by Don Calame
“I can’t tell. I can’t see any — There!” I point in the distance. A speck of a plane is flying toward a hill, a wisp of dark smoke puffing from the engine. “It’s Clint!” I cry. “The smoke — just like when he left us!”
“Get up! Get up!” Hank bellows at Penelope and Charlie. “We have to go! Now!”
“What’s going on?” Penelope grumbles, sweeping her mud-matted hair from her face.
“We found the lake!” Hank says. “Dan found it.”
“What? How?” Charlie rasps.
“Clint’s plane just flew overhead,” I say. “He flew that way”— I point —“which must be where the lake is.” I snatch my sketchbook from the ground. “Come on. Let’s go.”
“We can’t make it there in time,” Charlie says, pulling himself to his feet. “It’s got to be at least half a day’s walk.”
“Then we don’t walk,” Hank says. “We run. As fast as we can. Now go!”
We tear through the forest at what feels like Mach speed: ten, fifteen, twenty minutes of full-out running. The twigs and leaves and vines drop from the others’ bodies. I clutch my sketchbook in my hand as branches whip by my face, cutting up my cheeks. The wind whistles in my ears. I imagine my racing legs and pumping arms are a blur, like the Flash.
Hank has dropped his walking stick and is doing a weird sort of limping sprint. Charlie’s free arm is flailing about like a chicken wing. And Penelope has gone into full Amazon mode: eyes focused, arms driving, long legs lunging forward in gazelle-like strides.
Charlie stumbles. I grab his good arm and hoist him up before he hits the ground. We are bolting again without missing a beat.
Following the river took us way off course. If I could draw a full breath, I’d point out this little detail to Hank. Instead, I try to focus on the positive: we have a beacon now — and a real possibility that we may be saved.
Just as long as we reach the lake before Clint and the others decide that we aren’t going to make it back.
I do not think about the fact that I can no longer feel my feet. I do not think about the fact that my heart feels like it is going to explode in my chest. I do not think about the fact that Max and Barbara may not be at the lake, and if there’s no one there when Clint arrives, he might assume he’s got the wrong lake or the wrong date and take off.
Instead, I think about cookies.
I think about Mom’s marshmallow gingersnaps and about Neil Gaiman, Frank Miller, Kelly Sue DeConnick, Grant Morrison, Emma Ríos, Alan Moore, and Sara Pichelli.
I think about my bed. And our old, soft couch. And our flat-screen TV. And my computer.
I think about our microwave.
And our toaster.
And Frosted Raspberry Pop-Tarts.
I think about toilet paper and clean socks and toothpaste and hot water — all the things I love about living in a civilized world.
But most of all, I think about Erin. And how I am going to make this up to her — my transgressions, my mental infidelities, my irresponsibility with Baby Robbie. I don’t know exactly how yet, just that I’m going to make it happen.
“Have to . . . stop!” Charlie groans as he staggers forward. He leans over, his busted arm still in its twig-and-vine sling. “I can’t . . . keep going . . . I have to —”
A violent, watery stream blasts from his mouth, splattering his camera, his feet, and the ground.
“Come on, Charlie!” I holler, waving him forward. “We need to hurry!”
“I’m . . . done.” He moans and retches again. “Leave me . . . here. Let me just . . . die.”
Hank, Penelope, and I jog back to a hyperventilating, hunched-over Charlie. I look around at all the sweaty red faces, feel my own pulse slamming in my head.
“We have to . . . keep going,” I rasp. “We can’t . . . give up now.”
Hank gasps, leaning his back against a tree. “Charlie’s in no . . . shape to continue. And we’re not . . . leaving him, obviously . . . We’ll just have to . . . hope that Max and Barbara . . . made it back . . . If they did . . . they’ll make Clint wait for us.”
“And if they didn’t . . . make it back?” I pant. “If they’re out . . . looking for us? Or if”— my eyes flit to Penelope — “something stopped them . . . from getting to the lake?”
“Max will have . . . gotten them to the lake,” Penelope says, her hands on her knees. “And my mother . . . won’t let them leave . . . without us.”
