Chomp: Chapter 22–Epilogue

As exasperating and childish as Derek could be, he was still the star—and her main responsibility.

The Everglades show was in chaos, completely out of control. Real reality had thwarted TV reality.

The director and the cameramen were making morbid bets on how long it would take for Derek’s body to be found.

Coddling an egomaniac like Derek was a chore, but Raven did enjoy traveling to exotic locations and working outdoors.

Coddling an egomaniac like Derek was a chore, but Raven did enjoy traveling to exotic locations and working outdoors.

“I never met a ‘survivalist.’ How do you get a job like that, anyway?”
She smiled wanly. “First you need a TV show.”

When he saw the wrecked boat, he felt sure that Tuna’s father was either dead or badly injured—but he was wrong. Jared Gordon clambered from beneath the overturned hull and trained his pistol on Mickey.

When he saw the wrecked boat, he felt sure that Tuna’s father was either dead or badly injured—but he was wrong. Jared Gordon clambered from beneath the overturned hull and trained his pistol on Mickey.

Wahoo listened intently for voices—especially his father’s.

This was her second up close encounter with the legendary survivalist—the first being his botched attempt at bat eating—and so far she hadn’t been dazzled.

Tuna’s father wore a smug grin that featured his jagged front tooth.

“Here,” he said, and handed one of his “survival” soda straws to Wahoo. It was imprinted with a tiny likeness of Derek’s signature. “Use it as a siphon,” he suggested.

Meanwhile, Raven Stark had locked herself in Derek Badger’s motor coach in order to hide from a throng of news reporters who’d learned that the famed survivalist was missing in the Everglades.

He blabbed to a tabloid columnist about Derek’s bloody encounter with the mastiff bat, sparking speculation that Derek had been stricken with rabies and was dying alone in the murky wetlands.

He blabbed to a tabloid columnist about Derek’s bloody encounter with the mastiff bat, sparking speculation that Derek had been stricken with rabies and was dying alone in the murky wetlands.

They were hunkered in a thicket of sticky vines and coco plums. Derek wouldn’t quit griping.

He insisted his fever was worse. He prattled on about muscle cramps and strange tremors in his feet.

“You ever heard of the placebo effect? That’s when doctors test a new drug by giving it to half the sick patients, while the others get a placebo—a pill with no medicine, just sugar. Nobody knows who’s on the real stuff and who’s not, but here’s the awesome part: some of the patients taking the bogus pills get better anyway. It never fails.”

He preferred hanging out with animals (with the exception of his family, whom he adored unconditionally).

It was a human footprint, belonging to a small person who wasn’t wearing shoes. Mickey quickly smudged over the telltale mark with one of his boots.

“What’re the odds—like a million to one? Isn’t that what you said?” Tuna’s father was gloating.

He wasn’t as bold or impulsive as Mickey, but Wahoo’s sense of devotion was equally fierce.

“It’s savage bite left me dazed and delirious, racked with fever...."

"...Hopefully, the gunshot I just heard means that search crews are approaching, and my ordeal is almost over....”

Cloaked by darkness, the creature was difficult to identify—a bear? a panther?—but it produced a series of volcanic snorts that were unmistakably hostile.

A mutant possum the size of a Saint Bernard had cornered Dax deep in Slackjaw Forest, but the stouthearted young fighter had used his vampire superpowers to subdue the monstrous marsupial by wrestling it to the ground and gnawing through its jugular vein.

That’s it, he thought dismally, brushing himself off. No more tree climbing for me.

Wahoo didn’t have to glance up to know that Tuna’s dad was still brandishing the gun.

Under a halo of flitting insects, Jared Gordon appeared demented in the eerie cone of the search beam.

Before dousing the campfire, he relit the torch that he’d made from his Expedition Survival! jacket.

Link was upright again, his breathing shallower than before. It hurt to talk, so he didn’t. He was so elated to see his beloved airboat that he wasn’t worrying about the bullet in his body.

Derek looked dubious. “You want my autograph?”

With a flourish, he wrote on her coat sleeve: To my friend Tuna, a true survivor! Your fan, Derek Badger.

Meanwhile, the person responsible for his bleak predicament was grinning down at him from a jailhouse television, flashing the same bleached teeth that had been embedded so ferociously in his throat, leaving a pattern of niblet-sized scars.

The show’s executive producer, Gerry Germaine, went on Entertainment Tonight to say that, after the grueling Everglades ordeal, Mr. Badger would be taking some time off to “recharge his batteries” and “explore other career opportunities.”

She assumed he was going to yell at her for taking the motor coach, but instead he offered her a line producer’s position on the new, revamped edition of Expedition Survival!

Unfortunately, the police helicopter pilot had forgotten to turn on the video camera, so there was no tape of Derek’s real-life act of valor on the swamp island.

He’d immediately filed a grievance with his TV union—Guild 154 of Mountaineers, Ice Truckers and Survivalists—but he’d received no response.

Currently he wasn’t in prime physical shape, having gained nineteen jiggly pounds during his sojourn in St. Barts, a cruel calorie trap for lovers of Brie cheese, soufflés and chocolate mousse.

Mickey Cray didn’t have much to say about the show, except that Alice had performed like a champ. Susan Cray thought the whole thing was overhyped and hokey.