by Jeff Strand
“Thank you, sir.”
Max left, shutting the door behind him. Then he opened the door again, walked back into the barracks, picked up his machine gun from the cot, and left.
“So—” said Erik. “Was that the worst thing to ever happen to us…or the most awesome?”
Nobody slept soundly that night.
WILDERNESS SURVIVAL TIP!
After you’ve cooked dinner over the campfire, remember that the forks go on the left side of the plate, with the salad fork closest to the plate, the dinner fork in the middle, and the dessert fork farthest from the plate. On the left side, the dinner knife is closest to the plate, with the soup spoon in the middle, and the teaspoon on the extreme right. Do not vary these table settings under any circumstances.
Chapter Fourteen
Machine gun damage to a ceiling was surprisingly difficult to repair. The boys spent most of their day on the roof, hammering replacement boards over the ones with holes in them. They all kind of wanted to complain that they were here for survival camp, not roof repair camp, but since Max had proven his willingness to use a machine gun, as a group, they felt this would be unwise.
Stu fell off the roof, but he wasn’t hurt.
***
Lunch might have sucked. They were too hungry to notice.
***
Dinner was microwaved pizza. “At least we can’t mess that up,” said Henry in a statement that he knew would turn out to be ironic even before he finished saying it. As it turned out, there were in fact six different ways that he and Randy were able to mess up the microwave pizza, though only one of them (dropping it) was technically their fault. They did not take responsibility for the indestructible beige substance that was on the microwave tray or the fact that an actual lightning bolt shot out of the microwave at the two-minute mark.
***
Of course, the other boys asked how exactly it came to be that Henry snuck into the barracks with a quartet of hot girls. He told the truth. The others explained that for future reference when he had a bunch of girls with him, he should make an effort not to create a situation in which Max showed up and ruined everything.
They all snuck out and sat by the unlit campfire, waiting for the girls to show up, but they never did. Henry couldn’t blame them.
Day 4: Six Days Before The Games
“Today, we are going to hike,” said Max. “It is going to be a long hike and you will not have fond memories of it in your old age. You will each be given two eggs. Those eggs will be your dinner at the end of the hike, so your goal is to protect those eggs during the hike. If you drop them, squish them, lose them, or sit on them, you will go hungry.”
The first egg met its demise before Max finished passing out the eggs. Jackie dropped both of his eggs while he was trying to show off his juggling skills, which were not developed at a master level. Most of the other eggs died soon after, though Randy didn’t realize that his eggs had met their tragic fate until they took a break and he realized that his backpack was leaking.
Max ate his eggs in front of them. Scrambled.
Day 5: Five Days Before The Games
“It just attacked me!” Henry said.
“A shelter can’t attack you,” Erik noted.
“It did! I’m not saying that it came alive or anything, but it leaned toward me and scratched me with a branch!”
Max informed them that the Henry/Erik shelter was about eight percent better than the Henry/Randy shelter had been, though he did not seem very impressed by this observation.
Day 6: Four Days Before The Games
“Henry, if you drown in water that doesn’t even come up to your waist, I will go after your entire family. I mean it.”
Night 6
The guys decided to hike over to the girls’ music camp after dark. However, since they did not know how to get there and none of them had superb senses of direction, it did not work out well.
Day 7: Three Days Before The Games
Henry peered through the scope of the rifle, taking careful aim at the aluminum can. That can was toast.
“Remember,” said Max, “that rifle has a kick.”
In the days before acquiring his astounding new sense of bravery, Henry would have worried about the kick of a rifle. But not anymore. No, not anymore. Rifle kick? What kind of weenie was afraid of a tiny little bump from a rifle?
“Let me make that more clear,” said Max. “The position you’re holding that rifle in is what I like to call the ‘Your Shoulder Isn’t Going to Work Anymore After You Pull the Trigger’ position. You may not hear the sounds of breaking bones over the rifle, but that sound will exist. Trust me.”
Henry adjusted his position. “How’s that?”
“No, do it like I showed you.”
Henry had not been paying a whole lot of attention to Max’s demonstration. He’d been distracted by thoughts of Monica wearing an impractical outfit that would provide very little defense against the insects. There wasn’t much to the attire, but nobody could say it didn’t fit well.
Henry adjusted the rifle again. “Is that right?”
“Do you think it’s right?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then let me explain. The way you’re holding it is better than if you shoved the butt of the rifle right against your front teeth but not by much.”
“I’ll hold it differently then.”
Henry adjusted the position of the rifle again. He really had no idea what he was doing. He’d been so confident that he’d be able to shoot the can, and now he didn’t even care if he hit the can. He just didn’t want his arm to come off.
Was a big bruise on your shoulder from a rifle kick the kind of injury that impressed the ladies? Was it closer to “Yeah, babe, I got this scar when a great white shark tried to take a bite out of me, right before I tore its jaws out with my bare hands” or “I forgot to tie my shoes and tripped”?
