IT’S MORNING ON THE FOURTH DAY, and there’s a tsunami going on inside your stomach. You’re afraid to even see what’s for breakfast, but thankfully it’s only eggs, bacon, and toast. A piece of toast will be enough for you.
Winchester enters the dining room, greeting all of you. “How is everybody feeling after last night’s dinner?”
“Awful,” Willie moans.
“Not so good,” Cole says.
John Luke shakes his head. “I had nightmares last night.”
“My stomach’s having nightmares now.” You hope this toast will calm things down.
“The count likes to mess with the minds of his guests,” Winchester says in his logical, levelheaded manner.
“Someone needs to show him the meaning of the words Southern hospitality,” Willie mutters.
Winchester nods. “Today you will be heading to the beach.”
You glance up hopefully. “A day to swim and surf?”
“Not quite.”
“Let me guess,” you say. “We get to pick which weapon we’d like to use. A toaster, a meat cleaver, or a whisk.”
“Professor Plum in the library with the candlestick,” Willie jokes.
Winchester doesn’t even smile at that one. He continues on as if you Robertson brothers’ banter is muted. “You will choose from three weapons today. The crossbow, the rifle, and the sword.”
“I’m gonna miss that cowbell,” Willie sighs.
“You will also want to put on sufficient sunblock. It’s going to be hot outside.”
You notice that Winchester is about as white as a person can get.
“I see you spend a lot of time in the sun.” You grin.
He doesn’t. “The count keeps me busy with other things.”
Winchester leaves you four alone to finish breakfast.
“Is it just me, or do you get the feeling that those guys are in the back room doing weird scientific experiments on animals?” You glance around at the others. “Maybe people too.”
“I think it’s just you. I think it’s always you.”
You shake your head at Willie. He’d disagree with you on anything. Anything.
So which weapon will you select?
If you pick the crossbow, go here.
If you pick the rifle, go here.
If you pick the sword, go here.
PURPLE HAZE
YOU’RE NOT SURE you’ve ever gone hunting with only a dagger and a handgun before. You’ve heard about notorious hunters showing off by using only a spear, for instance. Or a knife. No gun at all. But you’re no Crocodile Dundee or Ernest Hemingway. (Wait, which one was the writer again?) You’re used to carrying something big and strong and heavy. This dagger and little gun on the side of your hip simply make you feel like you’re play-hunting. Like you used to do with Willie and Alan and Jep when you were all kids.
“Didn’t we head over this hill like an hour ago?” you ask Willie, who’s leading the group.
“Things look the same ’cause we’re in a jungle.”
“I remember that big tree,” you tell him.
“They’re all big! What are you talking about?”
You might as well be singing that Talking Heads song “Road to Nowhere” ’cause that’s exactly where you’re headed.
“Hey, you can take over, Christopher Columbus,” he calls back.
You wipe sweat off your forehead, then take a sip from your canteen. For some reason, you’ve been thirstier today than ever before in your life. Maybe it was the long trip yesterday and the extra food you shouldn’t have eaten (like those little hot dogs wrapped inside that doughy bread).
“Seen any trace of anything?” you ask the boys.
Both of them seem tired. You don’t blame them. Coming all this way to trek through the steaming jungle with wimpy weapons and not an animal to be seen . . . well, that doesn’t scream excitement.
Willie has his Black Widow dagger out, holding it forward in case some monkey or lizard or bear comes bursting through the brush. You put your canteen back and take your dagger out to examine it. It’s sleek and long and could be really deadly to someone trying to attack you on a street corner. But out here . . .
Why’d I select this thing again?
All of you decide to rest for a moment, point man Willie drinking from his canteen. And that’s when it happens. Like some kind of blurry, mad rushing dash right in front of you. Like a race you didn’t even know was happening until you’re in the middle of it.
Willie has his head tilted back for a drink when something low, bulky, and dark crashes into his legs, knocking him on top of John Luke. The fast-moving creature is like a runaway go-kart or something. That’s what it looks like at first until you actually see its crinkled, ugly face glaring at you.
It’s a hog. A really massive, hideous hog.
Another appears right next to it. And the two are racing like a pair of NASCAR drivers a lap away from winning the Daytona 500.
Before you can say or do anything, the first hog barrels right past you. The next one comes closer and closer and—
As it’s about to plow into you, you thrust the blade of the Black Widow into its back. Somehow, someway, you manage to sidestep the animal while still holding on to the dagger.
Now you’re running alongside it.
Forget runnin’ with the bulls. I’m runnin’ with a boar!
You’re—you’re still holding on—still holding on. . . . The thing’s pulling you—it’s so strong, stronger than a bull. . . . You’re hanging on to the dagger with both hands—
Then you jump on the boar’s back. It can’t be a hog; the thing’s too big.
You are riding a big wild boar.
Let’s say that again.
You are riding a big wild boar.
For about two minutes. And it’s squealing and breathing heavily and smelling bad and looking ugly.
