The Wild Bunch Page 3

  Jack, who had been turned away with his face pressed against the window, suddenly spun around. “The what?” he said with a grunt. Yeah, I should’ve known the words “missing link” would get his attention.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Let me check it out.”

  I could hear a slight tremble in my voice. I’d thought the article would be printed from some weird website for people who’d been abducted by aliens or thought Elvis was still alive. Not a real published piece in a legit magazine bought by millions of people. I flipped through the pages to the dog-eared article and read out loud.

  “One early summer’s day, explorer Mo Harper ventured into the woods at Bear Falls State Park armed with a backpack, tent, and camera, intent on proving the existence of the mythical ‘Beast.’ He never came out again.”

  I stopped short, eyes wide. Hector made a strange squeaking noise. Jack elbowed me. “Keep reading, dude,” he said. “This is getting interesting!”

  There was an inset picture of Mo Harper—long curly hair, goofy grin, open-necked shirt, with a camera hanging on a strap. He looked like a nice guy. Maybe only twenty-five or so.

  I cleared my throat. “After an exhaustive search, the only sign of young Mr. Harper was a battered camera, recovered in the forest near the waterfalls. And the only clues about Mr. Harper’s fate were these pictures, discovered when the film was later developed by the sheriff’s department. . . .”

  I flipped to the next page, which featured a series of photographs framed in black boxes. The first was the fuzzy picture from the front cover—only instead of a coffee stain, there in the lower branches of the tree sat a large, hair-covered Sasquatch-like man-beast. A few more pictures of the waterfall, trees, and a rocky crevice followed.

  The last picture was a close-up of a giant paw-like appendage coming toward the camera lens.

  Hector pulled out his inhaler. After several large puffs he leaned back.

  I could see Dad looking at me. “You’re quiet all of a sudden,” he said.

  I closed the magazine, checked the date. “This was thirty years ago,” I said.

  “Yes,” said Hector. “It’s highly unlikely that creature—if it even exists—is still alive.”

  “Really,” said Mr. Lopez. “You’re an expert on cryptozoology, are you?”

  I couldn’t see his face, but I could tell he was smiling. They were making fun of us.

  “That thing comes near me,” said Jack, “it’s gonna get a serious smackdown.” He did some sort of punch combination on the back of my dad’s headrest.

  “Easy!” said Mr. Lopez. “This is a rental car!”

  I was looking again at the cover. The photo was so crappy, but it somehow seemed more convincing because of that. Something about the blurring and poor exposure gave me the chills.

  “What if we found it?” said Dad, eyes shining gleefully.

  “All of the evidence would suggest,” Hector said, pointing at the magazine, “that we’d be better off not finding the Beast.”

  “Oh, don’t be such a baby,” Jack said. “It would be awesome. In fact, I’m gonna find that thing, trap it, and make a fortune! And you losers can come visit me in my mansion.” He popped his earphones back on.

  Up front, Dad and Mr. Lopez shifted their conversation back to the thrilling topic of patio bricks (horizontal or vertical, the existential question!). I attempted once again to nap. This time, I fell into a deeper sleep, dreaming of waterfalls and woods and giant man-beasts. . . .

  The next few hours passed slower than the movement of tectonic plates. We stopped a few more times for the bathroom and food. Jack ate his own body weight in candy, and we listened to the complete seventies oeuvre of Triple C, along with commentary from Dad on their musical progression and experimentation with punk-folk fusion.

  I was jolted awake when the car suddenly lurched around a corner, knocking me right onto Jack’s lap. He shoved me away with a grunt. I sat up, rubbing my eyes. The clock said 4:45 p.m.

  “We’re here, boys!” Dad announced gleefully as the car rolled to a stop in front of a gate. A small wooden guard booth covered in faded brown shingles sat to our left with a green-and-yellow BEAR FALLS STATE PARK sign nailed to the side. Tall pine trees framed the road.

  The guard booth door swung open, and a woman wearing a crisp green button-up shirt, green shorts, and a no-nonsense expression stepped outside. Mr. Lopez rolled down the window. The woman leaned in, sunlight catching the faint black-and-gray mustache above her lip.

  “Looks like we tracked down the Beast already,” muttered Jack.

