Chapter 12
The Rescue Mission
Seth Dinkman peered through the lens of camera two, lining up a long shot of the three Macdonald Hall dormitories. Suddenly the image was replaced by a blur of white sports clothes.
“Seth, I have to talk to you,” came Goose Golden’s voice, agitated as usual.
Dinkman turned to his cameraman. “Move the camera. That was the ugliest shot I’ve ever seen.”
“Come on, Seth! This is important!” Golden grabbed the director by the collar and dropped his voice to a whisper. “I can’t find J.J.!”
“You couldn’t find Russia if you started out in downtown Moscow. Leave me alone.”
“He isn’t in his trailer,” Golden went on, “and the commissary people say he wasn’t at breakfast or lunch.”
Dinkman raised his megaphone. “Okay, sports fans, take five. I have to fulfil my life’s true purpose and waste my time on this idiot.” He walked the manager over to a secluded spot. “Was his bed slept in?”
Golden nodded. “Yeah, but —”
“No buts,” Dinkman interrupted. “We’ve been keeping the kid tied up twenty-four hours a day, and when we ran out of interviews he escaped to be with his friends, that’s all. He’s around somewhere.”
“Then why can’t I find him?”
Dinkman fixed him with a stern look. “Have you ruled out stupidity? Look, now it’s daytime, the sun’s out and I’m busy. When it’s dark, you can bother me. I’m not guaranteeing I won’t rip your lungs out, but you can try. Now, go away. Jordie’s fine.”
* * *
The diagnosis came from Elmer Drimsdale. He examined the coach’s bruised and swollen foot and pronounced, “Sir, you have three fractured metatarsals.”
“Elmer, speak English!” piped Bruno.
“Mr. Flynn has a broken foot.”
The coach groaned and lay back on his sleeping bag. He even looked out through the trees down to the lake to see if maybe, just maybe, the lost canoe had resurfaced and was floating toward shore. No luck.
“So what do we do?” asked Mr. Fudge.
Elmer blinked. “Do?”
“About my foot!” raged the coach.
“I have no idea,” replied the genius. “The practical side of science is not one of my strengths.”
“Don’t worry, Coach!” cried Calvin. “I know exactly what to do! First, I kill a water buffalo —”
Flynn was becoming hysterical. “Does anybody know how to set a broken bone?”
Timidly Jordie stepped forward. “I think I might.”
“What do you mean, ‘might,’” growled Mr. Flynn. “We’re talking about my foot!”
“Well, when I was in Young Paramedics, the producers hired a first-aid expert to teach us how to treat wounds and set bones so it would seem natural on camera.” He looked worried. “I never had a real patient, though.”
Flynn looked around desperately. “Anybody else?”
There were no volunteers. Mr. Fudge looked embarrassed, blank and helpless.
Jordie supervised the cutting of two splints from a nearby tree — a large flat one for below the foot, and a smaller, slightly curved piece for above. Padding the wood with gauze bandages, he put the upper and lower pieces in place and tied them together firmly with more gauze to keep the foot immobilized. Then he wrapped a foam pad from one of the sleeping bags around Flynn’s lower leg, placed a flat stone under the whole arrangement to keep the injury slightly raised and sat back to admire his handiwork.
“How does that feel, Coach?”
“Not bad,” said Flynn in slight surprise. “It hurts like crazy, but it feels nice and firm. The point is, how can we send somebody for help when we lost our directions back to the highway?”
Calvin laughed out loud. “No sweat! What a bunch of tenderfeet you guys are! An experienced woodsman always marks his trail!”
Hope flared in the eyes of the two teachers.
“You left a trail? Way to go, Fihzgart!” cheered the coach.
“Of course I did!” Calvin confirmed heartily. “It starts right here. There’s the first marker. All the way from the road, I dropped a peanut every five paces.”
Ten voices chorused, “A peanut?!”
“Yeah. What’s wrong with peanuts?”
As if on cue, a red squirrel scampered out of the bush, snatched up the trail-marking peanut and disappeared up a tree.
“Well,” said Larry dryly, “maybe we can follow a trail of fat squirrels.”
“Big joke,” muttered Wilbur miserably. “I could have had that peanut.”
