Dan Versus Nature (20 page)

“What?” My eyes nearly shoot from their sockets. “
Miscarriage
too? You used
that
on me?”

“I know, I know,” Charlie says. “But with the change in strategies, I needed a way to immobilize you. You can’t be attacked by a buck if you’re running scared. But hunched over a hole, voiding your bowels like a diarrheal dog? Well . . . it’s about as close to leg shackles as I could get.”

“You bastard.” As I step toward Charlie, a quivering squeak escapes from my butt.

Charlie stifles a laugh. “I’m afraid this isn’t going to be pretty.”

“How could you do this to me?” My gut contracts, causing me to emit another high-pitched sphinc-squeal. “I thought you were my friend!”

“That’s exactly
why
I did it,” Charlie says. “This is the big push, so to speak. We’ve worked very hard to get Hank to the edge of the cliff. Now it’s time to shove him over.”

I’m sweating from head to foot. I feel like I’m going to unload in my borrowed sweatpants.

“I’ve never hated you more.” I whip around and do a butt-clenched hobble toward the shelter.

Charlie hurries after me. “Where are you going?”

“To sleep this off,” I say. “All of it.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

I turn on him. “I could care less what
you
would do, you ass nugget.”

“Couldn’t,” Charlie says.

“Couldn’t what?”

“You
couldn’t
care less.
Could
implies that you do care some.”

“How about you go screw yourself? Are you clear on what that implies, Charlie?”

I turn away again, pressing my fingers into my bloated belly as I shuffle over to the shelter. I crouch down and crawl inside, creeping by Hank, Max, and Barbara, who’s lying on her back, her mouth slacked open, snoring like a lion with laryngitis. I inch along beside Penelope, mummified in her Wonder Woman sleeping bag.

Finally, I make it to my bedroll and slip inside. I pull the cover up, lie on my side, and hunch into the fetal position. The sharp vinegary stink of deer pee that surrounds me is awful. But the pain in my gut is even worse. Like a giant eel is slithering around inside me, gnawing on my innards.

I try to relax even as my stomach squeaks and growls. People sleep in worse conditions than this. Cancer kids in hospitals. Homeless people on the street. People in war zones. So I have a stomachache. And I smell like an incontinent old man. And I’m trapped in a tiny stick hut with five other people, wrapped up like a polyester burrito.

Big deal.

I can do this. I’ve slept off food poisoning before. Headaches. Muscle cramps. Various bruises and injuries inflicted by whichever jocks Charlie decided to piss off that day. Eventually I’ll drift off and, hopefully, wake up tomorrow feeling — and smelling — like a new man.

Something rustles nearby. I peek over and see the silhouette of Charlie on his hands and knees, cat-pawing his way back to his camping cot. No way Charlie would sleep on the ground. Not with the increased possibility of getting bitten by a “vector-borne illnesses-bearing insect.”

I suddenly wish I’d thought to scoop up a bunch of dirt and leaves and sprinkle it into his blankets. Or unload my doctored chili into his cot. Dish him up some soft-serve revenge.

But there was no way I could’ve managed that, even if I’d thought of it. Not with the agony I’m in. I’m lucky I could make it back to my own sleeping bag.

I close my eyes. Settle in. Take a deep breath — which I instantly realize is a colossal mistake.

Halfway through filling my lungs, a violent, wet cheek-flapper blasts from my ass. I try to squeeze it off, but it splutters on unrelentingly for a good five seconds, sounding like a didgeridoo played into a pot of loose mashed potatoes.

“Huh? Hmm? Wha?” I hear Hank mutter.

I pull the covers tight around my neck to try to bottle up the smell, but it doesn’t work. The stink that envelopes me is heinous. Like a provolone-and-salami club left in a filthy urinal. I lie stock-still, every muscle in my body tightened, praying I can avoid further eruptions.

I clasp one palm over my nose and clutch my convulsing stomach with the other, breathing tiny sips of air through my mouth. The poo particles pummel my face, making me gag. Finally I can’t take it any longer. I lift the top of the sleeping bag and waft it back and forth, hoping to disperse the stink.

Barbara coughs and I go rigid again. She makes a few sleepy grunting sounds, then starts snoring again.

I breathe in, trying to clear my nasal passages. Relax my body a little.

Another
really
bad idea.

A powerful squall erupts from my rear — deep, resonant, and rumbling. The kind of outburst you might expect from an elephant seal.

Penelope groans awake. She pokes her head out of her sleeping bag and props herself up onto her elbows, her eyes half shut. “Who brought the flügelhorn?”

“Your mom’s snoring,” I say, softly. “She’s been at it all night. Must have some”— I clear my throat —“phlegm or something.”

I hear Charlie’s barely suppressed sniggers in the corner. I could murder him.

“Yeah, she does that.” Penelope drops her head back onto her pillow. “Maybe tomorrow night we can have two shelters,” she says sleepily. Suddenly, she bolts back upright, her entire face spasming. “Holy
Christ
!” she whisper-shouts, pinching her nose. “That was no snore. I think . . . I think someone in here shit their pants.”

“I bet it was Max,” I say, burying my face in the crook of my elbow. “All those nuts and leaves he was eating.”

“Some people can’t handle their fiber.” Penelope retches a little before lying back down. “Let’s just pray the tank has been emptied.”

“Yeah,” I say, tensing everything up. “Hope so.”

But —
ohgod, ohgod, ohgod
— it’s building again. The pressure.

I visualize pinching off the lip of a balloon. Or covering the mouth of a foaming soda bottle. But my hold is weakening.

No. No. No. Please. No —

Vvvvrrrraaaapth!

My entire sleeping bag puffs up behind me, like a plastic bag catching the air.

