by Peter Nelson
“I’M NOT MY GRANDFATHER!” Jordan yelled back at him. He blocked his eyes from the debris blowing around in the air as the Heli-Jet maneuvered closer to the dock. Gusto stood over a number of workers from the warehouse next to El Encantado. They ran pallets filled with boxes marked MADE IN BRAZIL out to the dock, loading them into the sliding door of the Heli-Jet.
“It seems that none of us are who we appear to be,” Gusto yelled back. “Isn’t that right, Manuel?” Jordan looked beside him. Manuel came stumbling out onto the patio, holding his fedora on his head with both hands.
“I didn’t tell him a thing, Gusto, I swear!” Manuel yelled back. “No names! This is the policy of El Encantado! No names, no questions asked!”
Gusto laughed at the cowering bartender as some of the Brazilian workers scurried to get the last of the boxes onto the stealth chopper. “That’s good enough!” Gusto yelled to them, sliding the door shut as they scurried on board behind him, leaving a pallet of boxes on the dock. Gusto continued to stand on the outside running board as the Heli-Jet began to rise.
Jordan couldn’t let Gusto get away—especially not with his grandfather’s ring. He climbed up onto the patio railing and readied himself to leap toward the rising aircraft.
Unfortunately, Gusto leaped first.
“Cannonball!” Gusto backflipped off the rising chopper and plunged into the Amazon River. The murky water grew oddly still, sinking in the spot where he disappeared like a funnel, pulling in the water around it like a sinkhole.
“TAKE COVER!” Jordan leaped onto the patio as the river exploded.
FLOOOOSH! The Amazon blasted into the air, upending the dock, sending the pallet of boxes flying into the trees, and demolishing many of the buildings in its wake, including the patio of El Encantado. Jordan and Manuel fell into the suddenly churning water, along with tons of wood and debris.
Jordan came up for air and grabbed hold of a piece of dock floating in the violently roiling waters. He saw the powerful rotors on the Heli-Jet lift it over the chaos, away from the river. Once it cleared the tree line, the enormous thruster jets blasted thick orange flames. KRRRGGGGSSSHHHH! It zoomed off, disappearing in a fiery explosion of rocket trail.
The Amazon River continued to thrash and churn, pulling Jordan under. He bobbed up again and made his way through the debris, trying to reach the shore. Something grabbed his foot. He looked down and saw Gusto swirling around him in his Hydro-Hide, trying to pull him down. Jordan took a deep breath and let himself be taken under.
As soon as he saw Gusto swirl past, Jordan readied himself. He reached out and grabbed Gusto by the neck. Gusto thrashed like a giant fish, diving and bucking trying to get Jordan off. He reached back and tried to hit Jordan, but Jordan grabbed his arm and bent it behind him. Gusto reacted violently, twisting and surging out of the water, flinging Jordan toward the shore. WUMP! Jordan fell hard onto the shore, slamming into the muddy debris that was scattered everywhere.
SPLASH! Gusto landed back in the water, peeked at Jordan lying on the shore, then shot like a bullet away from the scene with incredible speed, forcing a wall of water in his wake, which rose up and toppled straight toward Jordan.
Jordan opened his eyes just in time to see the wave full of sharp shards of broken wood and glass about to crash over his head. He closed his eyes—
WHOOSH! Jordan felt something grab him. His stomach dropped, and he opened his eyes. A familiar gray, furry arm was wrapped securely around him. Jordan looked up at Kriss, then down at the rollicking Amazon and the horrible destruction Gusto had left in his awful wake. He spotted Manuel’s fedora bobbing amid the debris and farther out, a flash of pink. He heard a loud SQUONK! Jordan couldn’t believe his eyes, but he spotted one of Boto’s rare pink dolphins diving beneath the Amazon River. Jordan felt something in his hand. He looked down and carefully opened his palm. He was holding Grampa Grimsley’s clear, crystal ring.
18
After carefully securing the rope ladder to Syd’s deck and climbing down, Abbie and Doris hiked the trail descending Mount Breakenridge to the water, then paddled together in one of the two goose boats, south along the shoreline of Harrison Lake. They stopped along the way to search for the footprints Abbie and Kriss had found, filling in the ones that hadn’t already been washed away by the water. It was clear where the tracks headed. As the afternoon wore on, Abbie and Doris paddled straight for the docks near Sasquatch Provincial Park.