“Don’t worry,” said Mr. Fudge confidently. “I’ve got a compass. If I head south, I’m bound to hit the highway. Is Jones coming with me?”
The coach sighed. “Without directions we can’t risk it. He’ll just have to wait here until help comes.”
“Take me with you, Mr. Fudge!” begged Calvin. “I’ll guide you through!”
Flynn’s face twisted. “Fihzgart stays here. We might need another dead water buffalo.”
* * *
By nightfall, there was still no sign of rescue. Mr. Fudge had been gone for over seven hours.
“Gee, I sure hope nothing’s happened to him,” said Boots anxiously.
Coach Flynn was forcing himself to be cheerful. “Don’t worry about Mr. Fudge. He’s a big boy and can take care of himself. It’s a long way, that’s all.”
The three big tents were already set up, and a roaring campfire cast a warm glow over the clearing. Coach Flynn had supervised the entire operation from flat on his back on his sleeping bag. Not being able to help frustrated him. Of the boys, the only one who knew the first thing about camping was Jordie Jones. The star had never camped in his life but had appeared in at least three wilderness movies, picking up the odd skill here and there.
The only food not at the bottom of the lake was a sack of self-rising flour and a jar of shortening. Following Mr. Flynn’s recipe, Jordie and Boots made a passable batch of bannock. The coach gave a solemn lecture about how this was the last of the supplies, and they should ration themselves. But in three minutes, every last crumb was gone. Dessert was a shared package of LifeSavers from the linty pocket of Pete Anderson. When that was eaten, the wilderness survival trip was officially out of food.
The very thought of it devastated Wilbur Hackenschleimer. To him, foodlessness was the lowest state to which humanity could sink. He sat forlornly on a rock, gazing bleakly into the fire. “I can’t believe how fast this happened. Just yesterday we had meat loaf, mashed potatoes, gravy — it seems like a million years ago. I had indigestion. Today indigestion is something I can only dream about!”
“Don’t worry,” Calvin assured him. “Tomorrow we’ll all be having steak!”
Wilbur glared at him with venom. “What are you going to kill this time — a butcher shop?”
Calvin was unperturbed. “First thing in the morning, I’ll fashion a crude crossbow —”
Wilbur lost control. “Shut up, you idiot, or tomorrow we’ll be having moron stew!”
Bruno broke up the fight. “Come on. Lay off Calvin. He honestly thinks he’s going to save our lives.”
“Hey,” called Flynn, “our lives don’t need saving. Everything’s under control.”
There was a halfhearted chorus of agreement.
“So where’s Mr. Fudge with the rescuers?” queried Mark, aiming his video camera at the worried faces sitting in the deep red glow of the fire.
“They’ve probably decided not to come in the dark,” the coach explained. “They’ll be here first thing tomorrow — and they’ll bring breakfast,” he added, looking at Wilbur.
There were no songs around the campfire for the wilderness survival trip that night. No ghost stories were exchanged, no practical jokes played. Once the boys were in their tents, trying to drift into an uneasy sleep, the night noises of the forest struck instant terror into the hearts of everyone.
“Hoot! Hoot!”
Boots
sat bolt upright in his sleeping bag. “What was that?”
“Why, the mating call of the great horned owl, of course,” explained Elmer. He formed his mouth into a circle and produced exactly the same sound. An answering hoot came from the darkness. Elmer switched on his flashlight and began to make notes.
Bruno rolled over. “Since you speak owl, Elm, how about telling that guy to shut up so we can get some sleep?”
But the zoologist in Elmer was aroused. He gave seven birdcalls in rapid succession, then paused, scribbling as the responses came in from Algonquin Park.
Jordie propped himself up on his elbows. “Why can’t you do this tomorrow?”
“These are night birds,” said Elmer seriously. “Naturally, in the daylight, I’ll be doing an extensive study of diurnal creatures.”
Bruno yawned. “Hey, why don’t you tell us all about it, Elm? That should put us to sleep.”
“Pipe down in there,” came Mr. Flynn’s voice from the next tent.
“Coach,” spoke up Pete, “Wilbur’s drooling in his sleep again.”