  “Good evening,” she said. “Welcome to Bear Falls State Park.”

  “Thank you,” Mr. Lopez said. “We’ve already done our registration.” He handed her a form and a wad of cash. The woman handed him a map in return.

  “Campsite number twenty-four,” she said, standing up straight and pointing. “Go ’bout three miles, turn left at the pine trees, and then follow the signs.”

  “Thanks,” Mr. Lopez said. He began to roll up the window. The woman’s hand landed on top of it.

  “Just be careful,” she said, bunching her thick eyebrows together. “Got a fog rolling in this evening. Makes it mighty hard to see the forest for the trees around here!” She snort-laughed at her own joke.

  “Okay then, thanks again,” Mr. Lopez said. The gate lifted.

  “Hey, wait a minute,” said Jack. The lady turned. I thought he was going to say something rude, but he ruffled through the candy wrappers and other detritus for the National Geographic.

  “You ever see this Beast?” he asked.

  I expected the guard to say something funny, but she looked deadly serious. “You guys just be careful, okay? Cell service is spotty up there. If you get into any trouble, just find a road and head downhill.”

  She went back to her hut, and Mr. Lopez pulled away through the gate.

  “That wasn’t a no,” said Hector.

  “I guess she likes to mess with people’s heads,” said Dad. But even he looked a little bit nervous.

  The trail road was narrow, winding between the tall trees. Through the open window, I could hear the distant rush of water. The air was heavier here than back at home—damp and sticky. As we made our way deeper into the park, a thick mist descended on the road like a giant cloud. Mr. Lopez began to drive even slower, going from, oh, five miles an hour to quite possibly negative two. He squinted into the fog.

  “Can’t make out any signs,” he said. “Can barely see the road. This may take a while. . . .”

  Jack began to squirm uneasily.

  Hector took a bunch of shallow breaths. “All this fog is making me queasy,” he said. “You sure we haven’t missed a turn?”

  Just then a foul odor filled the car, like a dozen rotten eggs left in the hot sun for ten days.

  “Oh man!” Jack covered his nose. “Who farted? My lungs are melting.” He looked around all of us, then settled his glare on me. “It was you, wasn’t it?”

  “Me?” I said, gasping for air. “Don’t they always say, the one who smelt it dealt it? Besides, I heard you in that bathroom. Sounded like cannon fire.”

  “Then you know I don’t do the silent-but-deadly,” Jack retorted.

  Hector stayed suspiciously quiet, gaze focused straight ahead.

  “You know, I distinctly remember a very similar, ahem, stink bomb in our dorm room freshman year, Luiz,” Dad said.

  “Is that so, Bill?” Luiz said. “If I remember correctly, you were busy trying to impress one Christine King with your guitar playing and were more than happy to pin that one on me.”

  “Huh,” Dad said with a smirk. “Well, I wasn’t the one who’d just eaten a plate of beans, and she did marry me, so . . .”

  Mr. Lopez glanced over at Dad and gave him a friendly shove. “Then you ought to know I have a gut of steel,” Mr. Lopez said, rubbing his belly. “I’m immune to the power of the bean. . . .”

  Hector sat up straight, arms crossed in fr
ont of him like he was trying to ward off a vampire. “DAAAAAAAAAAD!” he yelled.

  “Huh, what?” Mr. Lopez said.

  “Look out!” Hector screeched.

  We all turned our attention back to the road, just in time to see a herd of deer run from the edge of the forest—and leap directly in front of the car.

  “AAAAAAAAGH!”

  Mr. Lopez jammed on the brakes and jerked to the right. I closed my eyes, mouth frozen in a terrified O, and braced for impact.

  WILDERNESS SURVIVAL TIP #5

  PROCEED WITH CAUTION—ONE WRONG MOVE CAN SEND YOU WILDLY OFF PATH.

  THE CAR SKIDDED SIDEWAYS, SCREECHING loudly as the undercarriage scraped across the gravel shoulder. With a loud thump, and two popping sounds, we came to a sudden stop.

  I slowly opened my eyes . . . to see the front air bags deployed. As they deflated, Mr. Lopez stayed frozen, with a stiff-armed grip on the steering wheel. Dad sat next to him, feet pushed against an imaginary brake in the footwell. Jack had his hands on his head, and Hector was hyperventilating into his shirt.

