Dan Versus Nature

by Don Calame

  “Oh my God. Penelope!” It all comes rushing back like a terrible nightmare. I explain what happened — the bear, the rock.

  The scream.

  “Oh no,” Hank croaks, his twig-shrouded shoulders slumping.

  Charlie frowns, sending little cracks through his mud mask. “But you didn’t actually see the bear attack her, correct? So you don’t know for certain that she’s”— he clears his throat — “you know.”

  I shake my head. “No, I didn’t see it. But the bear was so close, and the horrible sound she made —” I choke back my tears. “It should’ve been me!”

  I can no longer hold the awful thoughts at bay, the weight of hopelessness, grief, and guilt. My body shudders with heavy sobs. Hank shuffles over and engulfs me in his leafy, mud-slathered arms. And I am undone.

  Hank is having me cake myself with mud from the river he and Charlie discovered.

  “Now that we know where the river is, we can follow it to the lake,” he says, using a sharpened stone to cut some branches off a bush. “That’s the good news, I guess.”

  “There is no good news,” I say, gently patting some sludge around my tender nose.

  “We’ll find Penelope,” Hank insists. “Don’t worry. I’m sure she’s fine. She’s very resourceful.”

  “And wily,” Charlie adds, weaving branches together for my costume. He forces a laugh. “If anyone deserves our pity, it’s the bear.”

  With Hank and Charlie both occupied, I surreptitiously drip some of the cold mud down the back of my pants. As I’d hoped, it soothes my ass itch quite a bit. Gross but effective.

  “Until we have evidence to the contrary,” Hank says, coming over and tying a branch to my arm with a piece of vine, “I think it’s best to assume she’s OK. Maybe lost, maybe frightened, but OK.”

  I stare at him. “A bloodcurdling scream isn’t evidence to the contrary?”

  “Circumstantial at best,” Charlie says, handing Hank the branches he’s woven together. “Certainly not enough to convict the bear in a court of law. You’d need a body for that. Claw marks. Then you’d have a case. But I’m with Hank here. I think she got away. I mean, I escaped and she’s in much better shape than I am.”

  I want to believe them, I really do. But that chilling shriek echoes through my head, and I know they’re probably kidding themselves.

  Hank and Charlie work their magic, and a few minutes later I look like a soldier fighting in the deepest jungle.

  Or a kindergartener wearing the world’s cheapest Halloween costume.

  Charlie pulls his camera out from under his shirt, leans into me, and snaps a selfie. “Bush brothers!” he declares, with remarkable cheeriness. Someone is in deep, deep denial.

  “OK,” Hank says. “Let’s go find Penelope.”

  It’s touch and go for a while, but after about an hour, I manage to lead us to the spot where Penelope beaned the bear.

  “She ran this way,” I say, following a trail of broken branches and flattened plants. I’m bracing myself for the absolute worst.

  We march along, shouting Penelope’s name as we go, until the trail of busted foliage peters out.

  Hank circles the area. “I don’t see any signs of a struggle.”

  “That’s positive,” Charlie offers. “I mean, we all saw what happened to that fawn. If Penelope were mauled, there would be some indication: blood, torn clothing, drag marks in the dirt.”

  A cold chill rockets up my spine as I spot a ragged piece of cloth fluttering on a nearby branch, a long spray of blood on the ground below.

  “You mean, like this?” I whisper, pinching the blood-soaked strip of fabric from the branch.

  Hank’s whole dirt-spackled body sags. “Oh, God. Oh no.”

  But Charlie is shaking his leaf-covered head. “It’s still just circumstantial. There would be a lot more blood if she were . . . if the bear had . . .”

  He puts his mud-caked fist in his mouth, stifling a sob.

  I am completely numb. I can’t process the fact that Penelope is dead. It doesn’t make sense. She’s too vibrant and ornery and smart-mouthed to die.

  “We’re going to have to pick up the pace,” Hank says when we finally make it back to the river. His voice is weak, weary. “Clint is supposed to meet us at the lake tomorrow morning. Hopefully, Max and Barbara —” The words catch in his throat. “Hopefully, they’ll be there too. We’ll have Clint call in for a search party. Just as long as we get to the lake in time.”