“Worst-case scenario . . .” Hank says, sliding down the tree to the grass, “Clint will send . . . a rescue crew.”
Penelope and Charlie seem pretty satisfied with this answer. I want to shake them. How can they stand the thought of waiting for a rescue crew, when we’re so close to getting out of here? What if the bear is stalking us at this very minute, and we don’t have time to wait for a rescue crew?
“No! Not an option!” I shout, five days’ worth of fear and exhaustion and anger spewing out of me like Charlie’s watery vomit spewed from him. I point to Hank. “You lost the right to call the shots . . . when you admitted to being a big, fat fraud.” I shift my finger to Penelope. “And you. You need to stop . . . with this whole self-sacrificing tragic manga-hero bullshit . . . and start fighting for yourself for a change.” Finally, I turn on Charlie. “And you. How many times . . . have I been there for you? Taken an ass-kicking for you?”
“Always,” Charlie wheezes. “You’ve . . . always been there.”
“That’s right. And I need you . . . to be here for me now. Because I can’t take this anymore. It’s like being trapped . . . in a Guillermo del Toro film. I won’t make it till a rescue crew comes. So you need to suck it the hell up . . . and haul ass to that lake!”
Charlie nods weakly. “OK, Daniel.” He exhales heavily and starts to stand up. “I’ll do it . . . I’ll keep go —”
He leans forward and dry heaves, nothing but a long string of spittle stretching from his lips to the ground below.
Then he falls forward and does a face-plant in the dirt.
Five or six hours — and a butt-load of pep talks — later, we stumble out of the woods and come upon the lake. At last!
Only, there is no plane waiting here.
There is no Max or Barbara or Clint waving ecstatically at our arrival.
There is nothing but a vast stretch of flat, undisturbed water to greet us.
“No,” Penelope says, staggering around. “This doesn’t make any sense. My mother wouldn’t have left without me. She would have made them wait. She may be an emotionally immature narcissist with a raging libido, but she would never abandon me.”
“OK, let’s all remain calm,” Hank says. “Clint probably took Max and Barbara up in the plane to search for us from the sky. That’s what I would have done. Better vantage point from up there. They’ll circle around eventually. And when they do, we’ll be here to meet them. We should build a fire. As a signal. So they’ll see we made it back when they fly back over.”
Penelope nods. “Yes,” she says, her voice flat. “Good idea. Let’s do that.”
This is Hank trying to distract us. Trying to keep us busy so we don’t think about the facts: That Max and Barbara are either lost or dead. That Clint’s smoking, sputtering plane may not even have made it back to the lake. And that we are likely to be stuck here for a very, very long time.
Or at least as long as it takes for the bear to catch up with us and finish things once and for all.
But seeing the look in Penelope’s eyes, I figure it’s best to play along. And so I join the others in collecting sticks and twigs and dry grass.
“Sun’s coming out,” Charlie declares after a half hour of scavenging. He shields his eyes as he scopes the sky. “Should be no problem getting a flame going.”
“That’s right,” Hank says, feigning cheerfulness. “We’ll make a huge bonfire. One that can be seen for miles.” He eyes our pile of wood and kindling. “We’ll want five times that much. Let’s keep searching.”
We tromp back into the bush in search of more fuel for our fire.
And that’s when I hear something. A low growling noise. It’s not the bear, thank God. But it’s definitely an animal. Or several animals. Close by.
“Hey,” I whisper-call to the others. “Listen. You guys hear that?”
Uuuuuu. Rrrrrr. Uuuuu. Rrrrr.
“Could be bighorn sheep, maybe?” Hank whisper-calls back. “Or a moose?”
Uuuuu. Rrrrrr. Uuuuu. Rrrrr.
“Whatever it is, it sounds like it’s in pain,” Penelope whispers. “If it’s hurt, it could be dinner.” She bends down to pick up a large stone.
Rrrrr. Uuuu. Rrrrr. Uuuu.
“Hey.” Hank reaches out a hand. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. It might get spooked and charge us.”
Penelope grips her stone tighter. “If we’re going to be here for hours or days longer, we’re going to need something to eat.”