“Hey!” hissed Boots suddenly. “There’s something out there!”
“Ah, you hear it too,” said Elmer. “The faint, high-pitched whistle of the hoary bat. Excellent.”
“Not that sound! The other one! Something’s in the bushes!”
“Oh, that,” said Elmer, disappointed. “That’s just an eighty-kilo adult human walking quickly through heavy underbrush.”
“The rescue team!” chorused Bruno, Boots and Jordie.
In seconds, the nine campers were out of their tents, squinting around the clearing in the light of the dying fire. The rustling of leaves and snapping of branches grew louder until, finally, the bushes parted, and a bedraggled, disoriented figure burst into camp. It was Mr. Fudge.
He stared at them in dismay. “What are you doing here? This is the highway!”
* * *
Sun-up brought a new development to the camp of the wilderness survival trip. When Bruno Walton dug into his luggage in search of warm clothes and dry boots, he found Bermuda shorts, his Sunday suit, two neckties, beach sandals, his Toronto Blue Jays sun visor and a sleeveless basketball jersey.
“Oh, no,” moaned Boots. “I knew I should have checked your things after I saw the way you packed!”
“This is no problem,” said Bruno airily. “I’ll just borrow some extra stuff.”
So it was that when Bruno headed down to the lake for the morning’s fishing, he was decked out in Elmer’s sweatshirt, Boots’s jeans and Calvin’s long underwear, which were squeezing the life out of him so that he walked in a constricted gunfighter stance. The boots were donated by Coach Flynn, who had no further need of footwear. These were several sizes too large, even with three pairs of socks (Mark’s, Dave’s and Wilbur’s), so Bruno stuffed a tie in each toe.
“I knew they’d come in handy,” he grinned.
They had no boat, so they fished from the ramp rock that had launched the S.S. Drown-in-the-Woods on its trip to the bottom of the lake.
Calvin was the first to get a bite, and he was jubilant. “The true woodsman comes through again, to bring food to his starving companions!” Furiously he reeled in his catch, a small brook trout about ten centimetres long.
“Salvelinus fontinalis,” pronounced Elmer.
“It’s humongous!” Calvin raved. “What a whopper! The biggest fish ever caught in these waters!’’ He grabbed the end of the line, took one look at the razor-sharp hook piercing the trout’s mouth and fainted, his breath leaving him in a slow gasp.
Bruno and Boots toted Calvin and his prize up the slope to camp and laid him out beside Flynn.
Calvin came to just in time to see Coach Flynn slit his fish up the middle to clean it. It was too much for the brave woodsman. He passed out again.
The fishing was excellent. Every few minutes, a burst of cheering would come from the lake. Within the hour, the wilderness survival trip was sitting down to a hearty breakfast of fresh fish.
Rested and fed, Mr. Fudge was ready to make another stab at finding the highway.
“Be careful not to get turned around again,” Flynn cautioned. “If you feel you’re going out of a straight line, check your compass and adjust your course due south.”
The Housemaster, his face scratched by branches, his expression nowhere near as confident as yesterday, gave them the thumbs-up signal and off he went.
Wilbur asked the most important question on his mind right after breakfast. “What’s for lunch?”
“Fish,” said Coach Flynn cheerfully. “It’s the only nutrition around.”
“On the contrary,” said Elmer. “There is a smorgasbord of food all about us.”
“Well, yeah,” Flynn admitted dubiously. “But I don’t think anybody’s really interested in —”
“I am!” Wilbur interrupted, looking anxiously around the clearing. “A guy’s got to have variety. Okay, Elmer, where’s the smorgasbord?”
“Let’s see,” Elmer began. “Mushrooms, acorns, algae, bark, roots, certain edible grubs —”
Wilbur grabbed a fishing rod. “Let’s get to it.”
* * *
When the movie crew broke for lunch that day, Seth Dinkman and Goose Golden met in a quiet corner of the commissary trailer.
There were enormous dark circles under the manager’s eyes from lack of sleep, and his white linen tennis outfit was one big wrinkle from tossing and turning, fully dressed, on the couch in Jordie’s trailer.
“I knew it! He’s been kidnapped!”