  He says this like there is any hope left of finding Penelope alive.

  Even though we all know that there’s not.

  Charlie grabs Hank’s arm, making him stop. “What about the bear?” he croaks. It’s the first thing he’s said since we left the site of the mauling.

  Hank looks at him with concern. “What about it, Charlie?”

  “Don’t you feel it might be prudent to perhaps fashion some weapons?” he asks, glancing around with wide eyes. “Spears or cudgels or something, in case the bear tracks us down again?”

  Hank looks up at the sinking sun. “I don’t think we have time for that. If we’re lucky, we’ll make it back to the lake by sunrise.” He looks down at his twig-covered body. “We’ll just have to hope that our camouflage is enough to keep us safe.” He gently removes Charlie’s hand from his arm. “Come on. Let’s go.”

  Charlie and I hurry to keep up with a swiftly hobbling Hank, each swish of leaves or snap of a twig making Charlie yip in fear.

  “Are you sure we don’t have time to make, like, spears or something?” I ask Hank, huffing as I try to match his long strides. “Or maybe it’s time we went on the offensive,” I suggest, warming to the idea. “If we just kill the bear — if you kill it, I mean — we won’t have to worry anymore, right? And then even if we can’t find the lake, at least we can stock up on meat and survive until someone —”

  Hank stops abruptly.

  “You guys want to make weapons?” he snaps, his expression fierce. “Here.” He pulls the sharpened stone from his pocket and slaps it in my palm. “Knock yourselves out. I’m going to go find the lake.”

  Charlie and I share confused, concerned glances.

  “Hank,” I say, as we jog to catch up. “Charlie and I were just trying to help. We’re scared. That’s all.”

  “Indeed,” Charlie says. “My sincerest apologies. I didn’t mean to upset you. I realize that you are the adult here and the wilderness expert. I never should have second-guessed you —”

  Hank whips around, his jaw clenched. “I am not a wilderness expert. I’m not. I know nothing about camping. Nothing about hunting. Nothing about being a parent. Nothing. It was all a big lie. OK?”

  Charlie and I stare at him.

  I blink, trying to make sense of what he’s just said.

  “Y-you’re not?” I stammer. “I don’t . . . But you said . . .”

  He shakes his head. “It was a misunderstanding. Your mom saw a bearskin rug in my family room. It came with the house. All of the furniture did. But your mom . . . she got so excited when she saw the stupid thing.” He clears his throat. “She jumped to conclusions. And I didn’t correct her. I should have, but I let it slide. I guess . . . I guess I liked the idea that she thought I was this man’s man, instead of just a boring old dentist. I certainly didn’t expect it to go anywhere after that. But then it started to snowball, and before I knew it, I was in so deep that I couldn’t figure a way out.”

  He takes a shaky breath. “I love her so much, Dan. I was scared that if I told her the truth, after going along with the lie for so long, I’d mess it all up.” He swallows. “I tried to bone up on some camping particulars, bought some magazines, listened to some podcasts, downloaded survival apps on my phone, but you have to believe me, I never would have agreed to go on this trip with you if I’d had any notion that we’d become separated from our guide. I never intended to take things this far . . .” He looks out at the rushing river.

  I stand there, saying nothing. The
world spins, a million thoughts colliding in my head like bumper cars.

  “Oh my God,” Charlie says, looking around at the never-ending wilderness. “It’s over. We’re doomed. We’re never getting out of here alive.”

  “Oh, the misery, the hopelessness of it all,” a girl’s voice calls out from behind us. “Who are you, Samuel Beckett?”

  I spin around to see Penelope pushing through the bushes. She’s scratched up and dirty, her shirt ripped at the belly, but she is most definitely still alive.

  “‘The tears of the world are a constant quantity,’” Penelope quotes.

  “Holy crap!” Charlie says, stumbling backward. “W-we thought you were dead!”

  “I nearly was,” Penelope says, gesturing to her torn shirt. “Thankfully, it’s just a flesh wound. Stings like a bitch, though.”

  “H-how did you find us?” Hank asks, staring at Penelope like she’s a ghost. “We looked everywhere for you . . .”

