Chomp: Chapters 11–15

Before starting the engine, Link handed out earmuffs to dampen the roar. Raven had difficulty fitting hers over her stupendous cliff of red hair, Tuna and Wahoo watching with amusement.

“Yes, Mr. Cray, please,” said Derek. “Who cares if the alligators fake?”
“But he ain’t!” It was Link, looking both confused and indignant.

Wahoo’s father pointed wryly at Old Sleepy. “You want to practice your wrestlin’ skills, Mr. Beaver? That’s one gator you can probably handle.”

The director crammed a knuckle into his mouth to stifle a laugh.

The delicate lizard, which she’d placed like a green brooch on the collar of her camo coat, jumped to the deck of the porch and disappeared between the planks.

Raven Stark marched up the steps of the porch and asked to speak with Wahoo privately. Tuna departed with an impish wave, leaving Wahoo stranded.

“Let me get this straight,” Wahoo said curtly to his father. “You went into the water—”
“That dumb goon threw me.”

The director, cameramen and sound technicians sat in a half circle of folding chairs, drinking beer, slapping at bugs and laughing boisterously.

Wahoo couldn’t make out every word, but he got the gist.

Everything I eat and drink—and, believe me, I'm bloody famished—will come from the natural bounty of this savage but magnificent wilderness.

DEREK: Crikey, what a feisty little bugger.
CUT TO CLOSE-UP OF THE ___, writhing and snapping.

DEREK: Crikey, what a feisty little bugger.
CUT TO CLOSE-UP OF THE ___, writhing and snapping.

“Derek’s probably piggin’ out on a big juicy steak at the hotel tonight,” Tuna said morosely.

He was still stuffed from their modest camp dinner of hot dogs, black beans and rolls.

Lolling in the Jacuzzi tub, watching the jets of water make his belly quiver like a bowl of vanilla pudding, he envisioned many future talk-show appearances for himself, captivating Jay Leno or Anderson Cooper with breathtaking tales from the Florida swamp.

Most people who were nearly drowned by a twelve-foot gator would feel grateful to be alive and not eager to repeat the foolhardy behavior that had gotten them into that situation. No such contemplations entered the mind of Derek Badger as he sipped French wine and admired through soapy toes the twinkling lights of downtown Miami.

He was very much looking forward to being poked, stung, scratched, clawed, chewed and chomped by authentic denizens of the Everglades.

In the distance, a great blue heron croaked defiantly.

Tuna suggested that they go get breakfast at the main camp, from which tantalizing smells wafted through the bay trees.

Tuna suggested that they go get breakfast at the main camp, from which tantalizing smells wafted through the bay trees.

Wahoo’s father again insisted on cooking, a humble but tasty serving of bacon and powdered eggs.

The chopper slowed down until it froze in a hover high above the fleet of airboats. A familiar-looking figure could be seen at the open door, his boots braced on the skid. Poised beside him was another man aiming a video camera.

The figure let go of the helicopter and dropped free, spreading his limbs like a spider. A moment later the chute opened, a green-striped starburst against the drab background of gray clouds.

Derek entered the water gingerly as the helicopter rumbled into position above.

When he got to the part where he was supposed to feel something swim between his legs, Derek stopped. The director brusquely motioned for Mickey to get in the water.

Its reddish tongue flicked inquisitively as the snake coiled around Mickey’s forearm.

Wahoo and Tuna scrambled into her tent and closed the flap, the squall drumming loudly on the canvas.

Wahoo was mystified by this odd talent of hers. He said, “How many Latin names have you memorized?”

“It’s hard to listen to her tell about it.” Wahoo heard his voice quaver and he thought, What’s the matter with me?

Late in the afternoon, Derek Badger emerged from his private luxury tent and glared at the roiling sky.

“Still no chopper?” he said peevishly to Raven Stark.
“It doesn’t look good,” she allowed, which was an understatement.

And of course he vowed to fire the helicopter pilot for insubordination.

They spun around and saw one of the catering staff, a lanky middle-aged woman sporting a green hairnet, hopping frenetically.

Wahoo had no time for another apology, because at that instant a tremulous cry pierced the darkness, followed by another and still another....

Believed to have been carried by hurricane winds from Cuba to Florida years ago, the mastiff is quite rare and considered an endangered species. By day it sleeps, often in the shady crevices of palm fronds. It emerges not at dusk, as other bats do, but in the deep of night.

After bouncing at high speed off the canvas, the creature had landed in a muddle on Derek Badger’s cheesecake platter.

The mastiff bat that Derek Badger slowly lowered toward his gaping maw wasn’t vicious.

Wahoo’s father stood over the fallen TV star, who lay rigid and goggle-eyed. The front of his safari shirt was dappled with wet crimson splotches, and the bat dangled from his mouth like a bizarre holiday ornament.

Using the flexible stem of the fern, Wahoo’s father went to work on the bat’s belly, lightly prodding and stroking.

Wahoo waved his arms and motioned for everyone to remain still. He feared that the agitated bat would let go of Derek and then glom on to his father.