Escape from the Everglades

by Tim Shoemaker

  Wilson gave her space. He backed up to the doorway of the room, wishing he’d never come.

  “That’s what you two do . . . ever since the academy,” Maria said.

  Her eyes had this vicious look to them. Wilson had never seen her like this. Maybe Kingman was wearing off on her.

  “One gets a new assignment, and the other transfers to the same station. Right? Grand Canyon. Rocky Mountains. Redwood. Here. Where’s it going to be this time?” Maria had fire in her eyes. “My mom got sick of it. That’s why she left us—she couldn’t take it anymore.”

  “That’s not why she walked out.” Parker’s dad said it so quietly, Wilson almost missed it. “I think you know that.” He reached for her.

  Maria backed away—right into Kingman’s arms. “I won’t leave.”

  By the look on Kingman’s face, he was just beginning to figure out what he might lose in the deal. Or rather, who. “Wait—your family would move too?”

  “Let’s go,” Maria said. She pulled away from Kingman and marched to the doorway. She brushed past Wilson, then spun around and stopped. “Come now, Angelica, or find your own ride.”

  Jelly didn’t move, and Maria disappeared into the hall.

  “I’ll drop you off,” Mr. Buckman said.

  Jelly reached for him, threw her arms around his neck, and sobbed into his shoulder. Wilson glanced down the hall, pretty sure nurses would come running—thinking someone had died. Kingman still stood there.

  Kingman pointed at Parker, then at Wilson. “This is on you.” It came out as more of a growl. “This is your fault. Both of you.”

  Kingman was half right, anyway.

  He stormed into the hall, then stopped and motioned Wilson out to meet him.

  Wilson hesitated—and glanced at Angelica and Bucky’s dad, hoping one of them would tell him to stay put. Which felt kind of stupid. What was Kingman going to do, slug him right here in a hospital?

  Maria was halfway to the elevators by the time Wilson stepped into the hall.

  Kingman slung his arm around Wilson’s shoulder and neck and steered him out of the line of sight from anybody in Bucky’s room. He clamped down on Wilson’s trapezius muscle with a grip that made his legs buckle for an instant. “The idea of Maria moving.” Kingman leaned in close. “Honestly, that has me spitting mad.” He didn’t ease up on his grip. “You boys fix this. Got it? Or I’ll fix you.”

  CHAPTER 9

  Sunday, September 13

  2:00 p.m.

  SURGERY. HOSPITAL. REHAB. More surgery. Physical therapy. Lots of physical therapy. That was Parker’s summer. He’d figured the transfer would have moved him out of the area long before school started, but that hadn’t happened yet. Parker started his freshman year at Everglades City School just like Wilson and Jelly.

  Typhoon had been pulled from the water and overhauled, and was tearing through the Glades again—although Parker hadn’t gone back on the airboat once since the death roll.

  And Mom was back in Boston on another writing assignment. This time she was going to be gone two or three weeks. It was just Parker and his dad, which meant they’d be eating a lot of quesadillas for dinner.

  He’d done his best to avoid Clayton Kingman, but that had proved harder than Parker imagined. Everglades City was small, and the island town of Chokoloskee—where Parker, Jelly, and Wilson lived—was even smaller. Kingman never missed a chance to rub in the whole Gator-bait nickname. And with every month that passed, Kingman seemed more and more confident that the whole transfer thing would never happen. The good news? He wasn’t threatening Wilson and Parker anymore.

  One huge downside of the delayed transfer was going to Everglades City School. Clayton’s dad was the principal. In all the other schools Parker had attended, the principals were decent. It was obvious they cared about their students. But Principal Kingman must have missed his true career calling. The guy would have made a better prison warden than a principal. He had security cameras all over the school and a bank of monitors in his office. He could pull them up on his phone, too. He’d warned the entire student body that there was no corner of the building he couldn’t see. But honestly? He didn’t need security cameras. Bradley B. Kingman was everywhere—watching everything. He didn’t simply walk the halls. He patrolled.