  “Just a bit of good fortune,” she says casually. “While I wandered around looking for you gentlemen, I happened upon this river. I decided that I would follow it down to the lake in the hopes of connecting with you there — or, worst-case scenario, meet up with my mom and Max and have Clint send out a search party for the three of you. Anyway, I was walking along, contemplating the current state of stem-cell research, when I heard voices. I tracked the sound and caught up to you. Except, at first I didn’t recognize you as human.” She gestures at our camouflage. “I thought perhaps I’d inadvertently ingurgitated some hallucinogenic mushrooms. But then I recognized Charlie’s nasally whine lamenting the futility of life. That’s when I knew it had to be you guys.”

  She smiles — as though it’s the most natural thing in the world for her to be standing there in front of us.

  “But . . .” I blink at her. “The bear. It was . . . I heard you scream.”

  “Ah, right. That must have been when I speared myself on that branch.” She lifts her shirt hem, showing us the blood-crusted laceration on her side. “It was quite painful, as I said. But luckily not life-threatening.”

  “I don’t understand,” Charlie says, frowning. “Dan said the bear was right on your heels. How did you manage to outrun it?” His voice is heavy with skepticism — like he expects her to rip off her mask and reveal the face of a bear underneath.

  She smirks. “You see, Charlie,” she begins, sounding like she’s talking to an intellectually disabled child, “when the bear first started after me, I came up with a theory regarding our relative turning radiuses. I thought to myself, ‘I am like an Aston Martin V8 Vantage Roadster. Ursus americanus is a Chevy minivan.’ Or so I hoped. To test my theory, I kept making these incredibly sharp turns around trees, changing direction on the fly. The bear had to make wider turns than I did, which slowed it down quite substantially. Eventually, I confused the hell out of it, and the bear gave up.”

  “That’s . . . freakin’ brilliant,” I say.

  Penelope laughs. “Don’t sound so surprised! You are looking at the winner of a tertiary scholarship at the Intel International Science and Engineering Fair. Although how I didn’t receive top honors still remains a mystery to me.” She cocks her head to one side. “So, I’m feeling a little like bear bait in my current state of dress.” She looks at Charlie. “Might I entreat your assistance in getting properly festooned, good sir?”

  Somehow Penelope manages to make the whole Swamp Thing look seem hot. She’s taken the lead, apparently unencumbered by her injury or the awkward bulk of the outfit.

  We hike into late afternoon. The shadows of the trees, rocks, and bushes stretch out long and thin on the ground, looking more and more like funhouse-mirror versions of themselves with each passing hour.

  Penelope’s Jean Grey–like resurrection initially distracted me from Hank’s devastating confession. But as the hours have passed, I’ve gone over and over his words in my head, like watching an endless loop of the Viper getting killed by the Mountain on Game of Thrones: He’s fine, he’s fine, he’s fine — BLAMMO! Teeth knocked out, skull crushed, the Viper is dead!

  I wish I could be as happy as Charlie about Hank’s revelation, but I can’t seem to muster his level of enthusiasm.

  “Well, we did it, my friend,” he said, not long after we set out again. “We got him to crack.”

  “Yeah, I guess,” I said, a knot in my throat.

  “I bet he gets out of Dodge as soon as we get back. The shame! The embarrassment! The feelings of inadequacy! I would not want to be him right now.”

  I nodded and swallowed. “Yeah, no. Me neither.”

  “You were right about him all along,” Charlie said. “Not that I doubted you, of course. But I didn’t expect him to be a total charlatan. Anyway, your mom should be relieved. Once she gets over the shock of it all, of course.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “She’ll be relieved. For sure. . . . Eventually.”

  “You don’t seem that happy about it,” Charlie noted.

  “I’m just tired,” I said wanly.

  “Well, lucky for you this saga is nearly at its end.”

  The miles drag on. Endless and slow.

  The warm yellow-orange of the day fades into the cool blue of the moonlit night. Blades of grass and stems of weeds bend in the wind. Tree branches creak overhead.

  And still we walk.

  “I wonder . . . if it’s time to admit,” I pant, “that following this river . . . was a stupid idea.”

  Nobody responds. Everyone’s too tired, all effort going into putting one foot in front of the other. My feet are swollen and blistered, and my legs are burning up.

