Dan Versus Nature (30 page)

“Clearly it becomes subterranean,” Charlie says, snapping photos of the unusual natural feature. “It could flow underground for miles.”

Hank frowns. “Let’s check it out. Maybe we’ll get lucky and come across it again soon.”

A hundred yards. Two hundred yards. Nothing. No water anywhere.

“How do we know we’re even going in the right direction?” Penelope asks, looking around. “What if the stream veers off to the right or left?”

I look at Hank, who’s searching the grass, sweat beading on his upper lip.

“What do we do now?” I say. “How do we know which way to go? We’re running out of time.”

“Keep looking.” Hank’s eyes are darting every which way. “We’ll find the stream again. We have to . . .” These last words trail off, like he’s saying them to himself. Like they’re a prayer he knows won’t come true.

Twenty minutes later we’re still trekking across dry land.

I sigh and look at Hank. “Are you sure you don’t have some trick for finding water — some technique you learned on your hunting trips? Like a dowsing rod or something?”

Hank’s been surprisingly spare with his outdoorsy advice this whole trip. Does he think he gets bonus points for modesty or something? At this point, he can be an even bigger braggart than Rick Chuff for all I care if it helps us find our way to the lake in one piece.

“Don’t worry,” Hank says, his voice falsely cheery. “We just keep heading in this direction.” He gestures straight ahead. “Downhill-ish. Keep an eye out. We’ll find some sign of the stream eventually. Maybe even come upon the river it feeds.”

The tension is thick, like the air has gone heavy and humid, making it hard to breathe. I can tell we’re all thinking the same thing.

We are well and truly lost with just a day left to find our lake.

“So be honest,” Penelope says to Charlie out of the blue. “Why didn’t you want to share something about yourself last night?”

“Truthfully?” Charlie says. “I couldn’t think of anything that Daniel doesn’t already know about me.”

“Really?” Penelope asks skeptically. “I mean, I realize you guys are like, omphalopagus and all. But does he really know
everything
about you?”

I expect Charlie to shut this line of questioning down, like he did last night, but he pauses like he’s actually thinking about it. “OK, I suppose not
everything
everything.”

“Wait, what don’t I know about you?” I ask.

“There are a few things that never seemed worth disclosing,” Charlie admits.

“Like what?” Penelope and I ask at the same time. I glare at her. Sure, the dumb game was her idea, but Charlie is my best friend — if anyone has a right to know all his secrets, it’s me.

“OK, well, for example . . .” Charlie takes a deep breath. “The week before my parents died, we had quite the altercation. I had come home from school with another fat lip — and I believe a black eye this time, too. My parents wanted to report my assailant to the principal; however, I knew that this would only lead to something worse than a fat lip and a black eye.” Charlie pushes his glasses back up onto the bridge of his nose. “Thus, I refused to name names, and so they grounded me. I was to remain grounded until I revealed who had attacked me. Well, that night I was so incensed at the injustice of it all that I prayed for my mother and father to die. And, a week later, they did.”

“Whoa,” Penelope says. “Really? How did it happen?”

“An automobile accident.”

“Jesus.”

For a moment, I think that she’s going to say something uncharacteristically kind, like “I’m so sorry” or “That must have been awful.”

Instead, she says, “Well, no wonder you’re such a head case.”

Charlie smirks. “Yes. Thank you for that. And your excuse is?”

Penelope laughs. “Touché.”

Hank looks over at Charlie. “You know it wasn’t your fault, right, Charlie?”

“Of course,” Charlie says flatly, fiddling with his camera. “I don’t pretend to believe I have some form of telekinesis. Or that there is a God who grants the vindictive wishes of ten-year-old boys. I just find the timing of it all interesting.”

“Jeez, Charlie,” I say. “I had no idea. That’s . . . crazy.”

“Coincidental,” he corrects. He shrugs. “Now, I certainly hope that fulfills my obligation, as the only other things Dan doesn’t know about me happen to be of a much more . . . venereal nature. And I’m sure we’re not quite that desperate for conversation, are we?”

“No!” Penelope, Hank, and I respond in unison.

The morning wears on, and we still haven’t located the stream.

I glance around to distract myself from the fact that we are totally lost and completely screwed. I don’t care how optimistic Hank pretends to be; with no creek or brook guiding our way, there isn’t a chance in hell of finding the lake.

I look to the left and see the wind blowing and bending the wildflowers.

I look up and watch the birds flutter around the trees.

I glance to the right and see a bear strolling along through the trees, watching me watch it.

I blink, then stop dead in my tracks.

I can see the telltale slash on its nose.

“Uh, guys!” I whisper-shout. “The b-bear. It f-found us!”

Charlie turns and looks where I’m pointing. The huge black bear has stopped moving and is staring directly at us, sniffing the air like mad.

“What’s it smelling?” Hank asks.

“Snake jerky, maybe?” I say.

“Oh Lord,” Charlie croaks, emptying the dried snake meat from his pocket. “Mr. Langston, I think perhaps we should —”

“Stand still,” Hank insists. “The bear’s just checking us out. It’s probably attracted by our food, like Dan said. It’s not actually interested in
us —”

And that’s when the bear charges — all seven hundred pounds of it hurtling our way, its fur and flesh rippling as it runs, its yellow teeth bared and snapping.

“Run!” Hank screams.

I race toward the nearest tree, dropping my sketchbook somewhere along the way. I launch myself partway up the trunk and start climbing.

I look around. Charlie’s climbing a tree, too. Hank and Penelope have bolted into the woods.