Hank looks like he wants to argue but thinks better of it. “OK. But let’s be sure to stick together. Just in case.”
We all gather close and crouch down as we skulk toward the animal noises.
Uuuuuuu. Uuuuuu. Uuuuuu.
“It sounds like it’s stuck in something,” I whisper. “Trying to pull itself free.”
“Hoof caught in a fissure, perhaps,” Charlie says. “Probably broke its leg.”
“Shhhh.” Penelope presses a finger to her lips, then hefts the rock in her hand, like she’s judging how hard and far she can throw it.
We steal forward, a mix of excitement and fear thrumming through me. Up ahead, the branches of a bush are shaking violently.
Uuuu. Uuuu. Rrrr. Rrrr.
Penelope nods, then cocks her arm and —
“Wait!” says Hank suddenly, his face going crimson. “I don’t think that’s a —”
Too late. Penelope’s already hurled the stone with all her might.
Thud!
Then new sounds erupt from behind the bush:
“Ow! What the fuck!”
“What? What happened?”
“Something hit me!”
“What something?”
“I don’t know, a rock, I think.”
“A rock?”
And that’s when Max and Barbara stand up and stumble out of the woods.
Completely, horrifyingly naked.
“What-whoa-no!” I blurt.
Charlie, Hank and I spin away, but not before the ghastly sights of Max’s low-hanging fruit and Barbara’s floppers and floccus are seared into our retinas.
“Mother?” Penelope asks, her voice containing equal parts shock, relief, and disgust.
“Oh, Pen, thank God you’re OK!” Barbara bellows. “I was worried sick about you!”
Penelope scoffs. “Yes, we could hear your wails of despair.”
“Oh, that.” Barbara laughs. “We were waiting for Clint, and when he didn’t show, we got bored. I’m not about to apologize for being a healthy adult, my dear.”
“No one’s asking you to apologize, Ms. Halpern,” Charlie says, his eyes scrunched closed even though his back is turned. “All we request is that you put some clothes on.”
“Of course, of course,” Barbara says. “Max, honey, fling me my shorts and shirt, will you?” There is the sound of fluttering clothing, then the blessed sounds of zippers zipping.
Slowly, I turn back around. Barbara and Max are fully dressed, thankfully, but it’s like I’ve got X-ray vision or something because I keep picturing them au naturel. I shudder, hoping that this whole incident doesn’t ruin sex for me one day.
“Did you guys get my note?” Barbara asks.
Penelope nods. “Yeah, we got your note.”
“Well, what took you so long to get here?”
“We had some issues,” Penelope says. “Another bear attack. A lightning storm. Oh, and apparently Hank lied about being a mountain man, so there was that.”
Hank’s face flames. “To be fair, I never said I was a mou —”
“It was basically the blind leading the blind,” Penelope says.
“Wait a second,” Max says. “Did you say you ran into the bear again? The same one we met at the lake — that destroyed our campsite?”
“Uh-huh,” Penelope says. “Though I’d say more ran from than ran into. Twice, actually.”
Max is shaking his head in wonder. “I just can’t believe it. I’ve never heard of such ruthless stalking in a black bear — even a hungry one. If we’d had any inkling that you all were in danger, any at all . . . But, of course, we thought Hank was a skilled hunter.”
Hank clears his throat, his face still bright red. “Not to change the subject or anything, but did you say that Clint didn’t show up?”
“That’s right,” Max says. “We saw a plane fly high overhead, but it didn’t land. Couldn’t tell if it was Clint’s Kiwi or not.”
“Of course it wasn’t,” Barbara says. “If it was, he would’ve landed.”
“Unless he was having engine trouble,” I blurt. “I saw a plane too. There was smoke billowing out of the engine — just like when Clint took off last time.”
“That would explain it,” Max says. “He probably returned home to get some help. That’s what any smart pilot would do.”
And, as if on cue, I hear the droning of a plane.
We all turn toward the direction of the sound, which gets louder.
And louder.
And louder.
“Oh my God!” Penelope shouts. “That’s him!” She hightails it toward the lake, and we all dash after her.
