Dan Versus Nature

by Don Calame

But then Penelope leaps off me, and I suddenly find the will to live again.

  I heave myself up and glance back to check how close the bear is.

  Except . . . it’s not the bear.

  It’s . . . a deer. A baby deer. A cute little fawn, cocoa colored, with tiny white dots stippling its back. Stumbling around on stick-thin legs.

  “Guys! Hold up! It’s not the bear.” I laugh, tears welling in my eyes. “It’s a deer. A tiny baby deer.”

  The others stop and turn to look.

  “Thank Jesus.” Hank laughs. “I don’t know if my heart can take much more of this.”

  “Aww,” Penelope says. “It’s Bambi.”

  “Shhh.” Charlie holds a finger to his lips, tiptoeing back toward camp. “Nobody move. I want to get a picture of this for the paper.” He raises his camera to his eye as he moves forward. “Our female readership goes insane for this sort of thing.”

  He skulks toward the fawn, which has started nibbling on some grass, seemingly unperturbed by our presence.

  “Pick up the pace, Ansel Adams,” Penelope stage-whispers. “We haven’t got all day.”

  Charlie fiddles with the focus, takes a few shots, then slinks even closer.

  “I wonder where its mom and dad are,” I whisper.

  “Nearby, probably,” Hank says, craning his neck to try to locate them. “Thankfully, deer parents aren’t as aggressive as, say, bear parents.”

  Charlie adjusts the focus once more and snaps another series of pictures.

  “Jeez, Charlie,” Penelope says. “It’s a fawn, not the temple of Borobudur.”

  Charlie scoots just a little bit closer. Any nearer and he could reach out and pet the thing.

  He squats to get a fawn’s-eye view and clicks a couple more photos. He looks over at us with a big, doofy smile and raises his eyebrows like, Can you believe how amazing this is?

  And that’s when the giant paw shoots out of the bush — swiping the head off the fawn and sending a spray of blood across Charlie’s face and camera.

  “Holy shit!” I scream, stumbling backward. “Charlie! Run!”

  “Where is it? Where is it?” Charlie cries, stumble-running along, tripping over his own feet.

  “I think . . . we lost it,” I say, puffing and panting, obsessively checking over my shoulder as we tear through the forest.

  “The bigger and more pressing question,” Penelope says, slowing to a walk, “is where are we?”

  “We’re all . . . safe,” Hank rasps, hobbling. “That’s all . . . that matters right now.”

  “Yes, but,” Penelope says, “is there any possibility that we’re heading in the right direction? Id est, toward the lake?”

  “Oh, right.” Hank stops. He presses his hand against a tree for balance, leaning over to catch his breath. “That’s . . . yes. Something . . . I hadn’t considered.”

  Charlie, Penelope, and I gather around Hank’s tree.

  “Let’s just . . .” Hank wheezes, “get our . . . bearings for a second. Is everyone . . . OK?”

  “I’ve got deer blood in my eye, so no,” Charlie says, wiping a red smear from his face. “I’m probably going to contract Lyme disease. Possibly hepatitis E. Or worse, granulocytic anaplasmosis.”

  “You’re lucky to be alive at all, Charlie,” I say, surprised to find myself still clutching the sketchbook, the pencils, the baby sweater, and the tube of Calamine lotion to my chest.

  Charlie shoots me a you’re-an-idiot stare. “Not so lucky if my brain starts wasting away from transmissible spongiform encephalopathy.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Penelope says. “I think a bit of vacuolated gray matter might be just the thing you need to improve your personality.”

  “And I think,” Charlie counters, “that you . . . that you’re . . . that maybe . . .” He grabs his head. “Oh, God, it’s starting already.”

  Penelope grins. “You see. A marked improvement.”

  “OK, everyone. Let’s just calm down.” Hank swallows and straightens up. “Now.” He scans our surroundings. “We need some landmarks. Does anyone recognize any of this?”

  The four of us glance around. Trees and more trees. Bushes and downed branches. Dirt and grass and rocks. Nothing even remotely distinctive.

  “Perhaps we should retrace our steps,” Penelope suggests. “Return to camp so that we can embark from a place of familiarity.”

