by Bill Myers
“I’m not horsing around,” I shouted as I slipped—
“WHOA . . .” and fell—KER-THUMP . . . back on the ground again.
I glanced back at George. He had stopped to watch my performance and was also trying not to laugh. (Isn’t it great to know you can bring so much joy into the world?)
“Don’t they have P.E. or athletics in your school?” Jamie shouted down at me.
“Sure.” I groaned as I rose to my feet and counted how many bones I’d broken on that last fall. “But the closest I come to taking part in athletics is pushing the channel selector on the TV remote.”
I tried a few more times, and finally, through sheer luck (or maybe I’d just run out of bones to break), I made it to the top. I took one last look back toward George, but he was nowhere in sight. He had already gone.
“See you around,” I said softly . . . “and thanks.” Then I turned back to look at Jamie. But Jamie was gone now, too.
“Jamie . . .” I called, stumbling to my feet and starting down the trail. “Jamie, wait up. Jamie, where are YOOOOOUUUUU? . . .”
Suddenly, the path under my feet moved. Well, it didn’t really move, it just sort of disappeared . . . which just sort of sent me falling and tumbling . . . into this sort of a deep, dark, bottomless pit!
I wanted to shout, to scream, to cry for help. Unfortunately, the only thing I managed to squeeze out was a rather pathetic:
“Uh-oh . . .”
I don’t remember hitting the ground. I don’t even remember being pulled out of the pit. What I do remember was waking up and noticing the sky was where the ground should be, and the ground was where the sky should be. I also noticed I was moving without walking and that my wrists and feet were strapped together. At last I figured it out. I was being carried upside down with my feet and arms tied to a long pole.
“Glad you could join us.” It was Jamie’s voice.
I craned my neck and saw him beside me. He was also upside down and on a pole.
“Is this a dream?” I asked. “’Cause if it is, I’d like to wake up now.”
“You kids shut up!”
The voice came from behind. Its ugly meanness sounded strangely familiar. I looked back to see a man who was carrying our poles on each of his shoulders. This was no dream. It was a nightmare. He was the big poacher whose face I’d sneezed into.
I looked forward to see who was carrying our poles up ahead. He was also an old friend—the one with the big scar across his face.
“Now that we nabbed them, I say we throw them to the crocs and be done with it,” the big guy grumbled. “Everyone will think it’s an accident and in a few days we can get back to work.”
Now, you don’t have to be a rocket scientist to figure by “crocs” he meant crocodiles.
“What if they should get away?” the guy with the scar argued.
“Nobody gets away from an Amazon crocodile—’ specially not punks like these.”
Boy, do I know how to call ’em or what? It was crocodiles. Normally, I’d be pretty proud over being so right, but at the moment I had a few other emotions to experience . . . like raw, overwhelming fear!
“You guys can’t kill us!” I screamed.
“Why not?” Scar Face demanded.
“’Cause . . . ’cause . . . well, because.” I knew my logic was a little weak, but it was the best I could come up with on such short notice.
“Yeah, well, it ain’t our decision anyway,” Big Guy growled. “Hector’s getting back from the doctor tomorrow. He’ll tell us what to do.”
“Who’s Hector?” Jamie demanded.
With any luck Hector would be some grandfatherly type boss who would look upon us with compassion—who would see us as sweet, innocent kids who’d never hurt a soul.
“Hector’s the guy whose leg you broke when you knocked him down in the cave,” Big Guy said.
“Oh, that Hector . . .” I swallowed nervously. “Well, I hope he’s the forgiving type.”
“Oh, he’s forgiving,” Big Guy chuckled. “Just ask my partner, there.”
“Yeah, he’s forgiving,” Scar Face agreed. “I got me this cut across my face to prove it.”
Both men laughed.
“I don’t get it,” Jamie asked. “What’s that scar got to do with his forgiveness?”
“Hector gave it to me for accidentally knockin’ over his coffee one morning.” He laughed louder. Big Guy joined in. Pretty soon they were both yucking it up real good.
