Escape from the Everglades

by Tim Shoemaker

  “Look.” Wilson sounded just a little desperate now. “You’re always talking about doing the right thing. Well this is it. If you won’t do it for you, think about Jelly and Maria.”

  “What does this have to do with—?”

  “I’ll explain later,” Wilson said. “Just don’t back out.”

  “Back out?” Parker glared at Wilson. “I was never in.”

  Elbow hanging out the driver’s window, Kingman pulled into the driveway way too fast. He hit the hooks and slid to a stop on the gravel, not five feet from where Parker and Wilson stood. If Parker had jumped out of the way or looked scared, Kingman would have won his little game. Kingman locked eyes with Parker—like he knew how hard Parker fought to stand still.

  Kingman blasted the horn, and Parker instinctively jumped. Kingman leaned back against the headrest with that “gotcha, boy” look in his eyes.

  Maria sat up front with the jerk. She was actually leaning against him. Sick. Jelly sat in the second seat of the double cab.

  Kingman leaned out his open window. “C’mon, Gator-bait. You’re burning daylight.”

  Parker hesitated. His eyes met Maria’s. She angled her head sideways slightly, like she was disappointed in him or something. Did she really think he’d be revved up to do this?

  Kingman laughed. “Told you the gimp wouldn’t do it. Poor little fraidy-cat ranger’s kid.”

  Parker could have turned and walked away. Which was exactly what he should’ve done. But he stood there unable to move. He caught Jelly’s eyes from the back seat. She looked nervous, but he couldn’t read exactly why. She shook her head slightly. Okay, she was trying to tell him not to do something. Don’t wimp out—or don’t get in the truck?

  Honestly? He didn’t like either option. Either he’d be labeled a coward, or he’d be pressured into playing the fool and going where he didn’t want to go. Terrific.

  There was only one way to shut Kingman’s stinkin’ mouth, though. Parker marched over and dropped Amos Moses in the bed of the truck. “I have to get a long-sleeved shirt.” The mosquitoes would drain him if he only wore his T-shirt.

  “Make it the orange one,” Wilson said.

  “Just make it fast.” Kingman revved the engine. “I don’t have all day.”

  Parker ran into the house—and wished he could run right out the back door and keep going. But he was trapped, wasn’t he?

  He pulled his orange UV-blocking shirt over his head. Why did Wilson tell him to wear this one? He grabbed his day pack and tossed in the face-netting and mosquito spray. He’d need a weapon. He reached under his bed for his Gerber LMF II Infantry model survival knife. He’d named it Jimbo—after the legendary maker of the Bowie knife, Jim Bowie. It still gave him a rush every time he strapped it on. With its partially serrated stainless steel blade the thing could cut through anything. And with the sharpener actually built into the sheath, he kept the thing razor sharp. It was ready for action every time he pulled it out. He strapped Jimbo to his calf and rolled his pants back over it. He could only imagine the stupid comments Kingman would make if he saw he’d brought it.

  He wished Mom wasn’t in Boston. She could have come up with some excuse to keep him home. He whipped off a quick note to his dad and left it on the kitchen table. It wasn’t likely he’d stop home in the middle of his shift, but he didn’t want his dad worrying if he didn’t see Parker around. His dad gave him a lot of leash, and Parker appreciated it. Not telling Dad what he was up to was a great way to lose that privilege.

  A minute later he was back at the truck. He tossed the pack in the bed alongside Amos Moses.

  Wilson met him at the bed. “Sorry, bro. This isn’t exactly how I pictured this going down.”

  How could he have expected any different? “I’m going to kill you when this is over.”

  Wilson grinned. “I think Jelly will help.”

  Parker followed Wilson into the extended cab.

  Jelly was already buckled in. She leaned forward to look past Wilson. “Sorry,” she mouthed.

  Which was the weird thing. Since the accident she seemed to be just as determined to keep Parker away from the Glades as he was himself. But here she was, going along for the ride.

  Kingman spun his tires in reverse, the sound of gravel and crushed shells pelting the wheel wells.

  Parker could feel the sweat trickling down his scalp. He clenched and unclenched his weaker fist. Stretched his forearm.

