Chomp by Carl Hiaasen Page A

she’d threatened to do.
    Tuna gently pushed Wahoo’s hand away. Next she did something completely unexpected: she grabbed one of the coco plum bushes and began to shake it.
    The cameraman who was about to relieve himself froze at the rustling noise in the darkness. Tuna wasn’t finished. She let out a low, rising growl that an untrained ear could easily have taken for an unhappy bear or an ill-tempered bobcat, or even a mama panther.
    With a yelp, the cameraman wheeled and took off running for the campsite, crashing out of the tree line at full speed.
    “Something big’s out there!” he hollered to the other crew members. “I heard it!”
    A wave of laughter followed, for the frightened fellow had neglected in retreat to pull up his zipper.
    Tuna said, “That was seriously rude. He almost peed on our heads!”
    Wahoo was on edge. “Let’s get outta here.”
    “Wait a minute—he dropped something.”
    “Come on,
Lucille
! Before one of the others needs a potty break.”
    “I said hold on.”
    She darted up to the bay tree and snatched an object off the ground. Wahoo, who was already slipping away, heard twigs cracking as she hurried to catch up. Only when they were safely out of sight, deep in the trees, did he turn on the flashlight to see what the cameraman had left behind.
    “What is this?” Tuna asked, riffling the pages. “Some sort of book?”
    Wahoo took it from her and held the cover sheet up inthe narrow beam of light. He said, “It’s not a book. It’s a script.”
    The title, printed on the first page, was Expedition Survival! Episode 103—Florida Everglades .
    Tuna gave Wahoo an inquiring glance. “Guess we oughta give it back, huh?”
    “For sure,” he said. “First thing tomorrow.”
    She chuckled. “But tonight you’re gonna read it, aren’t you? Don’t lie to me, Lance.”
    “I’m absolutely gonna read it,” he said.
    What better way to prepare for another Derek Badger fiasco?
    NOON—ANGLE FROM HELICOPTER—high above the Everglades.
    A dark speck is moving ant-like through the endless, shimmering marsh. Gradually the aerial camera ZOOMS CLOSER AND CLOSER on our lone figure, sloshing and slashing through the dense grass.
    It’s DEREK BADGER. He is plainly exhausted from his hike, dripping sweat. His cargo pants are filthy and torn, and his shirt is unbuttoned to the waist.
    CUT TO CLOSE-UP with a Steadicam, moving side by side with DB.
    DEREK:
I’ve been fighting my way through this swamp for four, possibly five hours straight—I’ve lost track of the time. The heat is
virtually unbearable, and the mosquitoes are so thick that I have to stop every few minutes to cough them out of my lungs!
    You can see why they call this place a river of grass. But it’s not the same soft green grass that’s growing in your backyard. Check this out—
    Derek bends down and breaks off a piece of saw grass, which he holds up for the camera.
    CUT TO CLOSE-UP of Derek’s forefinger as he slides the edge of the grass blade across his skin, drawing blood.
    DEREK:
See? Like a barber’s razor! They don’t call it saw grass for nothing
.
    He licks the droplet from his finger and continues his lonely trek.…
    DEREK:
Time is running out. It’s absolutely essential that I locate a safe place to build a small fire and dry out these soggy clothes, hopefully before the sun goes down. That’s when the predators come out—alligators, panthers, bears and pythons big enough to devour a full-grown man!
    As always, I’ve brought no food or water on this expedition. Everything I eat and drink—and, believe me, I’m bloody famished—will come from the natural bounty of this savage but magnificent wilderness
.
    CUT TO MEDIUM SHOT: Derek digs into a pocket and pulls out a Swiss army knife and a plastic straw.
    DEREK:
See? This is all I brought—my trusty Swiss knife and a clean straw. Two simple—but essential—tools of survival
.
    DB marches on.
    CUT TO STEADICAM SHOT from Derek’s point of view,