“Shhh!” admonished the director. “He hasn’t been kidnapped. I just got off the phone with his mother. She says he left her a message that he’s taking off for a few days, and he’ll be back.”
Golden was not consoled. “That’s crazy! He’s never pulled anything like this before! He’s only a little kid!”
“He’s a little kid who can get V.I.P. treatment anywhere in the world on the strength of his face,” added Dinkman. “You think anybody would ask any questions if he checked into a hotel? Listen, Goose, we smothered him and pushed him around, and he’s fighting back. Meanwhile, I’ve got our security people making discreet inquiries in Toronto.”
“Have you called the police?” quavered Golden.
“Are you crazy? If the police know, the press’ll get wind of it, and that’s all we need! This kind of bad publicity can bury a movie! So you keep your big mouth shut and stay out of sight. Just the look on your face would tell a reporter something’s up.”
“Well, we could at least ask Sturgeon,” the manager persisted. “He always knows what’s going on —”
“Don’t even think about it!” rasped the director. “Sturgeon would just call the cops. We’ve got to keep this quiet!”
“But I’m so worried!” whined Goose.
“Don’t be. If I know Jordie, he’s probably living it up at the best hotel in town.”
Chapter 13
The Media Circus
By noon the next day, two things were becoming apparent at the campsite in Algonquin Park. One, eating fish three meals a day wore thin very quickly. And two, Mr. Fudge was probably lost again, and help was not on the way.
It had rained all the previous night, and two of the three tents had sprung leaks. Tension in the camp was steadily mounting. Tempers flared, and when the boys weren’t snapping at each other, there were long silences. Most preferred the arguing.
Mr. Flynn tried walking, with two tree branches as crutches, but it was no use. His injury and the muddiness of the ground were too much to overcome. “Boys,” he said solemnly, “I don’t want to alarm you, but I think you’ve all figured out that we’re in a bit of a situation here. Just remember that we’re in no danger if we stay put. We’ve got shelter, water and a steady food supply. At the absolute worst, when we’re not at the road to meet the bus day after tomorrow, the alarm will go out, and we’ll be rescued then. Comments?”
“We could get to the road, sir!” promised C
alvin. “I could carry you!”
“Thanks, Fihzgart. Anybody else?” His eyes fell on Bruno’s morose face. “Well, Walton? Obviously you’ve got something to say.”
Bruno hung his head. “I was just thinking about all the rotten jokes I played on Mr. Fudge over the last couple of years. I put a lizard in his bed, I ordered him a pizza, I booby-trapped his toilet —”
“That was you?” blurted Pete. “Good one!”
Bruno looked guilty. “Well, it just seems kind of weird that I never got a chance to say I was sorry.”
“He’s not dead!” exploded Flynn.
“It was raining pretty hard last night —” ventured Jordie.
“Your imaginations are getting the better of you,” the coach lectured. “Look at Drimsdale here. He isn’t letting a few problems get him down.”
“On the contrary, sir,” said Elmer. “This has all been most fascinating. I saw a rare Acadian flycatcher today.”
“Now, after lunch,” said Flynn, “we’re going to start building a raft.”
“Great idea!” approved Calvin. “I’ll paddle out of here, and when I reach Greenland, I’ll airlift help!”
“It’s not transportation,” Flynn replied patiently. “I figure we put an SOS signal on it and float it out into the middle of the lake for any passing aircraft to see.”
Wilbur was put in charge of the tree-chopping detail. His instructions: “Pick small maple saplings, stand well clear and don’t let Fihzgart anywhere near the axe.”
Bruno, Boots and Jordie were sent straight from a lunch of fish to catch fish for dinner.
Bruno dropped his line in the water. “Well, Cutesy? Still glad you came on Die-in-the-Woods?”
Jordie grinned. “It’s not so bad. I feel kind of lousy that most of this is my fault, though. I hope you guys don’t flunk the trip.”
Bruno looked haunted. “Hey, you don’t think they’ll make us do it over till we get it right?!”
“I doubt it,” said Boots. “I’ll bet we’re doing more real surviving than anybody else ever did.”
“If we survive,” Bruno added. “Think we’ll be rescued?”
Lights, Camera, DISASTER! Page 13