  “I’m just saying . . . we spent one day walking . . . into the woods. We’ve spent the last three and a half . . . trying to get out. I’m no math genius, but the numbers . . . don’t really add up.”

  “Rivers . . . don’t run . . . in a straight line,” Hank says, every word sounding like an effort. “And it has to . . . feed into the lake . . . eventually.”

  I don’t have the energy to argue, to point out that this place is probably called the River of No Return for a reason, that we shouldn’t be following someone who’s lied to our faces since the moment we met him.

  And so we keep walking. Hour after hour. The moon arches across the dark, star-speckled sky until the black starts to dissolves into a pale blue.

  The morning approaches. Our meeting time with Clint is now just a few hours away.

  The ribbon of water continues to course through the valley, into the distance, seemingly flowing forever — with no sign of the lake anywhere.

  Just as the sun starts to peek over the horizon, Charlie’s foot catches on a root. He stumbles and collapses to the ground, his camera smacking the dirt, his glasses skittering off.

  Hank, Penelope, and I stagger over to him. Charlie’s half-closed eyes are red and rheumy.

  “Charlie?” Hank says, handing him his glasses. “Are you OK?”

  “Can’t . . . move,” Charlie moans. “Legs . . . dead . . . So . . . tired.”

  Hank peers into the distance. If there is a lake out there, it’s miles and miles ahead.

  “All right,” Hank says, sighing. “We’ll rest here for a bit. Half an hour, maybe. An hour at most.”

  “Thank God.” I drop my sketchbook and start pulling the branches off my arms and legs.

  “What’re you doing?” Penelope asks, her words semi-slurred.

  “There’s no way I’m going to be able to rest with all this stuff poking into me,” I say, picking the leaves and twigs out of my hair. “If the bear’s followed us this far, then let him eat me.”

  I shuffle off and find a nice patch of spongy moss. As I settle down, I glance at my left wrist. The dead ID bracelet is still there.

  But Dad’s Timex is gone.

  A hot-cold jolt races through my body. I have no clue when I lost it. Running from the bear? Climbing the tree? Putting on the camouflage? Ripping it off?

  I stagger to my feet and scan the
dirt nearby, kicking at my discarded twigs and leaves. But the watch is not there.

  “You OK, bud?” Hank says, lowering himself to the ground.

  “Yeah,” I say, grabbing my wrist, sniffing back hot tears. “Fine. I just . . . I lost my watch.”

  “Oh, jeez, Dan,” Hank says. “I’m sorry about that. You want me to help look for it?”

  I shake my head. “No. I looked already.” I pinch the moisture from the corners of my eyes. “Doesn’t matter anyway. It was a piece of junk.” I move back to the moss I found. I reach into my pocket and find the tiny sweater. I hold it tight in my hand.

  I’m too tired to cry. Too tired to care, even. I just want all of this to be over . . .

  There is a buzzing sound in my dreams, like someone riding a lawn mower way off in the distance. I feel the heat of the sun on my cheek, like a warm hand caressing me awake.

  My eyes flutter open. It’s bright out, the sun high in the sky. It has to be late morning. Maybe even noon.

  Oh, crap! We fell asleep!

  I sit up, my body one massive ache.

  The buzzing continues, no longer part of my dream, but somewhere here in the real world. I look around, try to locate the noise.

  All I see is the river, trees, and grass.

  And Hank, Penelope, and Charlie, still out cold.

  Hank is snoring, but that’s not what I’m hearing. The droning is somewhere else. Somewhere . . .

  Above.

  I tilt my head back and search the skies. Nothing. Just the sun and a mat of blue with the occasional cottony streak of cloud.

  The hum gets softer. Whatever it is, it’s moving away from us. I whip my head from side to side. Where is it? Where the hell is it?

  “Hey!” I shout. “Guys! Wake up! I hear something! A plane! I think it’s a plane!”

  Hank is the first to stir. “Huh?” He rubs his eyes. “What did you say?”

  “Listen,” I say. “You hear that?”

  Hank cocks his head, then leaps to his feet. “Where’s it coming from? Which direction? Did you see it?”