Probably the latter.
“How about this?” Henry asked.
Max sighed. “Sure, whatever.”
Henry took careful aim through the scope. That can was going to have a very bad day. One shot, one dead can, right through the “o” in “Coca” or the “o” in “Cola.” He checked that the safety was off just to avoid the embarrassing moment where he squeezed the trigger and nothing happened because the safety was on.
He squeezed the trigger. Nothing happened.
“The safety’s on,” Max said.
“I just took it off.”
“No, you just put it back on.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. Believe it or not, I do try to give accurate information to teenagers who are holding loaded rifles.”
Henry flipped off the safety. He took careful aim again.
Careful aim.
Careful, careful aim.
He would not miss.
Careful…careful…careful—
“Just shoot something with it!” Max shouted.
Henry squeezed the trigger. Instead of a direct hit on the aluminum can, he got a direct hit on a clump of dirt about three feet in front of him.
But he’d shot the crap out of that dirt. That dirt knew who was boss. It wouldn’t be messing with Henry Lambert anytime soon. Oh, yeah.
Day 8: Two Days Before The Games
“I’m bored,” said Jackie.
Stu nodded. “Me too.”
“Basic survival isn’t supposed to be entertaining,” said Max. “In a real survival situation, you would be spending every moment thanking God that you’re alive. That would entertain you far more than your precious rap music or whatever noise you kids grind into your eardrums these days.”
“I’m all about Bruce Springsteen,” said Henry, who was not all about Bruce Springsteen but thought Max might be.
“Just w
atch your trap.”
Henry went back to watching his trap. Each of the boys had constructed a box trap up on its side, attached to a rope, with bait underneath, just like in a cartoon. Jackie and Randy’s had already collapsed, but Max was making them sit there anyway. By some freakish miracle of physics, Henry’s had not yet fallen apart, though he knew that any second could be its last.
They sat there for a few minutes, silently waiting for an unintelligent animal to come by.
“Stu, I think there’s a ladybug under yours,” said Randy.
“Should I yank the string?” Stu asked Max.
“Is a ladybug your preferred dining choice for this evening?”
“No.”
“Then don’t yank the string.”
“Okay.”
“I wasn’t saying that you should yank the string,” Randy explained. “I just thought you might want to know there was a ladybug under your box.”
“Why would he want to know that?” asked Max.
“Why not? I’d want to know. We’ve already made it clear that nobody’s being entertained. We might as well look at a frickin’ ladybug. Ladybugs are kind of cool.”
“If you’re eight,” said Stu.
“I guess you’ve lost your sense of wonder,” said Randy. “Sad. So very sad.”
“Shhh!” said Henry. A squirrel was climbing down a tree. It reached the bottom, twitched its nose in the cute yet scary way that squirrels do, and then scampered over to Henry’s trap.
Would it go for the bait?
Would Henry be able to pull the string at the precise moment?
Would the trap disintegrate?
The squirrel sniffed at the wood, then went inside, and started nibbling at the blob of peanut butter.
Henry tugged the string.
It snapped.
The string was not supposed to snap, since that was what pulled away the stick and caused the box to fall. But this time, Henry’s shoddy construction skills worked in his favor and the box fell anyway, trapping the squirrel underneath.
“Good job!” said Max, clapping him on the back hard enough to jostle his lungs. “At least Henry will eat well tonight.”
“Eat?”
“Eat.”
“I thought this was catch and release?”
“Then apparently you were unconscious during my forty-minute lecture on the importance of being able to catch food. What exactly did you think these traps were for?”
“I knew what the traps were for. I just thought we were being hypothetical.”
“Why would we be hypothetical?”
“I don’t know. I mean, you don’t eat squirrels unless…you know, you’re actually starving to death instead of just…you know, faux starving to death.”
Max just shook his head. “Everybody up.”
All of the boys stood up. Max walked over to the box and they followed.
“When you are eating an animal, it is best if you kill it before you put it into your mouth,” Max told them. “There are some exceptions, like goldfish or very small frogs, but for the most part, the art of the kill is an important one. The squirrel in this trap will make a fine dinner, but if you try to gnaw on its leg while it’s still alive, your face will pay the price.”
Henry felt a bit queasy. If this was a movie, he’d be rooting for the squirrel.
“Erik, how do you think we should get the squirrel out?”
“Grab a blanket or a towel, lift up the box, and when he runs out, wrap him up really quick.”
“Not bad. But not correct. That tactic could work with slower-moving animals like pugs, but squirrels are much too fast. If you try to catch a squirrel in a blanket, you’re almost guaranteed to suffer through wacky madcap antics. Stu?”
“Shoot it through the box?”
“Also a fine suggestion. You’re all getting smarter. However, in this case, you’d want to be in an ammunition conservation mind-set and shooting this squirrel would be an unnecessary use of your resources. Jackie?”
“Machete?”
“If you were extremely talented with a machete—I mean ninja talented—that might be a good suggestion. Otherwise, no.”
