising positions.”

“I wasn’t . . . compromising anything,” I say as I yank my boxers and sweats back on. “I’m just . . . itchy.”

“Ah, that would be the urushiol,” Penelope says. “While I was mercifully spared the sight of your lunar landscape, it doesn’t take a Mensa member to piece together the evidence: the enormous pile of excrement and the torn-up
Toxicodendron radicans
at the base of that Douglas fir, accompanied by your less-than-surreptitious attempts to relieve your pruritus ani. It’s fairly obvious what’s transpired.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Poison ivy,” she says, matter-of-factly. “I hate to be the bearer of unpleasant news, Dan, but you made a supremely poor choice of wiping material.”

“But . . . my hand,” I say, holding up my right hand as evidence. “If I’d wiped with poison ivy, wouldn’t my hand have a rash, too?”

“You likely rinsed most of the toxin off in the stream last night. But unless you snuck away in the wee hours and gave your glutei a good long soak, I’m guessing the damage there is pretty heinous.”

I clench my teeth. I am going to
kill
Charlie! “What the hell am I going to do? I can’t live with this pain much longer. I’ll go crazy!”

“Untreated, it could last anywhere from two weeks to a month.”

“A
month
?!” I reply, my voice strangled.

“Lucky for you, your hypochondriac friend, Charlie, seems to have packed for the Apocalypse.” She holds up a tube of something. “Calamine lotion. I figured you could use some.”

Ten minutes and a massive Calamine lotion slathering later, I plop down on a log, joining the others around last night’s campfire, feeling much relieved. All the stuff we’ve collected lies on the ground, a pathetic mound of mostly useless crap.

“Before we set out,” Penelope says, “I want to be clear that I don’t remember the way back to the lake. Does anybody else?”

Charlie and I shake our heads, then the three of us look to Hank.

“You’re an outdoorsman,” I say. “You can find the lake. Right?”

“To be honest,” Hank say, his cheeks reddening. “I . . . I didn’t pay close attention on the way here. I’m afraid I let myself be lax because we had a guide.”

“OK, but you still know things,” I say. “Like, you know which way is north from how the moss grows or where the sun is or whatever, right? We just have to figure out which direction we took from the lake and then head back the other way.”

“Of course,” Hank says, his eyes searching the sky. “Directions. That’s . . . the easy part. Everyone knows that the sun rises in the . . .” He holds out his hands like he’s testing us, but I’m not completely confident he knows the answer.

“East,” Charlie says.

“Right,” Hank says. “And sets in the west.”

“Technically, that’s a generalization,” Penelope corrects. “The sun actually only rises due east and sets due west on two days of the year: the spring and fall equinoxes. Every other day it’s either north or south of due east and due west.”

“Yes, exactly.” Hank points at her. “That’s why it’s not as precise a gauge as we’d like. And since we don’t know which direction we came from, well, then —”