Now, don’t get me wrong. I like a good joke as much as the next guy. I would have joined in the laughter, too, but it’s kind of hard to laugh when you’re busy trying not to cry.
Chapter 9
McDoogle Munchies
It was night when we finally arrived at their camp—if you call a sheet of plastic hanging between some trees and two hammocks strung under it a “camp.” We were near the river and cave where we first ran into these not-so-nice-guys. Hector was still off at the doctor’s and wouldn’t be back till morning. What luck. That meant we could live at least another whole night. Oh, boy!
But instead of enjoying our good fortune by sitting around the campfire toasting marshmallows and singing songs, Big Guy and Scar Face had other ideas. Like tying us to a tree just a few yards from the river. Like drinking a whole flask of whisky and staggering toward their hammocks to sleep.
“Hey, what about us?” Jamie whined. He wasn’t complaining about the whisky. He was complaining about how they got nice cozy hammocks for beds and we got nice soggy mud. Jamie had a point. I don’t know about you, but I always like to have a good night’s sleep before I die in the morning.
“What’re you bellyaching about now?” Scar Face grumbled as he finished off the booze and climbed clumsily into his hammock.
“You can’t just leave us here on the ground,” Jamie cried. “Not this close to the river.”
“Why not?”
“What about the snakes?” Jamie demanded. His voice shook and it had nothing to do with being cold. “What about the spiders . . . what about the crocs?”
“It’ll just save us the trouble,” Big Guy mumbled from his hammock. The whisky was having its effect, and he was already drifting off to sleep.
“Yeah,” Scar Face said belching, “so keep yer yaps shut, or we’ll (another belch) put an end to you right here and now.”
Well, okay, if he wanted to be that way about it. . . .
A few minutes later both men were snoring like chain saws.
Jamie and I tried our best to squirm out of the knots. No luck. Next we tried to rub up and down against the tree—you know, to wear out the ropes like they do on TV. I guess TV stars use different rope, ’cause all we succeeded in doing was wearing out our skin.
Then I heard it. It was very soft. But there was no mistaking the faint sound of water splashing. Someone or something was getting out of the river.
“Jamie,” I whispered. “Jamie, you hear that?”
“Yeah . . .” he whispered back.
“What is it?”
“I don’t think you want to know.”
He was right. But if you’re dying you should probably know some of the details—the little things like how it’s happening . . . just in case there are forms and stuff to fill out when you get to heaven.
Next came the rustling of grass. It was getting closer by the second. I stared into the darkness but couldn’t see a thing.
I turned my head toward Jamie. “Tell me it’s not a crocodile.”
“Okay,” he said, “it’s not a crocodile.”
I hesitated. Somehow he didn’t sound so convincing.
“Are you telling the truth?”
“No,” he said.
“So it is a crocodile?”
“I’m not supposed to tell you.”
“Jamie! What do we do?”
“Just keep still,” he whispered. “Crocs usually don’t kill on land.”
I sighed in relief. “They don’t?”
“No
, they drag their prey into the water, then they kill them.”
So much for relief. I couldn’t believe my luck. Here I had traveled thousands of miles, made friends with a remote tribe of Indians, finally understood why we need missionaries—and for what? To become late-night junk food for some crocodile with a bad case of the munchies?
By now the rustling grass sounded like it was right beside me. And for good reason. It WAS right beside me!
Jamie whispered so softly I could barely hear. “Don’t move a muscle.”
No problem. I couldn’t move if I wanted to.
Suddenly, the sound stopped. That was the good news. The bad news was I started to feel soft, cool breath on my arm. I couldn’t believe it! The thing was sniffing me! Suddenly, I remembered it’d been a couple of days since my last shower. I hoped he didn’t mind. Then again, maybe it would be better if he did mind.
He stayed at my side all night . . . or maybe it was just a couple of seconds (it’s kind of hard to keep track during times like that). All sorts of thoughts raced through my head. Did Opera, my buddy back home, remember he could have my CD collection? Did Mom and Dad have my life insurance paid up? Would dividing compound fractions be any easier in heaven?
