Dan Versus Nature (34 page)

All of us stare, our mouths hanging open, as shards of the burning wreckage drop from the sky, splooshing and sizzling into the lake.

Sploosh.

Sploosh.

SPLOOSH!

Charlie is so stunned, he’s not even snapping pictures.

“Clint . . .” I mumble, cold inside. “He’s . . . gone.”

Dark smoke and the stench of burning oil fill my nostrils, then my lungs. I hack and cough, folding over, my throat stinging.

I can’t believe I just watched somebody
die.

And I can’t believe
I’m
going to die too — out here in this wilderness, where I never should have been in the first place.

“Look!” Penelope shouts. “Over there! He bailed out.”

I look up and see it — the mushrooming rainbow silk in the sky. Clint dangles from the harness below it, his legs swaying this way and that, his arms tugging at the ropes, guiding the chute toward the shore.

Charlie’s recovered from his shock and is snapping photos like mad.

The rest of us run down to the shore. Clint comes down hard in the sand, his knees buckling. The fabric of the parachute engulfs him like a massive, multicolored soufflé.

When we reach him, all of us grab at the silk, trying to pull it free.

“Clint?” Hank bellows, grasping a fistful of parachute. “Are you all right?”

There is a muffled moaning coming from somewhere under the chute.

At last we find him, his face sooty, his red-rimmed eyes half shut. Hank and Max each take one of Clint’s hands and pull him up. He looks around like he isn’t quite sure where he is.

“Well, that was . . . unexpected,” Clint rasps.

“What the hell happened?” Max asks.

“Been having a bit of engine trouble of late.” Clint coughs, then undoes the buckles on the parachute harness and lets it drop. “I started over this morning, but I had to turn back.” He brushes off the butt of his pants. “Thought I’d fixed her up, but I guess it didn’t take.”

“Thank God you got out,” Barbara says.

“Were you able to radio in an SOS?” Charlie asks at the same time.

Clint shakes his head. “I’m afraid not. Whole panel went dead. I was sure I was a goner. Luckily, I had the foresight to strap on my chute before I took off this last time. The chute and this little fella.” Clint lifts his shirt and there, swaddled in a dirty towel, is Baby Robbie.

Clint unfastens a strap, removes the Baby-Real-A-Lot, and holds him out to me.

“Oh my God!” I say, running up to him and taking the baby and its bottle. “I can’t believe it! I thought I’d never see him again!” I look down at Robbie, his nose so like Erin’s that it breaks my heart into a million little pieces. Suddenly Baby Robbie’s eyes flutter open. His mouth purses and his tiny fingers clutch the air. “He’s . . . he’s alive!”

“Sure wasn’t when I found him,” Clint says. “He was lights out, over and done with. But I opened him up. Tinkered with his wires. Tightened up his joints. Used some spare doll parts I had to change out a couple of loose limbs. Also added a few new computer chips. Little fella can talk a bit now.
And
he has a new killer kung fu grip.” Clint laughs. “’Course, what I’m
not
clear about was how he wound up in my —”

“Thank you so much!” I say, diving in and giving Clint a hug — and cutting him off before he can say any more. “I can’t begin to tell you how grateful I am.”

“Yes, well.” Clint pats my back awkwardly. “It was fun, actually. Restoring the tiny tyke. Enjoyed having the company, to tell the truth. Sweet little bugger — when you get him fed and burped, that is.”

I press the power button on my ID bracelet. It lights up like a Christmas tree, showing a strong heartbeat, a yellow smiley face, and all my care scores in the green “pampered” zone.

Incredible.

I pull the filthy, tattered, and torn sweater from my pocket and put it back on Baby Robbie. My eyes start to well. It’s stupid, I know, but I’ve never seen anything more perfect in my life.

We gather up Clint’s parachute and drag it over to our pile of firewood.

“All right, we need to make a plan for getting rescued,” Max says, switching into guide mode. “This pile of wood is a good start. Should make a nice signal fire.” He turns to Clint. “Now, who knows where we are?”

“Besides myself?” Clint asks.

Max frowns. “Yes. Besides
you,
who are stuck here with
us.
Who did you tell?”

Clint shakes his head. “No one. I mean, the Zosters know we’re out here . . . somewhere. But, as to our exact location . . .” He shrugs.

Charlie gawps. “Are you telling us that our lives now rest in the hands of those maladroit ignorami?”

“
Ignoramuses,
”
Penelope corrects. “The word
ignoramus
is a Latin
verb
form meaning ‘we do not know’ and therefore has no Latin plural noun form.”

“Really,” Charlie scoffs. “And yet your own beloved
Merriam-Webster
lists it as an acceptable plural form of the word.”

Penelope laughs. “So you admit it,
Merriam-Webster
is the superior lexicon.”

“Regardless,” Hank says. “I’m sure once the ignoram —
Zosters
show up at Clint’s place and realize we haven’t returned, they’ll send someone to find us.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that.” Max runs his hand through his hair. “The Zosters are not the most trustworthy people on the planet. Or the most intelligent, for that matter. There’s a good chance they’ll convince themselves that they just missed us, or that we found our own way back — if only to avoid getting mixed up in a messy situation. And possibly to get out of paying me.”

“Oh, I can’t believe anyone would do such a thing,” Barbara says.

“I’m glad you have such faith in humanity, hun-bun,” Max says. “I, however, have had dealings with these . . . ignoramuses and am not so optimistic.”

“My mom will call the police,” I say, cradling Baby Robbie, “if we don’t show up.”

