Carl Hiaasen - Chomp

Most of all he missed the nightly helicopter flights back to the swanky hotel, where he could get a massage and soak in the soothing Jacuzzi.

As he watched the airboat continue to fill with rain, Derek grew more apprehensive. If the hull wallowed and the engine became submerged, he’d be stranded in the middle of the bloody Everglades with no way to get out. Resorting again to the Helmet Cam, he hurriedly began scooping water from the boat and dumping it over the side.

In a downpour this was hard work, and Derek only lasted about fifteen minutes. Grumpy and exhausted, he took cover in a stand of trees-absolutely the dumbest place to hide when the clouds were full of thunder. From a wild coffee bush he plucked a handful of scarlet berries, which tasted exceptionally gross. He spat them out in a gummy clump, something he did only when cameras weren’t rolling.

Disgusted, he sat down under a bay tree. The leaves were dripping and the ground was squishy, so he propped the Helmet Cam under his butt.

As the wind freshened and swirled, Derek tried in vain to think about anything other than food. When a lovely butterfly with wings like white parchment landed on a vine, he snatched the unsuspecting traveler and popped it into his mouth. The taste was only slightly less awful than that of the coffee berries. As soon as Derek swallowed, he knew he’d made a mistake.

He would have thrown up instantly if the lightning bolt hadn’t struck first.

“Did you find him yet?” Gerry Germaine asked.

“There’s been a setback,” Raven Stark said. The satellite phone felt like a barbell in her hand. “Two of our search boats were…”

“What?”

“Hijacked,” she said.

“By who? Pirates?” Gerry Germaine said sarcastically. “Are you in Florida, darling, or Somalia?”

“I didn’t mean ‘hijacked.’ I meant waylaid.” Raven was in no mood to quibble. This was already the worst day of her entire adult life. “Apparently it’s a family dispute.”

“Give me the short version, please.” The executive producer of Expedition Survival! was sipping a grapefruit-and-tangerine smoothie on the pool deck of his house, which overlooked the Pacific Ocean. He was wearing sunglasses, a short linen robe and ridiculous slippers lined with weasel fur. His laptop sat open on the table.

“Here’s what I know,” said Raven. “The animal wrangler we’re using has a son. The son has a girlfriend. The girlfriend’s father has a drinking problem. This morning he showed up looking for his daughter. He also had a loaded gun-”

“This is the short version?”

“Nobody was killed-”

“You’re ruining my sunrise,” said Gerry Germaine.

“-at least, we don’t think anybody was killed.”

“Meaning you don’t know for sure.”

“He fired the gun once,” Raven said, “at the airboat carrying his daughter. Though, as I said, we don’t believe anyone was hit. Then he-”

“Stop right there. While all this domestic drama unfolds, is somebody out searching for the unreliable and grossly overpaid Mr. Badger? The star of my show? Yes or no?”

“Not at the moment.” Raven was sitting alone in Derek’s motor coach. Rain lashed at the windows. “We basically have monsoon conditions right now,” she said. Her free hand stirred a mug of hot tea. “Also, the other airboat drivers are extremely upset about the shooting and so forth-”

“As they should be.” The seriousness of the situation was clear to Gerry Germaine. “Is that thunder I hear on your end, Raven?”

“Yup.”

With a full production crew on standby, weather delays were always expensive. So were lawsuits-and the set of a TV program was no place for a trigger-happy drunk. Gerry Germaine knew what had to be done. There was no choice.

“Is the redneck with the gun still on the loose?” he asked Raven.

“Yes, however-”

“Then you’d better call the cops.”

“They’re on the way. Unfortunately, they can’t do much until the storms pass. It’s too hairy out there.”

Gerry Germaine sighed to himself. “Did you happen to tell the police about Derek running off?”

“I did.” Raven wondered if she would be fired. In a way, it would be a relief. “Frankly, I felt things were getting out of hand down here.”

“The understatement of the millennium.”

“The police said anybody who calls himself a survivalist ought to be able to survive a rainstorm. They said they’re in the business of hunting down criminals, not TV actors. They won’t even start looking for Derek until after they’ve caught the nut with the gun!”

“Hmmm,” said Gerry Germaine. It wasn’t the worst news he’d ever gotten.

In fact, he’d already made a phone call to a buff New Zealander who starred in a low-budget outdoor program on the Evergreen Network. Once the young fellow heard how much money was involved, he said he’d be honored to take over as host and star of Expedition Survival! in the tragic event that Derek Badger was unable to go on.

From his Google search, Gerry Germaine had learned that a person infected with rabies might not show symptoms for weeks, months or even years. That presented an inconvenient roadblock to replacing Derek on the show, which was Gerry Germaine’s secret plan. Therefore, the executive producer wasn’t totally upset to learn that the police were more concerned with finding the disturbed gunman than tracking down a wayward celebrity.

In Gerry Germaine’s view, the longer that Derek remained lost in the Everglades, the more likely that he’d be in no shape to continue doing the TV show after he was found. If he was found. Either way, Derek’s absence would give Gerry Germaine an opening to fly in the New Zealander for a tryout.

Raven said, “There’s another complication, Gerry. It involves the wrangler-he’s been abducted.”

“Not now. It’s time for my swim.”

Raven’s loyalty to Derek had its limits. At this point she was getting worried about saving her own job. “Look, I know this is costing a fortune,” she said. “But even if Derek can’t finish the show, it isn’t a total loss.”

“How so?”

“The scene with him riding the giant alligator is golden, trust me. Plus, he gets nipped on the nose by a turtle, bloodied by a water snake-and then there’s the bat attack, which will be an instant classic on YouTube. All I’m saying, Gerry, is that we’ve got enough video to stitch together a pretty exciting Florida adventure.”

“Except for the end,” Gerry Germaine said. “We don’t really have an ending, do we?”

“No,” Raven replied glumly. “I guess we don’t.”

When Wahoo was six years old, he experienced a brush with death. At least that’s how he remembered it.

His father was hunting for snakes near a railroad, Wahoo tagging along. His sister, Julie, was there, too, carrying the frayed old pillowcases that served as capture bags. Mickey ran off in pursuit of a speedy coachwhip snake, and Julie chased after him.

Wahoo wandered away, following the railroad bed. He became preoccupied with counting the wooden ties that were set in gravel beneath the rails-his dad had told him there were three thousand planks for every mile of track. Wahoo didn’t believe it.

He walked slowly to make sure he counted each tie, and he recited each number out loud. At 104, the rails began to hum. Wahoo turned.

Speeding toward him was a freight train pulled by a dirty blue locomotive.

In Hollywood movies, trains always blow a long whistle when something appears ahead on the tracks. That didn’t happen. Wahoo wasn’t very tall, so the engineer might not have seen him.

Time crawled. Wahoo should have been terrified, but he wasn’t. He should have waved his arms, but he didn’t; he just stood there feeling the rumble in the soles of his feet. The train wasn’t slowing down, yet Wahoo’s legs seemed in no hurry to move. Later his father would tell him the locomotive was going fifty-eight miles an hour. That Wahoo believed.