Then you can’t sit up anymore. You fall to the ground while the boar keeps plowing through the jungle.
It take a couple of minutes for the rest of the guys to join you.
“You let it go!” Willie says to you.
You still can’t breathe very well since the fall took your breath away.
“Come on—did you at least stick it good?” he asks.
“This coming from the man who was tackled by a boar,” you gasp. “Yeah, I got the entire blade into that thing. But it acted like it was just a toothpick.”
“Hey, look at this,” Cole says.
A dark, wet substance covers the leaves and branches along the route the boar carried you.
“Wait—is that . . . ?” you begin.
“I think it’s blood,” Cole says.
“It’s purple,” John Luke says.
That’s what you were going to point out.
“Well, call me crazy, but isn’t blood supposed to be red?” Willie says.
You can’t help thinking about the hog that got away.
“Come on,” you tell them. “Let’s follow the purple trail. Whether or not it’s blood, it’s coming from that animal.”
“If it’s not blood, then what exactly do you think it would be?” your brother says.
Same little Willie, always having to nag you with questions. Just like when you were hunting together as boys or traveling together on family trips or sitting together at the dinner table. Nitpick Willie.
“Listen, wise guy, let’s just find it and then figure that out.”
The purple drops and splatterings are easy to find. You could probably follow the rampaging boar even without those clues because of the trail it left behind. So for the next hour, you stay on the hunt.
John Luke is the one to finally locate it.
“It’s over here,” he calls from near a thick growth of bushes by a tree.
“Is it dead?”
“I sure hope so,” he says. “’Cause this is the biggest boar I’ve ever seen.”
Turns out the dagger did its trick. Guess it really was a Black
Widow in the end.
Go here.
MOCKERY
JOHN LUKE HAS HIS SHIRT OFF and his pants rolled up. He’s lying on the beach with the shirt over his face to block the sun. Cole is next to him digging a hole in the sand. Willie is cleaning his crossbow for some unknown reason since he hasn’t even used it yet.
You stare at them for a moment and shake your head. “I don’t want to ruin anyone’s spring break, but aren’t we supposed to be hunting?”
Willie is the only one of the three to even look up at you. “It sure would help if we knew what we were hunting.”
“But that’s part of the fun, right? I mean, aren’t you having fun?”
Willie just stares at you.
“I’m having fun,” you say.
Of course, you’re not having one ounce of fun. You’re sweating down your back and down your legs and all the way into your boots. You’ve been walking back and forth on the beach for hours, looking for anything. Anything. A bird. A frog. A shark or a fish. But nothing has appeared.
“We’re just takin’ a little break,” Willie says.
“Here we are, hunting on some exotic island, and you three want to take a little break. It’s a sad day to be a Robertson.”
“Oh, pipe down,” Willie says. “Why don’t you sit and chill out for a minute. Maybe you’re scaring off the animals with the scent of your manly testosterone.”
You finally go ahead and do as Willie said, plopping down on the beach. The water looks so clear and the waves so gentle. You really want to pull off your boots and dive into the water. Maybe you will. But only after you shoot something today.
As you gaze into the bright ocean in front of you, it’s easy to drift off a bit. Your eyes dip, but nobody will be able to tell since you have your shades on.
You’re only taking a five-minute break.
Then you hear laughter.
“What’s so funny?” you ask, opening your eyes.
“What?” Willie asks.
“What’s so funny?”
“I didn’t laugh.”
“Well, who laughed?”
Cole and John Luke remain quiet. You think John Luke might actually be asleep.
You close your eyes again and hear the laughter once more.
“I heard it that time,” Willie says. “But it’s coming from over there.” He points down the beach.
You both stand and head in the direction the high-pitched laugh came from. For a few minutes you walk in silence, sinking into the hot sand. You can see the lodge from where you’re at—it’s above you, in the distance. But no other landmarks are in sight.
“Check this out.” Willie’s examining a small hole, barely visible in the sand. “Looks like some little critter made it.”
“Think that critter was just laughing too?”
“On this island?” Willie asks. “Sure.”
You kneel beside the hole and put your hand in it.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Willie says.
The hole is too deep for you to reach the bottom. You’re pretty sure it’s attached to a tunnel.
The laughter sounds again. You jerk your hand out. “Where’s that coming from?”
Willie’s aiming his crossbow toward the border between beach and jungle. “Somewhere over there.”
John Luke has his shirt on again, and Cole’s got his crossbow out. They’re squinting in every direction.
“Did you guys hear that laughter?” you ask.
“Sounds like a little girl,” Cole says.
John Luke nods. “Sounds like Sadie’s laugh.”
“Well, if you see Sadie, don’t shoot,” Willie says.
You walk over to the water and place a boot on the wet sand. Then you hear it again.
To your left.
You jerk your head around and hold your crossbow at the ready, and for a brief second you catch a glimpse of something. A round head with whiskers and two buckteeth.
Then it’s gone.
Wait a minute.
“Hey, guys,” you say as you begin to walk over to where you think you saw the animal.