  Wilson leaned close. “I did this for your own good—you know that, right?”

  “Absolutely. And if Amos Moses ‘accidently’ sticks your bee-hind when we get out of this truck, know I’m doing it for your good too.”

  Wilson laughed.

  “Exactly where are we going?”

  Kingman looked at him in the rearview mirror. “Best place in southern Florida to get a real Everglades experience.” He glanced out the front windshield for an instant, and then was back—like he didn’t want to miss Parker’s face when he dropped the bomb on him. “Gator Hook Trail.”

  Parker’s stomach twisted like it would have crawled out of the truck if it could. He’d never ventured down that trail—and for good reason. During this season, Gator Hook was a wet trail—as in, it led right out into the Everglades. “No way.”

  Kingman laughed like he enjoyed making Parker squirm. “Meow.”

  Parker stared out the side window as Kingman sped over the causeway, through Everglades City, and finally east onto Tamiami Trail, the two-lane highway heading through some of the densest wilds of the Glades.

  Dad led small, elite tours down Gator Hook Trail when he’d first been assigned to this station. Three fully armed and experienced rangers went with every group, just to be safe. One led, another stayed midway in the column of hikers, and one took shotgun. Literally—one ranger carried a twelve-gauge pump-action. Parker could smell the Glades on Dad’s clothes when he’d come home. Sometimes his pants would be soaked to his waist. He’d wanted to take Parker on the trek, but it had never worked out. And after the accident, there were no more offers.

  “Gotta make a pit stop,” Kingman said. He pulled into Wooten’s Airboat Tours—one of the biggest tourist attractions in the area. Wilson’s dad took visitors out into the Glades on huge airboats that could easily carry fifteen passengers. “Air barges,” Wilson called them.

  Kingman parked right up front in the handicapped section, where there was a clear view of the docks and tourists loading and unloading for airboat rides. “I’ll only be here a minute.”

  As if that little explanation made it okay to park there.

  Wilson slouched back in his seat the moment Kingman trotted out of sight. “Why couldn’t he do that before he picked us up? If my dad sees me riding with Kingman? He’ll have my hide.”

  And Parker’s dad wouldn’t exactly be thrilled to hear where he was headed—or that he was getting a ride with Kingman, either. Dad was a people person. He found something to like about almost everybody. But Kingman was “bad blood,” he’d said. And not just because he gave the rangers such a hard time. Parker sensed there was something more that his dad wasn’t saying.

  “I’m not sure how I’ll explain this to my dad either,” Parker said.

  Wilson gave him a sideways glance. “You’ll be back long before his shift is over. Why even tell him?”

  Parker thought of the sign over his bed. “It’s the right thing to do.” His grandpa was a man of integrity—and so was his dad. Parker intended to be one too. But doing the right thing wasn’t always easy. For a moment he wondered if he should get out of the truck and abort this whole thing. He could phone his dad to pick him up.

  Suddenly Kingman hustled up and swung behind the wheel. He pulled back out on Tamiami Trail, tires squealing.

  By the time they passed the Skunk Ape Research Headquarters, Parker was wishing he’d never gotten in the pickup—no matter how bad it made him look to Maria or Jelly.

  Wilson leaned forward against the seat belt. “You’
ve spent a lot of time in the Glades, Clayton. Ever seen a skunk ape?”

  There was a picture of one in the gift shop of the research building. Grainy. Distant. But it definitely looked like a sasquatch: the legendary bigfoot—or a skunk ape, as they called them here.

  The rearview mirror framed Kingman’s eyes like a mask. But the driver was looking at Parker, not Wilson. “No skunk ape. But I’ve seen some spooky things in the Glades. Crazy spooky. Things that would make guys like Gator-bait here pee in their pants.” He glanced out the windshield, then back to the mirror—looking directly at Parker again.

  Those eyes were as scary as anything Parker might see in the Everglades. Charles Manson eyes, his dad called them. Whatever that meant.

  Kingman slowed to turn off the Tamiami onto Loop Road. How did Parker get himself into this? Clayton tromped on the gas. The pickup bounced and lurched across a series of potholes. The monster tires kicked up a smokescreen of dust behind them. Amos Moses banged around in the bed like even it knew this was a bad idea and wanted out.