The breath slowly moved up my arm to my shoulder, then to my neck. Oh, great! The thing was starting to sniff my face! Talk about a case of bad breath. I don’t want to complain, but it was enough to kill a cow . . . or a wannabe writer with Woody Allen glasses who happened to be tied to a tree by poachers.
I couldn’t help myself. I had to look. Slowly, I moved my head. And there we were, eyeball to eyeglasses . . . the crocodile and me. It was like staring at a giant pair of alligator-skin shoes . . . without the shoes.
First, I noticed his nose. His nostrils kept flaring in and out as they gave me a careful once-over. I looked down his long, pebbly nose (talk about a bad case of acne!). Then I saw his eyes. Their slits were wide open but looked completely lifeless. Then I saw the teeth. Ah, yes, the teeth. We’re talking major overbite. I don’t want to be rude, but this guy could keep a crew of orthodontists in Mercedes for the rest of their lives!
I couldn’t wait any longer. The time had come. Those of you who know me, know what I had to do. I opened my mouth and did what I do best:
“AUGHHHHHHHHH!”
Ol’ crocy boy pulled back in a start, then he opened his mouth and shouted back:
“ROOOOOOOOOAAAAAAARRRR!”
I was shocked. I expected a hiss or a bark or something. Anything but a roar. Still, for not being a lion, he did a pretty good job.
I looked directly into his mouth. I saw nothing but teeth and tongue and more teeth and even more teeth. I tell you, if that was going to be home for the rest of my life, it was definitely going to be a bit on the cramped side.
“AUGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!” I screamed back.
“ROOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAAAARRRR RRRRRRRR!” he roared back.
So he thinks he can outpanic me, does he. . . .
“AUGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”
“ROOOOOOOOOOAAAAA—squeal, squeal, cough, cough.”
Suddenly, his head thrashed to the side. I was a little confused. Then I saw George. He was kneeling right over the critter! The rest happened so fast I’m still not sure I saw it all. . . .
Somehow George hopped on the croc’s back. But he wasn’t going for a ride, he was trying to flip it over. The crocodile gnashed his teeth and whipped his powerful tail while George did his best to avoid both. There was also a lot of shouting and hysterical screaming. Most of it mine.
Scar Face and Big Guy leaped out of their hammocks and staggered around in the dark, doing their own version of shouting and screaming. They were so drunk they didn’t know where they were, let alone what was happening.
Meanwhile, back at the wrestling match, there suddenly seemed to be a lot of blood. Unfortunately, it didn’t all look like crocodile blood. At last George managed to flip the creature onto its back. I noticed the glint of steel in his hand—obviously a knife. But the croc was in no mood to be a Thanksgiving turkey. He dug his tail into the ground and flipped them both over. Now the animal was on top of George!
“GEORGE!!!” I screamed. “George! George!!” I knew my screaming wasn’t that helpful, but it was all I could offer at the time.
But George didn’t need any of my help. Once again he managed to flip the animal over. Once again there was more thrashing and snarling. Then suddenly everything stopped. Just like that. One minute growling, thrashing, snarling— the next, total silence . . . except for George’s heavy breathing.
The croc was dead. George had saved our lives.
Well, not yet . . .
“Get him!” Big Guy bellowed as he lunged for George.
“Watch it!” I yelled.
George looked up and leaped away just in time. Big Guy, who was having a little problem sobering up, stumbled over the dead crocodile. Then, thanks to some fancy kicking by George, Big Guy tumbled head over heels, down the bank, and into the river.
Ker-Splash!
“Help me!” he screamed (along with lots of other colorful language). “Help me, help me!”
Quickly, George reached out and cut the ropes that tied our hands. I noticed his arm was pretty chewed up. But that was nothing compared to his leg. It was your basic hamburger. He may have killed the croc, but the croc definitely left him a little something to be remembered by.