Doris walked through the crowd of BuckHeads and Bigfoot-costumed Squatch freaks, showing little time or patience for either group.
“Excuse me,” she asked a middle-aged man wrapped in what looked like an oversized brown shag rug. “We’re searching for a friend—tall, furry, apelike, might be lurking somewhere in this wooded area.”
The man stared at her. “Aren’t we all, lady. But let me know if you spot him, okay?” She watched as he joined a group of fellow human-carpet hybrid pals.
“This could be harder than I thought,” Doris said. “Maybe we were wrong. Maybe even Syd wouldn’t expose himself to a crowd like this.”
“ATTENTION, FELLOW SQUATCH-WATCHERS!” A loud announcement echoed over the park. “BUCK WILDE’S SHOW STARTS IN FIFTEEN MINUTES! SO COME ON DOWN TO THE BUCK WILDE PAVILION, AND GIT YER SQUATCH ON!”
“No, he’s here,” Abbie said.
“Well, let’s just hope we find him before they do,” Doris said.
The crowd began moving as one through the field, toward Buck’s RV porch setup. Abbie and Doris kept a sharp eye out as they went with the flow, and were soon standing with the fans, packed tightly in front of the stage, gazing up at the big-screen TVs mounted on trees on either side.
Cheers exploded as Buck’s huge face appeared on the screens. He was in full Squatchin’ gear, complete with face paint, his signature trucker hat, and night-vision goggles. He clearly had a cameraman following closely as he trudged through the woods.
“Okay, folks,” he whispered dramatically. “We’re about a half mile into Squatch central here, and there’s some pretty strong evidence that we’re closing in on that mangy mountain mongrel. Just look at this!”
A collective gasp went up from the crowd as Buck held up a small, broken twig. Doris rolled her eyes. “This guy’s such a noodlehead,” she whispered.
“Maybe we should get out of here, and keep looking,” Abbie whispered back.
“Shh!” A Squatch fan stood directly in front of Abbie, dressed in yet another horribly fake, black shaggy costume.
“Why do I always get stuck behind the behinds?” she said.
Up on the twin jumbo screens, Buck continued to build the suspense. “Sticks don’t just break themselves, Squatch-Watchers. Not out here . . .”
“Oh brother,” Doris said. “This dingbat is twice as annoying on two TVs. . . .”
“SHHH!” The hulking fake-furred fan let them have it again.
“Oh, shush yourself,” Abbie shot back. “What are you supposed to be, anyway, a gorilla? You wouldn’t know the Sasquatch if he walked up and introduced himself.”
The fan turned around. “C’mon! Rule number two—no talking during my favorite show!”
Abbie’s eyes went wide. “Syd?” She looked down. She recognized Jordan’s sneakers. “It is you! But . . . where are your Soil-Soles? She looked around anxiously.
“You grub-brained furball,” Doris said. “What are you thinking coming here?”
Abbie noticed a few fans glancing at them. “Okay, let’s move. This isn’t cool.”
“Are you crazy?” Syd said. “This is just getting good—look!”
On the screens, Buck was quietly pushing his way through the woods. He moved a bush out of the way and stopped suddenly. He looked back at the camera. “Are we rolling, Bob? You’re getting this, right?”
He moved out of the way of the camera. On the ground was a footprint. It was huge, the same as the ones left along the lakeshore.
“You see that?” Buck whispered into the camera.
&
nbsp; “You see that?” Syd whispered into Abbie’s ear. Abbie and Doris shared a confused glance, then looked back at the screen along with everyone else.
On TV, Buck crouched down. He touched the soil inside the huge print, then tasted the mud with the tip of his tongue. “Just as I thought,” he said. “Fresh tracks.”
“Oh, man,” Syd whispered. “This is so awesome. . . .”
Buck followed the footprints into a bunch of tall bushes. He stopped. He glanced back at the camera, suddenly with a look of fear in his eyes. Even Doris believed something real was happening. She and Abbie pushed in closer to Syd.
Sticking out of the bottom of the brush were ten large toes.
“The Soil-Soles!” Abbie gasped.
