Chomp (11 page)

Wahoo asked if she had a photographic memory.

She said, “No, dear, I just study.”

Before long they heard voices, and through the trees they saw the campsite of the
Expedition Survival!
crew. No fire was burning, but the clearing was well lit by cheesy bamboo tiki torches.

A young woman from the catering company was cooking T-bone steaks on a big stainless-steel stove of the type used at fancy river camps in places like Alaska. The director, cameramen and sound technicians sat in a half circle of folding chairs, drinking beer, slapping at bugs and laughing boisterously.

“Turn off the flashlight,” Tuna whispered to Wahoo. “Let’s get closer.”

“No way. We’re not gonna spy.”

“It’s not spying, Lance, it’s
observing
.”

They crouched in a thicket of coco plums and inched forward. The crew members were taking turns telling stories. Wahoo couldn’t make out every word, but he got the gist. Even the catering lady was giggling.

“Who are they talking about?” Tuna asked Wahoo.

“Take a wild guess.”

“Not Mr. Badger?”

“I’m pretty sure.”

They stopped moving so they could hear better. The
next story, which was recounted uproariously by the show’s director, involved a close-up scene in which Derek accidentally snorted a live earthworm up his nose.

“They make him sound like a horse’s ass,” Tuna whispered cheerlessly.

“You know how people talk when the boss isn’t there.”

Tuna hadn’t been around Derek long enough to know the truth. She was a genuine fan, one of millions, so it would take a while for her to accept that the real-life Derek was a different person from the one she saw on TV. Earlier, Wahoo had noticed her disappointment when she’d learned Derek was staying at a luxury hotel, not roughing it in the swamp as he pretended to do on the show.

She tugged Wahoo’s sleeve. “Somebody’s coming!”

“Be still.”

One of the cameramen had left his chair and was cautiously making his way into the unlit wooded area where Wahoo and Tuna were hiding. He was only a few steps away when he stopped beside a bay tree and began to unzip his pants.

Oh no
, thought Wahoo.
Not here
.

In the shadows he couldn’t see Tuna’s expression, but he could sense her alarm. He touched her arm so she would stay calm—if the two of them were caught snooping, Raven would immediately fire Mickey, just as she’d threatened to do.

Tuna gently pushed Wahoo’s hand away. Next she did something completely unexpected: she grabbed one of the coco plum bushes and began to shake it.

The cameraman who was about to relieve himself froze at the rustling noise in the darkness. Tuna wasn’t finished. She let out a low, rising growl that an untrained ear could easily have taken for an unhappy bear or an ill-tempered bobcat, or even a mama panther.

With a yelp, the cameraman wheeled and took off running for the campsite, crashing out of the tree line at full speed.

“Something big’s out there!” he hollered to the other crew members. “I heard it!”

A wave of laughter followed, for the frightened fellow had neglected in retreat to pull up his zipper.

Tuna said, “That was seriously rude. He almost peed on our heads!”

Wahoo was on edge. “Let’s get outta here.”

“Wait a minute—he dropped something.”

“Come on,
Lucille
! Before one of the others needs a potty break.”

“I said hold on.”

She darted up to the bay tree and snatched an object off the ground. Wahoo, who was already slipping away, heard twigs cracking as she hurried to catch up. Only when they were safely out of sight, deep in the trees, did he turn on the flashlight to see what the cameraman had left behind.

“What is this?” Tuna asked, riffling the pages. “Some sort of book?”

Wahoo took it from her and held the cover sheet up in
the narrow beam of light. He said, “It’s not a book. It’s a script.”

The title, printed on the first page, was
Expedition Survival!
Episode 103—Florida Everglades
.

Tuna gave Wahoo an inquiring glance. “Guess we oughta give it back, huh?”

“For sure,” he said. “First thing tomorrow.”

She chuckled. “But tonight you’re gonna read it, aren’t you? Don’t lie to me, Lance.”

“I’m absolutely gonna read it,” he said.

What better way to prepare for another Derek Badger fiasco?

Wahoo slapped the script closed. “I can’t show this to Pop. He’ll go ballistic.”

Tuna looked bothered. “What kind of animal is the blankety-blank supposed to be?”