Suddenly, Scar Face was towering over us. He looked kind of confused—like he didn’t know whether he should kill us or help his screaming partner (who was doing a pretty good imitation of drowning).
We didn’t wait for him to make up his mind.
“That way!” Jamie shouted.
We took off—away from the river and toward the caves.
Scar Face screamed and swore at us. I’ll have to give you the Christian translation:
“I’m so sorry you boys have to rush off. Say, I have a splendid idea; as soon as I assist my colleague we shall pursue you and perhaps try to do you great bodily harm!”
As we raced through the forest, we could tell George was having a hard time with his leg. Jamie and I grabbed him on both sides and helped him hobble along.
We made okay time, but not as okay as Scar Face and Big Guy. As soon as Scar Face dragged his buddy out of the water, they began chasing us. Now they were closing in fast.
“This way!” Jamie yelled as we veered sharply to the right. I had to take his word for it because it was too dark to see much of anything.
And then it happened:
SNAP . . . zing.
Immediately, Jamie pulled us down into the bushes.
“What was that?” I whispered.
“What do you think it was?” Jamie whispered back. “It’s a rif le!”
I’d always thought rifles were supposed to go K-BAMB, but I guess that’s just on TV. I did, however, recognize the zing. That was definitely a bullet sailing over our heads.
“I don’t think they’re trying to shoot us,”
Jamie whispered, “just scare us.”
“Well, they’re doing a good job.” I shuddered.
“Just stay still.”
We froze in the undergrowth, and a few seconds later the men raced by. They were so close, we could have reached out and touched them. We didn’t. And they didn’t see us. But as they ran past, Scar Face fired a couple more rounds into the dark.
SNAP . . . SNAP
Fortunately, there were no more zings over our heads.
Once they’d passed, Jamie cautiously rose to his feet and whispered, “Come on!”
But George had other ideas. He whispered something. Jamie whispered back. Pretty soon they got into a big argument. I didn’t understand it all. The best I could make out was that George wanted to act as a decoy. He wanted to draw the men’s attention to him, so Jamie and I could make a clean getaway.
“That’s crazy!” Jamie argued. “If they catch you, there’s no telling what they�
��ll do.”
George shook his head and repeated his plan.
“No way,” Jamie insisted. “You’re not going to risk your life to save ours.”
Without a word George grabbed a stick and scratched something into the dirt.
“What is it?” I asked.
“It’s . . .” Jamie squinted through the dark. “It’s a cross.”
George nodded his head enthusiastically.
“I don’t get it,” I whispered.
“Jesus,” George whispered, tapping his stick at the cross. “Jesus.”
Jamie and I exchanged looks, neither one of us understanding.
George grabbed his stick and drew a bigger cross. “Jesus,” he insisted. “Jesus, Jesus.”
Our response was the same—blank stares.
Suddenly, the men’s voices grew louder. I guess they realized we’d quit running and were hiding, so now they were doubling back to find us.
“What do we do?” I whispered.
“Just stay low and be still,” Jamie answered.
The men’s voices grew louder.
And then, when they were nearly on top of us, George leaped to his feet, let out a loud “WHOOP!”, and took off limping through the brush.
“There they are!” Big Guy shouted. Scar Face raised his rifle and fired off another round.
SNAP!
And another . . .
SNAP!
But George just kept on running. He just kept whooping it up, making as much noise as he could, while dashing through the jungle.
The men took off after him, cursing all the way.
I started to stand, but Jamie quickly pulled me down. I looked at him. He shook his head. He didn’t have to say another word. I knew what he was thinking. This was George’s choice . . . this is what he wanted to do. There was nothing we could do to stop him . . . and, at the moment, there was nothing we could do to help him.
There were more rif le shots as the men’s voices started to fade into the night. Only God knew if they’d catch George . . . or what they’d do to him if they did. And since only God knew, I fired off a little prayer asking Him to help.
After several minutes, Jamie and I slowly rose to our feet. The yelling was much farther off. George was obviously giving them a run for their money. We hoped it would last. But with his wounded leg, we both had our doubts.