The camera panned up slowly to reveal a tall, dark figure standing inside the bushes, as if it had found a hiding spot, but forgot to hide its big feet. Buck’s eyes were wide. He stepped toward the shadowy figure. He reached out his arm. . . .
In the picnic area, Abbie, Doris, and Syd stared in rapt attention, waiting with everyone else to see what would happen next.
Buck put a hand on his lasso. “Spotlight!” he suddenly ordered. A bright light blasted the bushes. The giant Soil-Soles stepped out into the light. Filling them, there in front of Buck, on television before the BuckHeads and the Squatch freaks in the park and all the people watching in their living rooms—stood Señor Areck Gusto, dressed in a black trench coat.
“Hello, Mr. Wilde,” he said as if they’d casually bumped into each other in the cat-food aisle at the market. “So glad you were finally able to find me. I was beginning to wonder if I’d have to send up flares.”
19
Abbie, Doris, and Syd stood along with the rest of the crowd of onlookers, confused and helpless as they watched Gusto school Buck Wilde on his own show.
Buck looked embarrassed. And angry. And stupid. He pointed a trembling finger at Gusto. “You’re not the Sasquatch! You’re just some dude with his feet!”
“Very observant, Mr. Wilde,” Gusto purred. “And this is precisely your problem. But do not worry—I’m here to help.”
“All right, mister,” Buck said in a sad attempt to save face. “I don’t know who you are, but you got about ten seconds to explain what you’ve done with the real Sasquatch!”
“I’ll take only two. I caught the Sasquatch. I destroyed the Sasquatch. And I had his feet made into these boots. Do you like them?”
The camera swung down and zoomed in on Gusto’s feet. There was no doubt that these were no ordinary boots, or fake bedroom slippers. The Soil-Soles were on Gusto’s feet, and they were very convincing. Buck crouched down and inspected them. He tugged on the toes, and poked at the fleshy, matted fur. He looked into the camera. His lips trembled; his eyes began to water up. He looked lost for a moment.
“Folks . . . I’m afraid the search for the Squatch . . . is over,” he whispered.
A collective gasp rose from the crowd. Fans yelled out things that were not very nice, or appropriate. A few, possibly overheated in their costumes, fainted.
“Aw,” Syd whispered sincerely. “Just when he was getting so close.”
“What is that slimeball up to?” Doris wondered aloud.
“Indeed it is over, Mr. Wilde.” Gusto helped Buck to his feet. “But every end brings new beginnings. And that is why I’m here. To offer you a proposal.”
“You . . . want to marry me?” Buck said, still stunned.
“Uh, no. My card—” He flipped a business card out of his trench coat.
Buck took it and read it. “‘Señor Areck Gusto. Businessman, entrepreneur, and expert . . . cryptozoologist?’”
“Just a fancy word that means I’m an authority on mysterious creatures. I have experience in tracking them, in hunting them, and obviously”—he gestured toward his feet—“in catching them. And where I am uniquely successful, you have been, frankly, a miserable failure. But that is all about to change.”
Buck glanced at the camera. “Okay! We’re gonna go to commercial—”
“Wait, Mr. Wilde. Don’t you think your audience deserves to at least hear my offer on how I can help you succeed?”
Buck had lost control of his own show. He stared helplessly at Gusto.
“I didn’t come onto your fine program just to tell you in front of your entire television audience that your life has been a total and complete waste. In fact, I’m here to offer you—and your devoted fans—what you’ve always wanted. The unfettered opportunity to hunt, capture, and own half of all licensing and merchandising rights to an actual living, breathing, real, live cryptid!”
“’Scuse me?”
“Your search for the Sasquatch was a Buck Wilde goose chase. In the end, I beat you to it. What I’m offering is another creature. A new creature. A creature that has the benefit of not being already caught and de-footed. I know where it lives. I know where it can be hunted. And I know where it can be captured.”
“And who’s going to be doing this capturing?” Buck said. “You, I suppose?”
“HAHAHA! No. I’ve bagged the Sasquatch, Mr. Wilde—that is enough for me. Now I’m only interested in bringing the world closer together. No, the job of Creature-Catcher can only be done—on live TV, of course—by the world-famous Mr. Buck Wilde!”
