Carl Hiaasen - Chomp

After T-boning the cypress log, the airboat crashed upside down in the grassy flats. Mickey Cray landed on a natural cushion of cattails ten yards away. Surprisingly, his head didn’t ache, and his vision was perfect.

When he saw the wrecked boat, he felt sure that Tuna’s father was either dead or badly injured-but he was wrong. Jared Gordon clambered from beneath the overturned hull and trained his pistol on Mickey.

“Don’t you move!”

“Anything you say, brother.”

“Come grab the beer!”

Jared Gordon had chipped a front tooth but otherwise was unhurt. The leather belt with which he’d strapped himself to the driver’s platform had held tight, saving him from being thrown under the weight of the boat. Mickey was amazed that the man had hung on to the gun.

“Let’s go!” Jared Gordon snapped.

“Take it easy.”

Together they set out through stinging rain in search of high ground. Mickey led the way, lugging the carton of beer. Overhead the sky continued to flash and quake.

The muck was so thick that it sucked the boots off their feet. Jared Gordon staggered and cussed, then staggered some more. Mickey kept watching for an opportunity to snatch the revolver, but not once did Jared Gordon fall. It was very discouraging.

After an hour, the lightning stopped and the downpour let up. They came upon an elevated ridge of hardwoods, and Tuna’s father insisted on stopping for “an adult beverage.”

Mickey handed him a beer, which he chugged down hastily. He signaled for another and asked, “Now what?”

“We wait.”

“For what?”

“Help.”

“I don’t need help,” Jared Gordon said. “I need to find my little girl.”

“Can you walk on water?”

“What’re you talkin’ ’bout? Course I can’t walk on water.”

“Me neither,” said Mickey, “which means we’re stranded.”

Tuna’s father waggled the gun menacingly. “Oh no, we ain’t.”

“What-you expect me to carry you through the mud? Like a baby?”

“If that’s what it takes.”

“Not happening, amigo.”

“Huh?” It dawned on Jared Gordon that his captive wasn’t particularly afraid, despite the threat of a loaded weapon.

“Without me,” Mickey said, “you’ll never find your way out of here. You’ll croak in this swamp-lost, drunk and all by your lonesome. That’s a fact.”

Even on a good day, Jared Gordon’s brain didn’t run like a smoothly oiled machine. And today wasn’t a good day; it was a rotten day. He decided to show Mickey Cray that he meant business.

“Git down on your belly,” he said.

“Why?”

“Just do it.”

Mickey had been thinking hard about his situation and the smartest way to handle it. His main mission was to prevent Tuna’s father from finding Tuna and Wahoo, wherever they might be. For that reason, Mickey couldn’t afford to do something dumb and get himself shot. Until the police arrived, he was the only one standing between Jared Gordon and those two kids.

So, reluctantly, he did as he was told. In the wet grass he lay down, prepared to roll away violently if the man began firing at him.

However, Jared Gordon stepped off in another direction.

“Look here,” he said, and leveled the pistol at a tall white heron in the reeds.

Mickey raised his head. “Hey, don’t do that. I’ll catch us some fish.”

“Ha! This ain’t about lunch.”

It required every bit of Mickey’s self-control for him to remain still while Jared Gordon took aim. Herons were wondrous birds, sly and elegant stalkers of minnows. A curious young male sometimes visited the pond of the Everglades set behind the Crays’ house-Wahoo had named it Harry.

“What the bleep are you trying to prove?” Mickey said.

“Shut up.” Tuna’s father pulled the trigger and a single shot echoed.

The white heron flew away, squawking indignantly.

“Damn,” Jared Gordon muttered, lowering the gun.

Mickey thought: Good. Only three bullets left.

The rain eased to a drizzle and the thunder faded. Wahoo and Tuna couldn’t sit still anymore. They left Link resting under the tarp and ventured out to explore the island.

“Stay quiet,” Wahoo whispered.

“Duh,” said Tuna.

With caution they picked their way through underbrush. Wahoo spotted a patch of poison ivy and detoured around it. The first major sign of life-and death-was a Burmese python coiled around a limp purple gallinule. The python was only a seven-footer, much smaller than Beulah, but still the bird had no chance.

Tuna stopped as if she’d walked into a brick wall. Never had she witnessed such a scene in person-only on TV nature programs. Unable to identify the reptile, she wanted to look it up in one of the field guides in her tote bag.

“No, let’s keep going,” Wahoo said.

“It won’t come after us later?”

“Don’t worry, Lucille. We’re not on the menu.”

He could see she was rattled. Memorizing the scientific names of wild species wasn’t the same thing as entering their world. The bird had died so that the snake wouldn’t starve.

“Pretty brutal,” Tuna said.

“Humans can be worse. They do things out of pure meanness.”

“Tell me about it.”

Wahoo heard the pain in her words. “I didn’t mean it that way,” he said.

“No big deal. Daddy is what he is.”

They circled the feeding python and moved on. Tuna’s flip-flops kept sticking in the mud, so she kicked them off. Because of the heavy downpour, the borders of the tree island had shrunk with the rising water. Wahoo pointed out a drag mark where a hefty gator had crawled up on the bank to sleep.

“Where’s he at now?” Tuna asked, looking around.

“Stop worrying.”

“I am not worried.”

Wahoo was the first to spy the empty airboat, its propeller blade showing through a gash in the cattails. He crouched low and pulled Tuna close.

“Is it them?” she whispered anxiously.

“I don’t know. Stay here while I check it out.”

“No way.”

“I’m serious,” Wahoo said.

“Me too, Lance. I go where you go.”

They approached with cat-like caution. Tuna’s legs were speckled with mosquitoes, but she didn’t dare slap at them for fear of being heard. Wahoo listened intently for voices-especially his father’s. The woods remained silent except for the murmur of raindrops on the leaves.

Wahoo halted a few feet behind the beached airboat. “Wrong color,” he said.

The one that Tuna’s father hijacked had a glam sparkle-green hull. This boat was hand-painted in dull camo colors.

“It’s Link’s!” Tuna said with relief. “The one Derek took.”

From deep in the underbrush came a grunt, followed by an odd, quavering chant.

Wahoo edged closer. “Mr. Badger?”

“Go away, mate!” The bogus Steve Irwin accent was unmistakable. Gah why, mite!

“It’s totally him,” whispered Tuna.

The off-key chanting resumed: “Eee-ka-laro! Eee-ka-laro! Gumbo mucho eee-ka-laro.”

“Are you hurt?” Tuna called.

“Get lost!” Derek barked. “If you know what’s bloody good for you!”

Tuna followed Wahoo toward the hoarse voice in the woods. They came upon the TV star scrambling awkwardly up a Brazilian peppertree. The punctured Helmet Cam sat crookedly on his head, and a burn hole was visible in his shorts. He looked haggard and wild-eyed.

“Come on down from there,” Wahoo said.

“No! I’ve got the curse!”

“What curse?” Tuna asked.

“Run for your lives, both of you! Chop-chop!”

Wahoo said, “We need that airboat, Mr. Badger.”

“Are you blind, boy? The bloody thing’s full of water.”

“You’re going to help us bail it out.”