“You see something?”
“I saw something, all right.”
“What is it?” Willie asks.
“You’re not going to like what I’m about to say.”
“What?”
All of them are questioning you now.
You reach the hole—a second hole. You look over to where Willie’s standing, close to the original hole. He’s about fifty yards away from you.
“We’re dealing with a gopher.”
“A what?” John Luke asks.
“A gopher.”
“No, we’re not,” Willie says. “We can’t be hunting a gopher.”
The laughter sounds again. Giddy, silly, sweet.
Suddenly you hear someone’s crossbow firing. It’s just a quick whoosh.
It’s Cole’s.
“What’d you see?”
He rushes over to yet another hole. “I saw him. Over here.”
“You saw what?”
“The gopher.”
“See, I told you,” you shout to Willie.
Cole peers into the hole. “It was grayish colored. And ugly.”
“Gophers are all ugly,” you say.
“In the immortal words of Jean-Paul Sartre, ‘Au revoir, gopher,’” Willie says with a funny accent.
“What are you talking about?” you ask him.
“Caddyshack. Come on, you remember that one, right?”
“Do you want to share movie lines or do you want to kill a rodent?”
You hear the click and snap of a crossbow firing again.
It’s John Luke this time. He fired at the hole you were standing near a minute ago. “The thing is messin’ with us.”
“Too bad we already used the cowbell,” Willie says. “We could’ve blown the thing up.”
“How many holes are there?”
You count a total of four. So you assign everybody a hole. “We keep our crossbows aimed and ready at each designated hole.”
“And the gopher’s gonna magically appear at one of them?” Willie sounds skeptical.
“Of course it will.”
“Somehow I imagined hunting wild deer and buffalo and zebras,” Willie says as he camps out ten yards from his hole. “I flew to an island in the Pacific to hunt gopher.”
“Don’t forget our wonderful dinner last night,” you tell him.
“I threw up afterward,” John Luke says.
“Thanks for sharing that,” Willie replies. “Anything else you want to tell us?”
“No.”
“Good.”
It’s been about twenty minutes when you hear the laughter. And it sounds like the gopher’s practically right behind you.
“You guys hear that?”
Willie stands. “It’s coming from your spot.”
You haven’t stopped staring at the hole you’re targeting. “It’s not in my hole.”
The laughter again. Hee-hee-hee, ha-ha-ha.
It sounds like someone’s laughing right in your ear.
You finally decide to turn from your position, and sure enough, you see Mr. Smiley Teeth sticking his head out of the sand from a brand-new hole.
You try to grab him, but there’s no point. Head’s buried in the sand again.
You let out a frustrated scream.
“That’s gonna bring it back,” Willie says, rolling his eyes.
This happens again. And again. Every time you think you know where the gopher’s going to come up, it pops out somewhere totally different. It’s as if the creature understands what you’re trying to do and is laughing at you.
All the animals seem to be laughing at us.
The gopher appears a few more times, and your shots are always way too late. Each arrow drives into the sand of the beach.
Soon the sun begins to fade away.
“This is incredible,” you say.
“I know,” Wil
lie replies. “Look at that view.”
“No. It’s incredible that we can’t kill a gopher.”
“They’re tricky suckers.”
“No, they’re not. They’re small and dumb. They dig holes with their big teeth.”
“This one keeps laughing at us.”
“Am I the only one here who thinks that’s a little strange?” you ask.
“It’s strange,” John Luke confirms.
“Uncle Si is strange,” Willie says. “Strange is the new normal.”
“Is that your new tagline?”
“Maybe. Maybe we can brand the laughing gopher. It can be part of Duck Commander somehow.”
You shake your head. “How can a gopher be part of Duck Commander?”
“We can have a whole line of laughing gophers. Trademark them.”
You let out a sigh.
“I think you’re onto something,” John Luke says.
Cole nods. “Me too.”
Maybe the food from last night has made them all delirious and crazy.
“Y’all are nuts,” you tell them.
Suddenly you hear the laughter of the gopher. As if it’s agreeing with you.
Taunted by a rodent.
Not a terrific way to end this expedition.
THE END
Start over.
Read “Let the Good Times Roll: A Note from John Luke Robertson.”
HE’S A BEAST
THERE ARE TIMES when the joke is over, and life has given you something hard and awful to deal with, and you have no idea how to handle it. At these points, all you can do is stand up and stay strong and pray for God’s help.
That’s exactly what you’re doing.
You’re wet and you’re bleeding, but worse than that, you’re completely bewildered.
You still don’t know what you saw.
You still don’t know what you’re waiting for.
But as you crouch behind a boulder on the edge of Mount Fear, a jutting rocky cliff straight in front of you, you realize that you’ve never seen or heard anything like this before.
You breathe deeply.
It’ll be okay. I’ll be okay. The boys are fine, and Willie’s hopefully fine.
The jokes are done. This is some serious crazy stuff.
You wipe your face as the rain gushes down.
Jase & the Deadliest Hunt Page 11