Someone has to be shit out of luck, and this time it’s Charlie. The bear targets him and starts scaling his tree, as swift and limber as a goddamn monkey.

“Good Christ!” Charlie shouts. “What do I do? What the hell do I
do
?”

But there’s nothing either of us can do except watch as the bear closes the distance.

And then I get an idea.

“Charlie!” I call out. “Jump!”

“Are you out of your fucking mind?” Charlie hollers. “I’ll kill myself — and my Nikon!”

“It’s either that or get eaten!” I yell. “The bear isn’t going to leap from the tree.”

“Yeah, because it’s not stupid.”

“Shut up!” I snap. “I mean that it’ll have to climb down. And you’ll be long gone by the time it reaches the ground.”

Charlie looks down from the branch he’s inchwormed out onto, his camera dangling from his neck. “Not if I break my leg! Or my neck!”

Meanwhile, the bear continues making its way toward Charlie, grunting as it goes. Who knew something so big could be so agile?

“Jump, Charlie!” I shout. “It’s your only chance!”

Finally, the bear makes it up to Charlie’s branch. It starts scooting toward him, swiping out with its razor-sharp claws.

Charlie whimpers and crawls farther out onto the bowing limb.

Oh my God. Charlie is actually going to die — right here in front of my eyes. I swallow a sob and bury my face in my arm.

There’s a loud shriek —“
Aaaaaaaahhh!”
— and then a dull thud, accompanied by a howl of pain:
“Owwwwww!”

I peer over my branch. Charlie is on the ground, his glasses askew, hoisting his Nikon with his left arm, his right arm pressed to his belly. Alive!

The relief is immeasurable, like Thor’s hammer has been lifted off my chest.

The bear is still in the tree. It huffs and grunts, clearly pissed off.

“My arm!” Charlie whines. “I think I broke it.”

The bear starts creeping back off the branch toward the trunk.

“Get up!” I bellow. “Run, Charlie!
Now!
”

Charlie straightens his glasses and scrambles to his feet. Our gazes meet and hold for a split second — a whole world of emotions conveyed in that one glance.

Then he takes off into the forest.

I watch the bear shinny down the tree like a fat acrobat. It drops to the ground and raises its twitching nose, sniffing the air. Maybe it won’t be able to track him. He got rid of his snake jerky, after all. Maybe it’ll all be OK.

But no sooner do I think this than the bear lowers its head and charges off in the exact direction that Charlie just ran.

I sit up in my tree, debating what to do next: Do I go down to look for the others and risk running into the killer bear? Do I wait up here until they come looking for me? If I do wait, then for how long? If I climb down, which way do I go? Everyone ran in different directions.

It’s probably best to hang tight. Charlie knows I’m up in this tree. He’ll tell the others.

If he’s still alive.

If any of them are still alive.

Oh, God, what if I’m the only one left? What if I’m lost out here all on my own? There’s no way I’ll find my way back to the lake — not with a rogue bear hunting me down.

I’m going to die out here.

Alone.

I cup my hands around my mouth. “Hank! Penelope! Charlie!” My throat is raw, my voice like wind through a torn noisemaker. “Hank! Penelope! Charlie!”

Nothing.

I stare down at the ground, thirty feet below. I spot my sketchbook lying in the dirt.

I can’t believe I’m going to die at sixteen. That I’m never going to get to kiss another girl. A real kiss. One that matters. Or know what it feels like to touch a breast.

And forget about ever getting laid.

I tug Baby Robbie’s sweater from the pocket of my sweats and clutch it in my fist as a wave of dizziness crashes over me. I grip a nearby branch to stop myself from plummeting to the ground.

Get ahold of yourself, Daniel.

It’s Charlie’s voice in my head again. I’ve never been so glad to hear his nasally twang in my life!

It’s doubtful that the bear has killed
everyone.
That’s just your imagination running wild.

Yes. Right. How much can one bear eat, anyway?

Surely someone else has survived. Max and Barbara are out here somewhere, too, don’t forget. Maybe they’ll happen upon you — though, that’s unlikely. They’re probably already at the lake, dining on root salad and roasted trout. Still, unlikely is not the same as impossible. And let’s not forget about Hank. He’s certainly killed far more bears than this bear has killed humans. Granted, he’s seemed rather off his game for much of this trip, but surely when the chips are down — as they inarguably are now — he’ll come through for you. For all of us.

Charlie’s right. There are a lot of scenarios where we get out of this alive. But all of them require me to stay calm and not give up.

I take a deep breath and try to settle my chaotic thoughts.

It must work, because suddenly I’m aware of the throbbing pain in my nose again — and the fact that my poison-ivyed ass has started to itch like a bastard again. What I wouldn’t do for some more Calamine lotion right now. Instead, I adjust my position and drag my butt crack along the bough.

“Ooooooooh.”
What glorious relief ! My eyes roll back into my head as I rock back and forth. “Oh, yeah. Get in there. Jesus-Christ-Almighty-that-feels-so-good. Yes. Yes. Yes.”

“Listen, when you’re through violating that branch there, maybe you could come down and help me look for Hank and Charlie.”

I freeze, rocked by successive waves of shock, euphoria, and excruciating embarrassment.

“Penelope! You’re — you’re alive! Thank God.” I breathe a huge sigh of relief. “And, uh, I wasn’t, you know . . .” I point to the branch. “It’s the rash. I was just trying to —”

“No need to equivocate, Dan,” she says, bending over and picking up my sketch pad. “You clearly had an itch that needed scratching. I can make myself scarce if you two need a little more time . . .?”