Oh, God.

Charlie is cracking up now, not even trying to keep quiet. “No one light a match.”

“No kidding,” Penelope says. “I think Max might be dying. And he’s going to take us down with him. Do you have any of those extra respirators, Charlie?”

“Afraid not,” Charlie answers. “And it’s not Max who’s trying to kill us. It’s —”

This time I’m grateful for the snarling jockey-burner that blasts out of me. It’s husky and insistent . . . and slightly painful. Like I may have torn something.

“What . . . what’s going on here?” Hank mumbles, and sits up. “Who’s making all that —” He gags and slaps a hand over his mouth and nose. “Oh,
God
! What is that horrible smell?”

“It’s Dan,” Charlie blurts.

“Is not.” I grit my teeth, another nor’easter threatening to escape my aft.

I quickly roll onto my back, trying to smother the storm. But it does no good. The seal on my gasket is long gone, and the wind whips out wildly and vociferously.

VVVVRRRRAAAAPTH!

A slight, moist discharge follows.

Barbara and Max appear unfazed by the noise and noxious fumes. Everyone else, however, turns and stares at me in the dappled moonlight.

“So it was you all along.” Penelope flicks on a tiny flashlight, shining in it my face like I’m in an interrogation room. “Shifting blame is a serious personality flaw, Dan. It belies a much deeper issue. Self-loathing, perhaps? Deep-seated guilt? An inability to accept responsibility for your actions? Which one is it?”

I squint and lift my hand to block the light beam. “I thought we weren’t allowed to bring any modern —” I start to say, then breathe in a lungful of air so chunky and toxic that my stomach nearly shoots straight up my esophagus.

I dry-heave and hack, my eyes starting to tear up.

“It’s his spastic colon,” Charlie says. “IBS. He’s had it for as long as I’ve known him. He’s understandably embarrassed by it.”

Hank frowns. “Your mom didn’t mention that you have a medical condition.”

I open my mouth to correct him, but my sphincter cuts me off with a wheezing snorter.

Penelope shimmies out of her sleeping bag. “IBS or BS — either way, I’m out of here.”

“I think we could all use some fresh air,” Hank says, his hand still clamped over his nose. He follows Penelope out of the hut.

Max and Barbara are miraculously still asleep. Why couldn’t Penelope have inherited her mother’s deep-sleeping abilities?

I glare at Charlie. “I’m going to kill you.”

“Yeah, with your stench,” he says. “I better go join the others before I’m rendered comatose.”

Charlie makes a move to leave, but I lunge for him. Grab his leg.

“Not so fast, buddy,” I snarl, grabbing his leg. “You wrought this. Now you’re going to stew in it.”

He grins at me. “Don’t overexert yourself, Daniel. We wouldn’t want you to have an accident, now would we?”

Then he pokes me in the belly.

Oh, God.

My stomach gurgles.

Squeezes.

Lurches.

“You dick,” I say, letting go of Charlie.

I grab my gut. Leap to my feet. And stumble out of the hut.

Hoping that it’s not too late.

I bolt out into the open, buttocks clamped tight, and charge past the others, who seem headed toward the fire pit.

“Dan!” Hank calls out. “Where are you going?”

“Have to . . . check on something!” I shout, not breaking my stride, my socks loose and saggy on my feet as I stumble-run into the moonlit woods.

Oh, Jesus, this is going to be explosive. Goddamn Charlie and his stupid bean powder.

A huge tree twenty yards in front of me becomes my sole focus. The pain in my gut is intense. My intestines are convulsing. Whatever’s inside me wants out, and it wants out
right now.

I take one last leap and make it to the massive Douglas fir in the nick of time.

In a single motion I drop trou, press my back against the tree trunk, squat down, and let go.

“Oooooooooooooo!”
The relief is immediate and glorious as I splatter the ground with a torrent of the foulest-smelling diarrhea I have ever experienced.

The sputtering is loud and angry, like a faucet with air in the pipes turned on full blast. I scoot my feet a bit wider to avoid spackling them with filth, then hunch over even more, my gut spasming, my anus on fire.

The evil spews and spurts out of me, as though I’m evacuating everything I’ve eaten for the past month. The thick, eggy stink of it, like a stagnant bog, plugs my nostrils. I clench down and unleash another violent swampy discharge.

“
Uuuuuuuuu.
God.” My eyes roll back into my head. “Out, evil spirits! Be gone!”

I contract my stomach muscles hard, blowing out a final sustained stool shower.

I exhale, completely spent.

I glance around in the dimness for some clean leaves to wipe myself with and spot some at the base of the tree. I slowly lower myself down and grab a handful, my thighs trembling from the stress of crouching so long.

Just as I finish cleaning up, I get another knifing pain in my intestines. Oh no. Not again.

I’m about to let loose once more when I hear a rustling sound over to my right, like heavy footsteps in the forest.

“Who’s there? Charlie? Hank? I’m still kinda working things out over here. You should probably keep a safe distance.”

No response.

Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.

“Hello?” I call out. “I’ll be done in just a minute, OK?”

Nothing.

A light breeze sways the branches above me, blessedly shifting my sewer stench away from me. An owl caterwauls somewhere in the distance.

And then I hear it — a wet snuffling sound from just beyond the shrubs. Leaves rustle. A branch snaps.

I squint hard, trying to see through the foliage.

And that’s when I remember.

The doe-in-heat urine.

My heart thuds in my chest. My mouth goes spitless.

I have to get out of here, before I’m mounted by a horny stag.

I bear down with everything I’ve got, feeling like I’m on the brink of giving myself an aneurysm. But it does the trick, sending another powerful spray jetting from my ass, plastering the ground beneath me.