“YEAAAAAHHHH!” The crowd around Abbie and Doris burst into cheers. Even Syd was caught up in the frenzy, cheering his hero on. Abbie looked up at him.
“Really, dude?”
As the crowd grew rowdier, Doris grew more nervous. “I don’t know what game he’s playing, but this could get dangerous. Let’s get out of here and figure out a plan.”
They cut through the cheering crowd, who seemed to be getting more and more excited about this strange character’s offer. Buck was gaining interest, as well. He grinned at Gusto, then turned to the camera.
“That’s our show for tonight, folks! Y’all be sure to tune in next time to see me, Buck Wilde: Squat—” He stopped and glanced over at his new business partner.
Gusto leaned in and whispered in his ear. Buck grinned, then finished closing out the show. “Buck Wilde: CREATURE-CATCHER!”
Abbie and Doris briskly escorted Syd out through the crowd, back toward the camping area. Wearing a fake black-fur costume over his hulking body and Jordan’s sneakers on his tiny feet, Syd didn’t cause anyone to glance twice at him. Still, they didn’t dare speak until they were standing far out of anyone’s earshot. Once they were at a safe distance, Doris punched him in the arm.
“Ow!” Syd said.
“That’s for being a big lunkhead!” Doris said. “What were you thinking, going out on your own like that?”
“I know,” Syd said. “And I’m sorry. But I had to get my Soil-Soles back!”
“Nice job with that. They really looked good on TV,” Abbie said.
Syd looked sadly down at Jordan’s little sneakers. “I know I shouldn’t have come here, but I saw the tracks along the lake, and I thought I could do it on my own. But don’t worry, I stayed behind the trees, to keep out of sight.”
“Staying hidden on your way to a public park isn’t very impressive, I’m afraid,” Doris said.
“I guess you’re right. Then as I got close to the park, I lost the trail as they went deeper into the woods. That’s when I decided to go undercover, and find out whatever I could. So I snuck into someone’s tent and got this costume. Then I just, y’know, mingled.”
“You mingled,” Doris said, shaking her head. “With these people. People who have dedicated their lives—or at least their weekends—to finding and capturing you! Are you out of your walnut-sized mind?”
“I heard that Buck was heading into the deeper woods, which is where I knew the tracks went. I figured Buck is the best Squatch-Seeker on TV—if anyone could track whoever took the Soil-Soles, it’d be him! So I went to watch on the jumbo screens with everyone else.”
“Can you hear how crazy your plan sounds?” Abbie said.
“So what d
o we do now?” Syd said.
“C’mon,” Doris said, heading back toward the camping and picnic area. “Stay close to us and keep that ridiculous costume on, whatever you do.”
“Wait. We’re going back toward those weird people?” Abbie asked.
“We’re going to get to a transmitter,” Doris said. “I’ve got to find a way to contact the CKCC again. They need to know that Gusto is back, and he has the Soil-Soles. We’re gonna need some backup.”
RUMBLE! The ground suddenly shook under their feet. Abbie looked up at Syd, her face white with fear. “Syd! Is that—is this—the megathrust quake?”
“No,” Syd said. “It’s just that thing.”
Gusto’s Heli-Jet had just landed on the clearing near Buck’s RV with a thud, crushing a few tents and some picnic tables, sending BuckHeads and Squatch freaks scurrying.
The door slid open. A few tan-skinned people hopped out and began carrying boxes up to Buck’s RV. The boxes were marked, MADE IN BRAZIL.
20
It was nearly night as Kriss swooped low, carrying Jordan over the tops of the giant kapok, Brazil-nut, and bamboo trees. The thick canopy gave a warm, dense quality to the air, and when the Mothman finally dived beneath the tree line and descended into the jungle, Jordan almost felt like he was plunging back underwater again—a feeling that he’d recently become less than fond of. But it didn’t matter. He was about to be reunited with his friend Eldon.
Kriss pulled up near the ground and fluttered madly, almost slamming into a thick kapok trunk. He safely dropped Jordan just before wildly tumbling onto the ground. Jordan looked at him. “You really do need to work on your landings,” he said. Kriss stood up and shrugged, then pointed Jordan toward a glowing campfire.
Jordan ran past a few trees to a large, cleared area and glanced around in the dim firelight, trying to discern between shadows and objects. Then he heard a voice call out to him weakly.