  Parker had been down this gravel road with Dad. Once. Surrounded by water, the twenty-six-mile route cut through a small section of no-man’s-land in the Everglades known as Big Cypress National Preserve. Loop Road eventually caught up to the Tamiami Trail again, but there was plenty of weird stuff before it did. Some homes at the far end of Loop Road—or the people who lived there—were definitely dialed in to the strange side of the emotional spectrum. They made it clear with signs—and other ways—that they didn’t want visitors. Nobody would ever catch Parker knocking on their door.

  Kingman eased off the gas and pulled over to a couple of tables under a shelter roof. “Gator Hook Trail,” he said. A cloud of dust passed over the truck and drifted into the jungle-like brush at the trailhead.

  They piled out of the truck, and the mosquitoes swarmed them immediately. Parker pulled the netting over his cap, slipped his pack over one shoulder, and grabbed Amos Moses from the bed.

  Kingman stood watching, a stupid smirk on his face. He nodded toward the gator stick. “Nice shepherd staff, Bo-Peep. I don’t think you’ll find any sheep where you’re going.” He pointed toward a warning sign bolted to one of the shelter support posts. Bears, alligators, panthers, and venomous snakes were pictured. No sasquatch. And definitely no sheep.

  “Are you really going to do this?” Maria had a doubtful look on her face.

  “Of course he’s not,” Kingman said. “Call us when he chickens out.” He waggled his phone. “Meantime I’m going to take Maria on a little drive down Loop Road and back.” He pulled her close. Sick. What on earth did she see in that jerk?

  Maria and Kingman climbed into the truck and backed away. Parker turned his back to Loop Road. He didn’t want to give that sleazeball the pleasure of thinking he was admiring his truck.

  The start of Gator Hook Trail was clearly marked, and Wilson led the way. Jelly fell in behind Parker. The trail sloped downward slightly, then narrowed as the brush closed in from both sides. Parker alternated scanning the overhanging branches and the sides of the path for snakes.

  Wilson’s footprints in the black mud weren’t the only ones visible. But how long had it been since anyone had ventured out here—and did everyone make it back?

  The brush and overhanging trees gave way to a huge expanse of water—with the trail leading right into it. Short grasses and clumps of sawgrass rose above the surface, thick enough in some areas to give the illusion that there were patches of dry ground. But there weren’t. Cypress trees formed a line in the offshore distance like there was an island out there. Another illusion. There wouldn’t be a foot of dry ground for miles and miles and miles. The cypress thrived in the water.

  Wilson stopped. “The trail goes back something like two and a half miles. Ends in a cypress forest. You’ll see markers every once in a while—like that one.” He pointed to a small yellow circle of spray paint on the trunk of a spindly tree. “You won’t get lost. Trust me. And put this on.” Wilson took off his gator-tooth necklace and handed it to Parker. “This has always kept me safe.”

  Parker stared at him. He didn’t need Wilson’s necklace to keep him safe. But having Wilson himself around could come in handy. “You’re not going in?”

  He shook his head. “What good would that do you? This is a head game you gotta play alone. This is mental.”

  “You’re mental if you think I’m walking out into the Everglades by myself.” Parker fought back a sense of fight or flight welling up inside him.

  “Parker’s right,” Jelly said. “I thought we were going with him. I never agreed to this.”

  Jelly and Wilson went at it nose to nose. Parker didn’t try to stop them. Not that he expected them to work out his problems. He needed to do that himself—and right now.

  Parker quietly stepped back from his friends. The thing was, Wilson honestly thought this was what Parker needed. He could be right, but was Parker willing to bet his life on it? One thing was for sure: If he did sense trouble, Wilson wouldn’t let him fend for himself. He’d be by Parker’s side. And hadn’t Dad taken groups of hikers on the Gator Hook Trail “wet tour” dozens of times when he hadn’t seen any alligators up close? What if this was the best way to end the nightmares?

  He looked out over the still waters of the Everglades. Endless. Instinctively he looked for alligators. Now he got why Wilson wanted him to wear the orange shirt. It would be easier to find him if he didn’t come back. This was insane. “God,” he whispered, “what should I do?”