  The herd of deer bounded away—uninjured—and disappeared into the forest.

  “Whew, that was close,” Mr. Lopez said, uncurling his white knuckles from the steering wheel and wiping his forehead. He gently tapped the accelerator. The wheels spun uselessly. “But . . . it appears we are stuck,” he said.

  “Maybe we could push it out?” Dad offered. “We’ve got some strong guys back there.”

  The car gave a grinding sound, then dropped another foot, leaning slightly in the ditch.

  “I’m not a mechanic, but that sounded lethal,” I said.

  Jack shoved me. “This is all your fault!”

  “My fault?” I said. “Maybe we wouldn’t be in this ditch if you hadn’t farted. Next time, do us all the courtesy of holding it in!”

  “Like I said, it wasn’t me,” Jack said. He shoved a thick finger in front of my face, pointing at Hector. “It was probably him. He looks like the sneaky type.”

  Hector’s cheeks flamed red. “Unlike other people in this car, I’m not a Neanderthal. I roll down a window if I have to break wind.”

  “Who are you calling a Neanderthal, nerd?” Jack said, leaning over me. A huge whiff of beef jerky, Cheetos, and candy breath hit me right in the face. I pinched my nose shut.

  “Well, if the unibrow fits . . . ,” Hector started.

  “Okay, okay, boys,” Mr. Lopez broke in. “I think we can all agree that the deer are at fault.” He pulled out his cell phone. “Let me just call the rental company. . . .” He dialed a number and began to yap. “Uh-huh. Yep. Uh-huh. Really? That long? Okay, I see.” He clicked off the phone and sighed.

  “What is it, Dad?” Hector said.

  “Afraid they can’t get out to us until tomorrow,” Mr. Lopez answered. “We’re a bit too . . . remote to reach tonight.”

  “Oh, great,” Jack groaned. “We’re gonna be stuck here all night in this tiny car?” He wiggled his shoulders back and forth, banging me with every other movement, then stopped and sniffed the air. “Ugh!” he said. “And someone farted again?”

  Jack threw open the door and leapt from the car. The rest of us followed, fingers pointing, accusations flying. I could barely hear a coherent word over all the shouting—until Dad stuck his fingers in his mouth and let out a loud whistle. Everyone fell silent and turned to look at Dad. He held his palms in the air.

  “Hey now,” he said, smiling. “This isn’t how the Wild Bunch face adversity! We’re not going to have our fun ruined by a fart . . .” He glanced back at the car. One of the wheels was crooked and flat. “Or a lack of viable transportation! Nope!”

  Dad whipped the park map from his pocket, tapped his finger against the paper, and smiled even wider. “By my calculations, we’re just one mile from the campsite. We can take a shortcut trail from the road to get there. So everyone, grab some gear and let’s go!” He shoved the map back into his pocket and flung open the trunk.

  Okay, now would probably be a good time to point out once again that my dad is a history teacher. Not geography. Or math, even. History. And if past experience is any indicator of future performance, I should have realized right then that following a confirmed optimist with a poor sense of direction deep into the woods might not be the best of plans.

  Still, off we went, carrying backpacks and bedrolls, sleeping bags and tent bags. We headed up the road until we reached a gravel forest track between the trees. In the distance, the ground rose to endless forest-clad mountains.

  “How big is this place?” I asked.

  “About forty thousand acres,” said Mr. Lopez, breathing heavily. “Plenty of places for a yeti to hide.”

  “Doubtful. The yeti is a Himalayan myth,” said Hector helpfully.

  “Maybe it’s on vacation too,” said my dad, chuckling to himself.

  We trooped single file down the narrow trail, my backpack heavier every step of the way, the sun dipping lower and lower. I lost track of time a bit, and the trees grew denser and more overgrown the farther we got. Every time Jack took a step, I had to dodge the fishing poles slung haphazardly over his shoulder. Jack weaved and a hook swung side to side, narrowly missing my nose.

  “Hey!” I said. “Watch it.”

  “Watch what?” Jack answered through a mouth full of candy.

  “Ugh,” I said, ducking. “If you’re going to assault me the entire way, the least you can do is share your candy.”