  “To be honest,” Hank says, rubbing the back of his neck and blushing, “I’m not really sure which way camp is. We did a sort of serpentine thing.” He looks over his shoulder. “Besides, that’s twice that we’ve managed to escape with our lives. I don’t think we want to tempt fate by getting anywhere near that bear again.”

  “What about the supplies?” I ask. “I mean, there wasn’t a lot, but there was some stuff we could have used. Penelope’s flashlight for sure.”

  Hank shakes his head. “Definitely not worth risking our necks over. We’ll have to get by without them for the next few days.”

  “This is a nightmare.” Charlie removes his glasses and rubs his eyes. “Thank God you’ve got survival experience, Mr. Langston. That’s the only thing keeping me from totally freaking out right now.”

  A bird suddenly flutters from the bushes. Charlie squeals like a girl and clutches Hank’s arm.

  “Yes, well, nobody should freak out,” Hank says, staring at Charlie’s hand. “That’s one of the top survival rules: Keep calm at all times.”

  Charlie laughs nervously and releases his grip on Hank’s arm.

  “All right,” I say, tucking the lotion, tiny sweater, and pencils into my sweatpants pockets and gripping my sketch pad under one arm. “Which direction do you suggest we go?”

  Hank points ahead. “Let’s continue on this way. And, uh, listen out for running water. Maybe we can find that stream again. I bet if we follow the water downstream, we run into our lake eventually.”

  Hank grabs a large branch. He stabs it into the ground, testing its strength. Satisfied it’ll support his weight, he begins totter-marching forward.

  Charlie, Penelope, and I trudge along behind him.

  In search of water.

  We walk for hours, mostly in silence.

  Charlie is clearly suffering from PTSD or something. He kept flinching and shrieking at every sound or sudden movement, till finally Penelope suggested he take some pictures to soothe himself — although, truth be told, I think she just wanted to shut him up. Still, the photography therapy appears to be working, as Charlie seems to have slipped into a sort of meditative state, his camera glued to his glasses.

  I’ve drifted to the back of the pack. I need to clear my head too — to shake off the remnants of the bear attacks and also rethink my plans for scaring off Hank, now that Charlie is dazed and my supplies are lost and this trip has suddenly become much more life-threatening.

  Another hour or so goes by, and Charlie slows and joins me at the back of the pack.

  “How you doing?” I ask.

  “Better,” he says. “Now that I’ve refocused.”

  “Refocused?”

  “Yes. On us. Our situation. And Hank.” He caps the lens on his camera. “I believe that we’re going to have to go back to basics here. Return to our roots.”

  I stare at him, confused. “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about going Rocky III on him.” Charlie screws up his face. “Or maybe it was Rocky V. Whichever one it is where he’s lost the eye of the tiger and needs to rediscover it. The killer instinct.” He shakes his head. “Anyway, the point being, I no longer have any of my harassment kit at our disposal. No mayonnaise packets, no personal lubricant, no fake blood, no emetics, diuretics, or laxatives, and no more deer-in-heat urine. Which means we’re going to have to extemporize.” He scans the forest. “Get creative and use what’s around us. What’s available.”

  “Yeah, I don’t know.” I crane my neck and watch Hank limping along up ahead. “I’ve been thinking, too, and I’m not s
ure it’s such a good idea to punk him while he’s trying to get us back to the lake. We can take up the cause again when we get home.”

  “You’re kidding, right?” Charlie says. “You’ve got your opponent on the ropes here. You don’t let up and allow him to convalesce. You come out swinging. You go in for the kill. The knockout punch. Put him down for the count.”

  “Yeah, I get it. Rocky. Boxing. But things are kind of effed up right now, Charlie. And personally, I’d really like to get out of here alive. I’m not so keen on making it more difficult for Hank to help us do that.”

  “Listen to me, Daniel,” Charlie insists. “I know we’re in deep. You’re talking to the guy who nearly got his head pawed off by a killer bear. But that just makes the situation even riper. This is life-and-death we’re talking about: Lost in the woods. The bear attack. That little stunt you pulled with the arrow — which was pure brilliance, by the way. Dangerous, but inspired.”