  Whenever Principal K looked at Parker, it seemed like he was trying to read his thoughts. Like the principal assumed he was up to no good, and it was his job to bust Parker before he could carry out his dastardly plans. No matter how hard Parker tried to do the right thing, Mr. Kingman watched him with a suspicious eye. Maybe it had something to do with Parker’s dad being a ranger—and busting Clayton. Maybe not. But one thing was for sure. Everglades City School was Principal K’s empire, and he made it his business to control every corner of it.

  The Kingmans—both father and son—had done wonders for Parker’s prayer life, though. He prayed harder than ever for the weekends to come quick—and pass slow. He prayed for the transfer. Prayed for a ticket out of this place so his life could be normal. Good again.

  Parker was pretty sure every area of life would be better once they moved. He’d be away from the Kingmans. If Dad’s transfer was anywhere near Boston—like some of the rumors Dad had heard—Mom would likely be home more too. And he was certain that somehow his arm would recover faster if he lived somewhere else. All he had to do was get out of this place, and everything would be okay.

  Parker sat on the front step of his porch waiting for Wilson and pressed the fingers from his bad arm into his other palm. Part of his therapy homework. The burn in his forearm started immediately. He gritted his teeth and kept pushing until his arm shook. He started the one-one thousand slow count to thirty. By fifteen he wanted to scream. Was dying for relief. Even at thirty he didn’t ease up. Five more seconds. Just in case he’d been counting too fast.

  By the time he spotted Wilson biking up the block, Parker was working on his hand grip with the rubber gripster ring. Wilson carried a wooden pole, maybe six feet long, like he was ready to joust. He skidded to a stop, tossed the closet pole on the ground, and swung off the bike.

  “Still doing your exercises, I see.”

  Parker nodded. Anything to strengthen his gimpy arm. “A long way to go, though.” If it was going to get better at all. Even three months after the mauling, he didn’t have more than sixty percent of his function back—which wasn’t good. “What’s with the stick?”

  Wilson grinned. “Stick? This is inch-and-a-quarter solid hard oak with a hand-rubbed wax finish for a better grip, my man. And it’s part of your new therapy.”

  Just what he needed. More ways to torture his arm into cooperating. Parker eyed the rod. “Pole vaulting?”

  Wilson snickered. “Way more fun. You’re making a gator stick.”

  He’d seen guys in the Glades carrying one. Sort of like the gaffing hook he kept in his boat, but heavier—and stronger. Usually they were outfitted with some kind of spike on the end. “I’m not going near any alligators.”

  “Exactly.” Wilson jabbed at an imaginary predator. “This will keep the gators from you.”

  “So will staying out of the Everglades.”

  “This is noggin therapy.” Wilson tapped Parker’s head. “I’m going to help you get your head straightened out.”

  Parker laughed. “Nothing’s wrong with my head.”

  “Said the guy who still won’t go near the Everglades. You can’t avoid the Glades forever.”

  True, Parker had kept clear of the Everglades for the three months since the accident—which wasn’t easy in a town practically surrounded by the swamp. As much as he’d loved the Glades before June 13, he pretty much hated them now. After what happened to his arm, nobody would call him crazy. Except maybe Wilson.

  “This is for your own good,” Wilson said. “You need to do this, Bucky.”

  All Parker had to do was hold out until Dad’s transfer came in, which could be soon. Steering clear of the Glades didn’t mean there
was anything wrong with his head. Somehow over the course of days he spent in the hospital, the Everglades had become enemy territory. Parker was determined not to go back behind enemy lines. Ever. “What I need is to get out of this place.” Out of southern Florida. Away from any state where alligators—or Kingmans—existed. “This isn’t about fear, Wilson. This is about escape. Once I get away from here, everything will fall into place.”

  And he believed that. The total change of where he lived would solve all his problems—and give him a fresh start.

  “You still having the bad dreams?”

  Parker didn’t answer. He wished he’d never told Wilson about them.

  “You think they’ll just magically go away after you move?”

  Actually, he did. But then he’d never thought he’d still be having them now. Not every night, but definitely every week. He’d seen a therapist before being discharged from the hospital, but it didn’t seem to make any more of a difference than his physical therapy did for his arm. He’d prayed about it too, but for some reason the nightmares hadn’t stopped.