“I don’t think ninja use machetes, sir.”
“Don’t ruin my day, Jackie.”
“Sorry, sir.”
“Randy?”
“I would just come back in a couple of days.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, if I hit the point in my life where I was going to eat a squirrel, I probably wouldn’t care if it was fresh or not.”
“The correct way to dispatch the squirrel,” said Max, ignoring Randy’s comment, “is to destroy the box while the squirrel is still inside. A few good stomps and your squirrel will be ready to go on the skewer. Henry, step forward.”
Henry reluctantly stepped forward.
“This is why I told you to wear a double layer of socks today,” said Max. “Now it’s important to stomp on the box in the right spot or else your foot could break all the way through, leaving you vulnerable to rabies.”
“I’m not going to crush a squirrel to death in a wooden box,” said Henry.
“Sure you are. Put your foot up on it.”
“I’m really not doing it,” said Henry. “I’m sorry. That’s not how I was raised.”
“You realize that squirrels are a renewable resource, right? I’m not asking you to kill an endangered species. The ecosystem will be just fine without this squirrel.”
“I’m not murdering it.”
“It’s not murder if you eat it, Henry. Unless you’re a cannibal and killed a human being. In that case, it would be murder, most definitely. But in this case, with this squirrel, it’s hunting.”
“I understand your logic. I’m just not killing it.”
“Do you think that squirrel likes you? Do you think that squirrel respects you? If you caught a flesh-eating bacteria, that squirrel would laugh his tail off.”
“Not gonna kill it.”
Max literally looked as if he were about to snarl. “You’re the kind of person who would go back in time, have the opportunity to kill Hitler as a baby, and not be able do it. ‘Oh, boohoo, I can’t kill an innocent little baby!’”
“That’s not true. I’d totally kill baby Hitler.”
“Pretend the squirrel is Hitler. Do it.”
“That’s not going to work for me.”
Max clawed at his bald head as if trying to rip out his hair. “Where do you think your hamburgers come from?”
“Hopefully not squirrels.”
“You disgust me. Go sit down.”
Now Henry had to look deep into his soul and decide if he didn’t want the squirrel to get stomped or if he just didn’t want to be the one to do the actual stomping. He thought it was probably more of the former…but still—
“I’ll just hang out here,” Henry said.
“Randy, do you want to do what your friend was too cowardly to finish?”
“Not really, sir.”
“Jackie?”
“Uhhhhh…yeah, I guess I’ll do it.” Jackie wiped his hands off on his pants and nervously stood up. “Do I have to look at the guts when I’m done?”
“Look, it’s my trap, so I’m going to let him go,” said Henry. “If somebody else wants to catch and stomp him, that’s fine.” He braced himself for the sensation of Max twisting his head off, but Max didn’t move. He just stood there, giving Henry a look that showed that he wanted to twist Henry’s head off but possessed the self-control not to do so.
“Letting him go now,” Henry continued. He gently kicked the box onto its side.
The squirrel didn’t move.
“You’re free, little guy,” said Henry, trying to ignore Max’s deadly, dagger-filled glare.
The squi
rrel just sat there, nose twitching.
“C’mon, time to leave. This isn’t the safest place for you to be. Go on. Go home to your family.”
Still no forward momentum from the squirrel. Max’s stare did not diminish in fury.
“So, uh, should I sit back down?” Jackie asked. “Or am I supposed to step on it?”
“Sit back down,” said Henry.
Max said nothing.
Jackie hesitated for a moment, wiped his hands off on his pants again, and then sat back down.
Henry gently poked at the squirrel with his toe. “Go on. Go on. Go on.”
The squirrel did not heed his advice. What was he supposed to do? Drop-kick it? Was he doing nature a disservice by leaving this squirrel in the gene pool?
“Why don’t you give it a name?” asked Max. “Perhaps you could take it home, raise it like your own child, send it to private school.”
“C’mon, squirrely squirrel. Time to go.”
The squirrel finally scampered off, running back up the tree from where it had come.
Max continued to glare at Henry.
Henry tried to smile. “I did have the one working trap though, right?”
Henry suspected that he would be doing a lot of push-ups that afternoon. His suspicions were correct.
Night 8
“I swear I heard a tuba,” said Jackie.
“Are you sure?” asked Erik for the seventeenth time in the past two hours.
“Yes, I know what a tuba sounds like.”
“Did you maybe hear it from a different direction? We’ve gone more than three miles. This isn’t right.”
“Nothing else sounds like a tuba. And how do you know we’ve gone more than three miles? Are you Mr. Speedometer?”
“Odometer.”
“Are you Mr. Odometer?”
“No, but I know when we’ve walked three miles.”
“How do we know music camp is even still going on?” asked Jackie. “Maybe this was the last day and it was a farewell tuba and that’s why we haven’t found them.”
“I think music camp would have left behind some trace of their existence,” said Henry.