  “It was an accident,” I say.

  “Right, yes, of course.” He waves this off. “Whatever. It makes no difference. The point is everything is heightened now. If Hank felt a sense of responsibility before, it’s tenfold now. That’s only going to intensify his feelings of helplessness and frustration. I’m telling you, by the time we board Clint’s plane, Hank will have already mentally packed his bags and formulated his ‘Dear Jane’ letter to your mother.”

  I shake my head. “I don’t know, Charlie . . .”

  “Yes you do,” he says. “In your gut you know I’m right. What’s the point of surviving all of this if Hank still plans to marry your mom and take you away from me — and Erin?”

  I sigh. “What did you have in mind?”

  Charlie grins. “That’s my boy. OK, I’ve come up with a few ways to adapt some of our original scenarios. But I’ve also got some new ideas, based on the particulars of our situation —”

  “Maybe we should get Penelope on board,” I interrupt.

  Charlie does a double take. “Excuse me. What? No. Why?”

  “Don’t you think she’s going to figure out what we’re up to eventually? And once she does, you know that she’ll call us on it. She could ruin everything.”

  Charlie has been shaking his head the entire time I’ve been talking.

  “Absolutely not,” he says. “I don’t trust that girl as far as I can throw her — which, as we know, with my carpal tunnel, is not very far.”

  “I just think that with our lives in the balance here, that she might —”

  “Oh my God, you’ve done what I told you not to do,” Charlie says. “You’re smitten with her. That’s why you want to tell her! So you won’t be embarrassed in front of her.”

  “That’s ridiculous.” I force a laugh. “I so am not smitten with her.”

  “You know that I only want what’s best for you. And what’s best for you is that we leave that harridan out of this. She’s a wild card, and this is a high-stakes game of Doppelkopf, my friend.”

  “Doppelkopf?”

  “It’s a very challenging and complex German card game. With no wild cards.”

  I sigh. “Look, Charlie. All I’m suggesting is —”

  “She will destroy everything we’ve worked for,” Charlie says. “I’m going to have to put my foot down on this one. I’m sorry, but it’s absolutely imperative that we remain steadfast, strong, and in control of the situation.”

  A fluffy brown rabbit darts in front of us.

  Charlie screams, leaping into the air like he’s been anally probed.

  “Right.” I nod. “In control. Got it.”

  “It’s not the stream,” Hank says, standing next to a trickle of groundwater. “But if we follow this little creek, I bet we run into it eventually. Anyway, it’s something.” He looks up at the late-afternoon sun. “And it’s the best we’re going to do for today. We’ll set up camp here. At least we’ll have water to drink.”

  Charlie scoffs. “Not unless you expect us to risk exposure to cryptosporidium parvum or giardia lamblia.”

  “I’m sure the odds of that are very small,” Hank says. “In fact, Outdoor Life recently reported that water in remote locales is much cleaner than previously thought. And I don’t think anyone would argue”— he looks around at the vast wilderness —“that we are in a very remote locale.”

  “What about nourishment?” Penelope asks, grabbing her stomach. “All we’ve had to eat for two days is a can of chili.”

  And some of us voided our chili before it could be absorbed for nutrients, I think, glaring at Charlie.

  “Yeah, um . . .” Hank looks around. “We might have to forgo eating tonight.”

  “Seriously?” I say, my belly grumbling. “What about setting up some traps? Like a snare or something? You could show us how.”

  Hank rubs the back of his neck. “I don’t know if that’s the wisest use of our time. Even if we managed to catch something, we can’t cook it without a fire. And we don’t have any way to start one. We should build a shelter for warmth. That’s our first priority, just like Max said.”

  Charlie removes his glasses. “We could use one of these lenses as a magnifying glass.” He points to the sky. “Focus the sun’s rays on some sock lint or moss or something. Once we’ve got a flame, we simply add dried twigs, sticks, and then logs. If we have fire, then we have warmth and a means for cooking, yes?”

  “So you’re terribly farsighted, then?” Penelope asks archly.

  “No, nearsighted,” Charlie says, putting his glasses back on. “Why?”