  Wilson looked at him like he’d just read Parker’s mind. “PTSD is something you’ve got to beat—not bury.”

  “Post-traumatic stress? Seriously?” Even the thought of PTSD scared the swamp water out of him. The gator left scars on his arm, but not in his head, right? “That’s something soldiers get in battle situations. Not fourteen-year-olds.”

  “And you weren’t in a battle for your life with that gator?”

  “Totally. But that doesn’t mean I’ve got PTSD—or that I’m burying anything,” Parker said. “I just want out of Florida.”

  “Like that will make everything okay? You . . . are an idiot. Escape isn’t the answer, my friend. There is no escape.” Wilson thumped his head again. “How can you escape what’s up here anyway? My people say—”

  “Please—not another piece of Miccosukee wisdom.” A change of geography was all he needed. If he didn’t live in a town under siege by the Everglades he’d get past this.

  “The United States government tried to eliminate my people back in the eighteen hundreds.”

  Parker knew all about the local history.

  “They could have run—like you want to do. And if they did, I’m sure they would have died out. But they didn’t run. They hunkered down. Dug in. Held their ground. Faced the thing that threatened to undo them.” He flexed his muscles. “It made them stronger.”

  It was an amazing story, really. The Miccosukees chose the least inhabitable place to live. They chose a place that was absolutely deadly for the soldiers pursuing them. The cost to the US government to take out one Miccosukee was staggering.

  “My people were outmanned. Outgunned. Maybe they were out of their minds. But they were never conquered, Bucky. Never. Conquered.”

  It was true. Parker had seen the Never Conquered T-shirts so many local Miccosukees wore. They were probably the only group of Native Americans in the entire country who hadn’t been wiped out or relocated. But Parker wasn’t a Miccosukee. He didn’t need to stay here. Didn’t need to adapt or make the best of a bad situation. “I just need to get out of here, Wilson.”

  Wilson waved him off. “You have no idea what you need. C’mon, soldier.” Wilson pulled a half-dozen nylon zip ties from his pocket. “Grab a blade from your room—we’re mounting it to the end of this stick.”

  “Which blade are you talking about?” Parker had four machetes, two dive knives, a survival knife, and at least seven pocketknives in his bedroom.

  “Something super strong. Your dad’s old dive knife will be perfect.” Wilson led the way to the workbench in the carport. “We have to hurry.”

  “What’s the rush?”

  “Noggin therapy starts,” he checked his phone, “in about forty-five minutes.”

  Parker laughed. “Good luck with that.” Since the accident, Wilson had crashed and burned every other time he’d tried to get Parker back in the Glades. But making the gator stick sounded like fun.

  Parker hustled to his bedroom. The sign his grandpa had made him for his birthday was mounted above his headboard—and the stainless steel dive knife hung on the wall beside it. The brand name Dacor was stamped deep in the black molded handle. The vintage knife was from the early 1970s—and a total classic. He was pretty sure the company had disappeared long before he was born. The knife was one of the best gifts his dad had given him.

  He pulled it halfway out of the plastic sheath. The blade was made from steel thick enough to use as a pry bar, with a serrated edge on the spine for sawing. The point curved upward slightly, with an edge as sharp as a surgeon’s scalpel.

  Parker glanced at the sign again. A single word, INTEGRITTY, was carved in clear pine. Spelled—or rather misspelled—just like that. Grandpa had carved it for Parker’s fourteenth birthday. The extra T was no typo—at least that’s what Dad said when Parker got it. “You’ll figure it out one of these days,” Dad said. But it was still a mystery.

  “Parker?” It sounded like Wilson poked his head in the front door. “Did you die in there or what? We gotta move.”

  Moments later the two of them stood at the workbench.

  “Now,” Wilson said as he held the handle up to one end of the gator stick, “we need to notch out the wood so we can snug the handle to the stick real tight.” He grinned. “We don’t want that blade shifting when you jab a gator—right?”

  “Right.” Parker circled his ear with one finger. “You’re crazy if you think you’re getting me into the Glades.”