“That’s all well and good,” Max says, “but with two-point-three-six-seven million acres to search, it’s going to take some time before anyone finds us.”

“What do you suggest, then?” Hank asks.

Max sighs. “We have to be prepared to be here for the long haul. Days, at least. Possibly weeks. Let’s start with the basics: shelter, fire, water, food. Who wants to do what?”

I’m on shelter duty with Clint. We have been informed by Barefoot McWrinklenuts that the shelter must be large enough to house all seven of us because “this is the most efficient use of our time, energy, and supplies” and because of “collective body heat” and whatnot.

This has turned out to be a colossal pain in the ass. The structure keeps collapsing, despite the fact that we’ve been following Max’s detailed sand drawing to the letter — well, until Clint stepped on it and left a size-eleven footprint in the middle of the schematic.

I am tired. I want to quit. But I chose this task. It was the lesser of four evils — or at least, that’s what I thought at the time.

I could have teamed up with Max and Barbara, who were headed out to scavenge for edible plants together. But I really don’t want to spend too much time in their company; Barbara keeps “sneakily” pinching Max’s butt, which only serves to sear the disturbing images of them deeper into my mind.

I could’ve helped Penelope and Charlie to get the signal fire lit. Except that they’re all shoulder bumps and Shakespeare insults and etymology jokes now, which makes me feel like a vestigial organ.

Or
I could have gone fishing with Hank.

“Come on,” he’d said shyly. “I’ll show you how it’s done. It’s the one thing my father actually taught me.”

But I’d told him “No, thanks.” I didn’t give him an explanation — just turned away and sidled up next to Clint, gave him a high five like we were best buds, thanked him again for saving Baby Robbie, and asked him how he wanted to divvy up the hut-building tasks.

I could tell I hurt Hank’s feelings. I didn’t really care at the time. But I feel sort of bad about it now — and not only because I’m exhausted and sweaty and hate what I’m doing at the moment. It’s something else. Something I can’t quite put my finger on.

I keep glancing over at him, knee-deep in the lake — casting the fishing line he prepared from vines, gripping the pole he fashioned from a live branch, jiggling the hook and lure he made from one of Barbara’s earrings.

He’s trying so hard.

Has been trying so hard all along.

With everything.

Yeah, he lied to me. And he lied to Mom too. And that sucks. But he didn’t really mean it. He didn’t set out to deceive us — not like Dad, who’d disappear on payday, stay out all night, and come home the next morning smelling like a recycling bin and saying he had to work late. And not like most of Mom’s other boyfriends, who lied in order to get something from us, from her: money, a place to crash, free booze, and pay-per-view porn . . .

And it’s not like I’ve been so truthful with him. I mean, I concocted a whole
list
of lies to tell and pranks to pull, for Chrissakes. And Hank put up with it all. If I’d been in his shoes, I would’ve taken off after the tiny-testicle talk at the hockey game.

But he didn’t leave then, and he didn’t leave after I puked in his lap and farted up the hut and
shot him in the leg with a frickin’ arrow.

Though Charlie’s right: he probably will leave now.

“Hey, fella,” Clint says, breaking my trance. “This shelter ain’t gonna build itself.”

“Oh, yeah, sorry,” I say, picking up a branch. I arrange it on the support pole, then glance back over my shoulder at Hank. He’s still standing there, waggling the fishing line, his cheeks red with sunburn, his expression full of hope.

Just then Hank’s hands jerk forward, his pole bending. He’s got something! A monster one, from the looks of it.

I turn around and watch as he peels his shirt off, then slowly pulls the line in — gingerly, cautiously . . .

He leans forward, the pole in his left hand, his shirt in his right.

Suddenly, he lunges down, water splashing everywhere, and scoops up a huge fish. Its long, thick body thrashes inside the cloth.

Hank grins hugely. He turns toward shore and sees me watching him. He holds the fish over his head like a trophy and does a little triumphant dance.

I smile and give him a thumbs-up. Oddly, I feel tears pooling in my eyes.

And that’s when it hits me.

Hard.

In the gut:

I like Hank.

And I’m going to miss him.

The fish tastes good, but I don’t say anything. I just choke it down with my emotions and the bitter greens that Max and Barbara have gathered. Baby Robbie provides a nice distraction, grasping my index finger with his powerful grip and cooing things like “I wuv you” and “Wanna play?” and “Let’s be friends to the end.”

I don’t know how the hell I’m supposed to explain Robbie’s newfound dexterity and elocution to Ms. Drizzler, but I’m going to have to come up with something before we get home.

If
we get home.

I take another bite of food and glance down at my sketchbook on the ground, then at the fire, at the lake, everywhere but at Hank. I can’t look at him. I feel so rotten. How ridiculous is it that I was so worried about him abandoning us that I did everything to push him away — and now I’m all torn up to be losing him?

“This is really something,” Clint says, laughing, flecks of salmon flying from his mouth and getting stuck in his beard. “I never eat this well at home! Only fish I ever consume comes in a can with a cartoon fish named Charlie on the label. Ha-ha.” Clint swats Charlie’s leg. “You think that’s where your ma got your name from?”

“I cannot think of anything less likely,” Charlie states. “And, just for your information, canned tuna is a
Clostridium botulinum
disaster waiting to happen.”

“Not to mention,” Penelope adds, “the increased risk of methylmercury poisoning.”

“Which”— Charlie gestures with a piece of salmon —“now that I think about it, would actually explain quite a few things about you, Clint.”

Clint’s brow furrows. “I don’t follow.”

“Exactly,” Penelope and Charlie say in unison. They fold over and crack up.