  Penelope rolls her eyes. “Because, mollusk, you can’t start a fire with diverging lenses — which are what they use to correct nearsightedness.”

  “I know,” Charlie snaps defensively. “My mind’s just a little muddled after nearly being beheaded by a seven-hundred-pound beast. Of course I meant we’d need converging lenses. I don’t suppose you’re farsighted?”

  “Me? No. My glasses are strictly for style. I happen to have twenty-ten vision. Far above the average person. But it wouldn’t matter even if I were.”

  “What? Why not?”

  “Oh my God, this is excruciatingly embarrassing for you,” Penelope says. “OK, let me impart some basic knowledge of optics: Unless you’re, like, legally blind or something, a converging lens isn’t going to cut it either. What you really need is a biconvex lens — that means it’s convex on both sides.”

  “I know what biconvex means,” Charlie mutters, his face crimson.

  “Outstanding!” Penelope enthuses. “And do you know what has a biconvex lens in it?” She stares at him like he’s a dog and she’s waiting for him to take the treat she’s holding out.

  “My camera,” Charlie says at last. I’ve never seen his face so red before. It’s nearly the color of the rash on my ass.

  “Indeed! I don’t suppose you want to smash it, though, so just be sure to open the aperture as wide as possible and point the back end of the lens at your target.”

  “Right. Good. OK.” Hank nods. “So, if you want to take care of that,” he says to Charlie, “I’ll go see if I can rustle us up some food. It’s probably better if I’m by myself. Quieter. Dan, Penelope, maybe you two could start collecting material for our shelter. Just like the other day. Big branches first.” Hank looks around and points at a large rock over to our left. “Bring them over there. We’ll use that stone as our support.”

  Penelope and I wander through the forest, searching for building materials. This is now the third time the two of us have been alone in the woods together. You would think that I’d start to become immune to her charms, but I can’t help sneaking glances at her low-rise jeans, her form-fitting Squirrel Girl shirt, her —

  “What are you thinking about?” Penelope says.

  “What? Me? Nothing. Why?”

  “I don’t know. You seemed deep in thought. I assumed you must be pondering something. Ruminating on the complexities of the human condition.”

  “Yeah, uh, no.” I shake my head.
<
br />   “You must be thinking something,” Penelope says. “Personally, I’ve been trying to piece together the path back to the lake, to see if I could remember anything that might help — landmarks, sun position, whatever. I thought maybe you were doing the same.”

  “I wish,” I say, and I really do. It be awesome if I could be the hero that leads us back to the rendezvous point, to reunite Penelope with her mother.

  “OK,” she presses. “So if it’s not that, then what’s on your mind? You seem so intense, the way you’re wringing that poor baby sweater.”

  I look down at the sweater clutched in my right hand. I didn’t even know I was holding it. “It’s . . . personal.” I slip the sweater back into my pocket. “I’d rather not talk about it.” Understatement of the year!

  “All right. I can respect that.”

  Penelope crouches down to grab a few branches, and my eyes snap to, laser-focusing on the gaping of her jeans in the back. A ray of heavenly light shines down, spotlighting the glorious suggestion of greater things just a few centimeters below the belt loops. And I swear I hear a chorus of angels start to sing.

  I rip my gaze away, my breath snagging in my throat.

  Stop it right now. Just stop!

  “Why?” Penelope looks up at me.

  “Huh? What?”

  “Why do you want me to stop?” she says. “Is something wrong with this branch?”

  “I didn’t . . .” I swallow. “Did I say —”

  “‘Stop it right now. Just stop!’” Penelope stands, her eyebrows raised. “Yes, you did.”

  Oh.

  Crap.

  “I, uh, I . . .” I’m blinking like a madman, trying desperately to come up with a plausible excuse. “I was just . . . talking to myself. In my head.”

  “And you were castigating yourself?”

  “What? No.” I glance down, cheeks flaming. “You’ve got a warped mind, you know? I think you might have a problem.”

  “Castigating,” she says. “As in reprimanding?”

  “Oh. Yeah. Right. Castigating. In my head. That’s exactly what I was doing.”

  “Care to elaborate?” she asks. “Or is it more ‘personal’ matters?”