  Jack glanced back mid-chew and rolled his eyes. “Oh, all right,” he said. He dug around in his pocket and extended his hand. I looked down at his red-, blue-, and yellow-streaked palm covered in little brown pieces of chocolate that I assumed had once been M&Ms.

  “That’s disgusting,” I said.

  Jack shrugged. “You want ’em or not?”

  “We’ll get a fire going when we reach the campsite and cook some food,” said Dad. He checked the map again. “Should be there any minute now.”

  My stomach grumbled. “Oh, what the heck,” I said, scooping the M&Ms up and shoving them in my mouth. Not half bad. I spat out a piece of lint and kept chewing. Hector sneezed behind me.

  “I’m out of tissues,” he said. I turned around, just in time to see him drag his drippy nose across his forearm.

  “Not far, I think,” Dad said from up front. He turned the map sideways, then upside down, which wasn’t encouraging. We slowed by a fork in the road, where a dirt path ran off slightly downhill to the right. He pointed along it. “Should be just a few more clicks in this direction!” He began marching again.

  “Wait, what?” Hector said. “What’s a few?”

  Dad had on this really awkward forced smile, just like the time he put Jeanie’s homecoming dress in the washing machine and shrank it two sizes. “Like I said, not far now!” he answered.

  “So will your dad be able to find us?” Hector asked Jack.

  “Of course,” he replied. “He’s not dumb. Plus, he can actually drive in a straight line, unlike your dad.”

  “Hey, he was only asking,” I said.

  Jack grumbled something.

  “What team does he play for, anyway?” I asked.

  “Huh?” said Jack.

  “You said he was playing baseball.”

  “You wouldn’t have heard of them,” said Jack. He put on a burst of speed to catch up with my dad and Hector’s.

  We slogged on, maybe another mile so, until finally we heard the sound of gently lapping water. A clearing appeared in the distance. Just beyond, I could see a large lake with a half-dozen empty campsites marked with little wooden signs in front of it.

  “Told you I’d get us here,” said Dad.

  We made it to number twenty-four and flung our gear on the ground. As far as I could tell, we were the only campers out here, and that worried me. To be fair, the place was pretty amazing: still, crystal-clear water, trees as far as you could see, mountains. It looked like a postcard.

  Hector fell on top of h
is bag. He looked pale and sweaty.

  “No time to lie around,” said Dad, checking his watch. “We need to get our tents pitched before night falls.”

  Hector pulled himself to his feet. We unpacked the tents. Jack unfurled his first, and I swear it covered most of the campsite.

  “I think that’s bigger than my house,” I said.

  “All the latest technology,” Jack said. “Built-in lanterns, super moisture-wicking material, the best engineering available.” He tipped over a vinyl bag and about a hundred poles and stakes clattered to the ground. Jack stared at them, mouth twisted to the side.

  “And you need a degree in engineering to put that thing together?” I said.

  “I’ll figure it out,” Jack said, holding up a spike and glancing back and forth between it and the huge expanse of material at his feet.

  “Good luck,” I muttered.

  “Hey, Paul!” Dad shouted, waving both hands over his head and smiling, as always. “Help me set up our accommodations!”

  I trudged over. Dad picked up a small bag, pulled open the drawstring, and dumped out our tent. It smelled like a closet in a nursing home—all mothballs and stewed vegetables and disinfectant. Dad unfurled the thing onto a tiny patch of earth. It was about as big as a coffin.

  “Are we supposed to sleep on top of each other?” I said.

  “Ha-ha!” Dad clapped my back. “Good one. Now grab a pole and let’s put this baby together.”

  I did what Dad said and jammed a tall pole into the ground. Dad shook the tent over it. The canvas hung limply around it.

  “Hmmm,” Dad said, rubbing his chin. “That doesn’t look quite right.”

  “You have the instructions?” I asked. The tent was so old that any “instructions” were probably written on parchment.

  “Instructions?” Dad said with a laugh. “We don’t need instructions! Just put these stakes around here.” He pointed to the edges of the tent.

  “Whatever you say, Dad.” I pounded the stakes into the ground, securing the corners of the tent. When I was done, it tilted strangely to the left. I shook my head.