  “We’ll see.”

  Parker used a half-round file to shape the end of the stick to the contours of the handle while Wilson held the pole steady against the bench. Filing was awkward at first. His right arm didn’t have the strength—or the steadiness of his left. Parker struggled to keep his filing smooth and even. If Wilson noticed, he didn’t say anything.

  “So, this noggin therapy . . . exactly how does it work?”

  Wilson blew the sawdust away from where Parker filed. “Simple. We go to the Glades. Climb back on the horse.”

  But he hadn’t taken a fall off a horse. He’d been mauled by a gator—and he didn’t want to be within a mile of one ever again. “Not happening.”

  “Trust me.”

  Parker laughed. “Trust you?”

  “You’ll thank me when this is over.”

  “It’s not even starting.” Parker set the knife handle in the hollow he’d filed for it. Together they used pliers to snug the nylon ties tight, holding the knife firmly in place just like a bayonet on a rifle. They mummy-wrapped a length of parachute cord around it just to make sure it didn’t budge.

  Parker lifted the gator stick off the bench and tested the weight. It felt good in his hands. Balanced. He sighted down the length of it. Straight as a spear. He gripped it with both hands and jabbed at the air. “I love it.”

  Wilson admired the finished weapon. “What are you going to name it?”

  Parker laughed. He hadn’t seen that coming, but Wilson clearly wasn’t joking.

  “You name your boat. You name your bike. Your survival knife. You’ve got to name a sweet stick like this.” Wilson ran his hand along the oak shaft. “How about Conan? Or Terminator?”

  Naming the stick after a barbarian or a sci-fi antihero wasn’t turning the crank for Parker. He wanted something a little quirkier—and definitely less serious. The stick wasn’t going to be the survival weapon Wilson imagined. It was going to stand in the corner of his bedroom.

  “C’mon,” Wilson said. “We need a name for this thing.”

  An old song from the same era as his dad’s knife looped in Parker’s head. A ballad about some guy who’d lost his arm to a gator. Parker’s grandpa sent a YouTube link shortly after the accident, probably trying to be funny. The song stuck in Parker’s head, though, and played back at the craziest times. He smiled. “Amos Moses.”

  Wilson looked at Parker as if trying to tell if he was messing with him. “W
eird. But so are you.” He grinned. “Amos Moses it is. Better grab some mosquito spray. And a head net.”

  “I’m not going into the Everglades. I told you.”

  “Then you’ll look like a total wimp. Our ride will be here any minute.”

  “Our ride?”

  “Where we’re going is too far to bike.”

  As if on cue, Clayton Kingman’s black Chevy pickup rounded the corner and roared down the street toward them. Oversize tires with tread as deep as the ridges on a gator’s back. “Tell me that isn’t our ri—”

  “Hey, I can’t stand him either,” Wilson said. “But I was at Jelly’s telling her about the gator stick we were going to make—and trying to get her to understand why we had to get you back in the Glades. She was not happy, I’ll tell you that. I think if her dad were home, she’d have marched right over and told him to drop me off in the middle of the Glades and make me swim home.”

  “Now that sounds like a good idea,” Parker said.

  Wilson waved his comment off. “Anyway, Kingman was there with Maria, and he backed me up. Said you’d be a wimp the rest of your life if you didn’t go.”

  “Oh, yeah. I’m sure he’d love to see me go back in the Glades,” Parker said.

  “He was all over the idea. Next thing I know, Maria sort of volunteered him to drive us. I felt cornered, you know?”

  “He threatened you in the hospital—did you forget that?” Parker couldn’t believe this. “He hates us.”

  “Honestly,” Wilson said, “that was months ago. I think Kingman forgot all about it. That was only if Maria moved, anyway. And she hasn’t.”

  Even from a half block away it was obvious that both girls were in the truck with Clayton. “There’s no way I’m getting into that pickup.”

  “He actually looked happy about driving us,” Wilson said. “And you really think he’d try to hurt us with Maria there?”

  Not physically, but the guy had other ways of hurting everyone around him. Putting them down. No, beating them down with his words.