  “What if something happens?” Jelly was practically shouting now.

  “Something will happen.” Wilson wasn’t exactly using his inside voice either. “He’s going to get his courage back.”

  Get his courage back? Couldn’t Wilson see Parker was just using his head—and that his determination not to go into the Glades had nothing to do with being afraid?

  “He’s got plenty of courage,” Jelly said. “It’s just buried under a mound of fear right now. And for good reason.”

  Buried under a mound of fear? Nice. She thought he was scared too. The fact that she thought he had a good reason to be afraid didn’t help much. He’d survived a death roll from the biggest gator he’d ever seen—and fought his way back to the airboat. He’d struggled to free himself when the angel of death had him in a full nelson. Pushed himself every stinkin’ day to do the physical therapy despite the pain. Yet Wilson and Jelly had him labeled as a coward, just because he kept his distance from the place that nearly killed him.

  Is that the way it would always be? If this was what his best friends thought of him, what did everyone else think? Which was one more reason he had to get out of this place. Make a fresh start somewhere. In a place where people wouldn’t see the labels people plastered on him here.

  Jelly and Wilson kept at it. Arguing back and forth about Parker as if he wasn’t even there.

  Parker tuned them out. Stood at the water’s edge. An egret stood on its stilt-like legs, poking around with its banana beak, searching for food just twenty yards away. It didn’t look one bit worried about predators. What’s wrong with me?

  This was an issue of courage, wasn’t it? Or rather, the lack of it. Wilson was right. Parker was afraid. And he was right about another thing too. He wasn’t just afraid when he was in the Everglades. The fear was part of him. Inside. He felt it at night. In his room—safe from the swampy Everglades. And wherever Dad got transferred, would that fear get boxed up somehow and follow Parker in the moving van? Would it catch up with him no matter where he went?

  He prayed to God it wouldn’t. And at the same time he knew the fear had to be conquered. Here. In the Everglades, right where it started. Could taking Gator Hook Trail free him from the nightmares? Could it free him from the labels others stuck on him?

  Parker stared out over the seemingly endless expanse. Maybe going in alone would help, but honestly? Could he even do it?

  “If Parker climbs in Kingman’s truck with dry pant
s, he’ll know he didn’t wade into the Glades,” Wilson said. “Then Maria will lose more than that twenty-dollar bet.”

  Wait—Kingman put money on Parker chickening out? Is that what Wilson wanted to tell him before they left?

  “He’ll rub her nose in it every chance he gets—yours too.”

  Kingman definitely would. Maria trusted that Parker would take the trail—even though Jelly seemed to hope he wouldn’t. Deep down they both believed he’d do the right thing. And a man of integrity does the right thing—even when he’s scared.

  How could he let them down? He wouldn’t be simply wearing labels after that. They’d be tattoos. Something he’d never outrun.

  He had to go in—without Wilson and Jelly. But he wouldn’t be alone, right? Didn’t Jesus say he’d never leave one of his followers?

  He took a deep breath. Let it out. Slipped Wilson’s gator-tooth necklace over his head. Not that he put any faith in the thing, but it did feel good around his neck. There was only one place to put his faith. He knew that.

  “Okay, Jesus,” he whispered. “I really wish I could walk on the water like you. But I’ll settle for you walking in the water with me now.”

  He gripped Amos Moses—and stepped into the warm waters of the Florida Everglades.

  CHAPTER 10

  “I NEVER AGREED TO THIS,” ANGELICA SAID. “I thought we were all going in together.” She should have stuck to her guns. She’d been all about keeping him out of the Glades. How did she let Wilson talk her into this?

  Wilson smiled, but he wasn’t even looking at her.

  She followed his gaze and saw Parker—already a good thirty feet from shore and in water up to his shins.

  No.

  “Wait, Parker—you don’t have to do this.”

  He didn’t look back. “I think I do.”

  Angelica took a step toward him, but Wilson grabbed her arm and spun her around. “What are you doing?”

  “Going with.” Or she’d stop him. Convince him to come back to shore.

  “And when your sister’s boyfriend sees your pants wet, what’s he going to say?”