There it is — Clint’s bush plane, cresting the hill in the distance and heading in our direction! A surge of relief wells up inside me as the plane banks to the left.
A puff of smoke wisps from the propeller as it gets closer. Definitely the Keatley Kiwi in all its rattletrap glory.
We’re saved! Thank Christ. We’re going home. To Mom! To my bed and my computer and my Pop-Tarts! To my beautiful, amazing, glorious Erin!
I watch as the plane tips in the other direction and starts banking to the right. Then to the left again. Then to the right.
“What’s he doing?” Charlie asks, his camera raised to his eye. “Is he inebriated?”
“It’s probably just really windy up there,” Hank says.
And then the small stream of smoke becomes a huge plume of black that pours from the front of the plane.
Suddenly, orange flames shoot from the engine.
The wings tip hard to the right —
And the plane explodes.
All of us stare, our mouths hanging open, as shards of the burning wreckage drop from the sky, splooshing and sizzling into the lake.
Sploosh.
Sploosh.
SPLOOSH!
Charlie is so stunned, he’s not even snapping pictures.
“Clint . . .” I mumble, cold inside. “He’s . . . gone.”
Dark smoke and the stench of burning oil fill my nostrils, then my lungs. I hack and cough, folding over, my throat stinging.
I can’t believe I just watched somebody die.
And I can’t believe I’m going to die too — out here in this wilderness, where I never should have been in the first place.
“Look!” Penelope shouts. “Over there! He bailed out.”
I look up and see it — the mushrooming rainbow silk in the sky. Clint dangles from the harness below it, his legs swaying this way and that, his arms tugging at the ropes, guiding the chute toward the shore.
Charlie’s recovered from his shock and is snapping photos like mad.
The rest of us run down to the shore. Clint comes down hard in the sand, his knees buckling. The fabric of the parachute engulfs him like a massive, multicolored soufflé.
When we reach him, all of us grab at the silk, trying to pull it free.
“Clint?” Hank bellows, grasping a fistful of parachute. “Are you all right?”
There is a muffled moaning coming from somewhere under the chute.
>
At last we find him, his face sooty, his red-rimmed eyes half shut. Hank and Max each take one of Clint’s hands and pull him up. He looks around like he isn’t quite sure where he is.
“Well, that was . . . unexpected,” Clint rasps.
“What the hell happened?” Max asks.
“Been having a bit of engine trouble of late.” Clint coughs, then undoes the buckles on the parachute harness and lets it drop. “I started over this morning, but I had to turn back.” He brushes off the butt of his pants. “Thought I’d fixed her up, but I guess it didn’t take.”
“Thank God you got out,” Barbara says.
“Were you able to radio in an SOS?” Charlie asks at the same time.
Clint shakes his head. “I’m afraid not. Whole panel went dead. I was sure I was a goner. Luckily, I had the foresight to strap on my chute before I took off this last time. The chute and this little fella.” Clint lifts his shirt and there, swaddled in a dirty towel, is Baby Robbie.
Clint unfastens a strap, removes the Baby-Real-A-Lot, and holds him out to me.
“Oh my God!” I say, running up to him and taking the baby and its bottle. “I can’t believe it! I thought I’d never see him again!” I look down at Robbie, his nose so like Erin’s that it breaks my heart into a million little pieces. Suddenly Baby Robbie’s eyes flutter open. His mouth purses and his tiny fingers clutch the air. “He’s . . . he’s alive!”
“Sure wasn’t when I found him,” Clint says. “He was lights out, over and done with. But I opened him up. Tinkered with his wires. Tightened up his joints. Used some spare doll parts I had to change out a couple of loose limbs. Also added a few new computer chips. Little fella can talk a bit now. And he has a new killer kung fu grip.” Clint laughs. “’Course, what I’m not clear about was how he wound up in my —”
“Thank you so much!” I say, diving in and giving Clint a hug — and cutting him off before he can say any more. “I can’t begin to tell you how grateful I am.”
“Yes, well.” Clint pats my back awkwardly. “It was fun, actually. Restoring the tiny tyke. Enjoyed having the company, to tell the truth. Sweet little bugger — when you get him fed and burped, that is.”