“Whatever’s handy. A snake, a frog, a turtle—you’ve seen the show. Derek always fries up
something
.”

They were hunkered by the dwindling campfire and using the flashlight for reading. Mickey Cray snored in his tent.

“I watch his show every week,” said Tuna, “and I never knew the whole thing was written out beforehand. I thought all that stuff just, you know, happened.”

Wahoo had to remind himself that most people had no idea how nature programs were produced. Lots of time and money were spent making every animal encounter appear spontaneous and real, even though the scenes were carefully planned in advance.

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

“And a humongous slice of Key lime pie.”

“Then why does the script say he’s gotta go kill a blankety-blank for food?”

“Because,” Wahoo said, “that’s one of the things he’s famous for.”

Tuna planted her chin in her hands. “All those times on TV when he swallowed some little mouse or salamander, I thought he was really starving. Am I stupid or what?”

“You’re not stupid. They don’t exactly advertise what goes on behind the scenes.”

Wahoo stood up to stretch. He was still stuffed from their modest camp dinner of hot dogs, black beans and rolls. For dessert Mickey had handed out Chips Ahoy cookies.

Tuna said, “Your old man’s not gonna go along with this scam, is he? Trap some poor old snake or toad just so Derek can cook it up on the show?”

“Not Pop. No way.”

“Good!”

“It’s late. I’m going to bed,” Wahoo said.

“I might stay up and read some more.”

“Are you sure you want to?”

Tuna nodded. Her brown eyes were bright and intent in the amber glow of the fire.

He handed her the flashlight and the script. “Remember, it’s just show business.”

“Not to me,” she said.

When Derek Badger became agitated, he sometimes misplaced his fake Australian accent.

“You call this a lobster?” he snarled at the attendant who delivered his dinner to the hotel room. “I’ve eaten bloody
shrimp
that were bigger!”

The man mumbled an apology, covered the tray with a silver lid and rolled the cart out the door.

“And next time bring me a real one from Maine,” Derek barked after him.

The star of
Expedition Survival!
was marinating regally in the Jacuzzi, which had a grand window view of Biscayne Bay and the Miami skyline. All evening he’d been thinking about the Everglades show—specifically, how to make it the most thrilling, hair-raising episode in the history of reality TV.

Derek was highly motivated to do something spectacular. His contract with the Untamed Channel expired soon, and his agent was bargaining to get him a new three-year deal for a lot more money.

And he definitely needed it. During the off-season, he’d purchased a ninety-nine-foot yacht that was currently being
refurbished at a boatyard in West Palm Beach. Among the additions were a billiard parlor, a mini–movie theater and a gymnasium that Derek probably would never use. It was an extremely expensive project, more expensive than he’d ever dreamed. Just painting a new name on the yacht’s transom—he was calling it the
Sea Badger
—cost eighteen hundred bucks.

Those cheap weasels at the network had offered to renew Derek’s contract with a 10 percent raise that he considered highly insulting, and well below what was necessary to maintain the proper lifestyle of an international television star (and now yachtsman). That’s why the Everglades episode
had
to be his best ever, a blockbuster. Then, fearing that another outdoor show might try to hire him away, the suits at the Untamed Channel would have no choice but to accept Derek’s extravagant demands.

The scene with Alice the alligator had turned out marvelously terrifying—by now Derek had replayed the clip at least twenty times—and he felt inspired to make the rest of the program equally memorable. 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. His reckless brush with death actually made him feel invincible.

Ironhearted.

Indestructible.

“Here’s to Alice,” he said, raising his glass in a private toast.

The decision not to use any more of Mickey Cray’s animals was risky, but risk was exactly what Derek desired. He knew that wild critters were more aggressive and unpredictable than captive ones. The disappointing python scene was a prime example—Cray’s lazy snake was about as fierce as a garden hose.

To capture maximum drama on video, Derek wanted the real deal, wild and raw. The caution and common sense that would govern the actions of a clear-thinking person were in his case overpowered by a blinding hunger for more fame and wealth.

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

And he would get his wish.

Wahoo was accustomed to his father’s snoring, which sounded like a dump truck stripping its gears. That’s not what awakened him.