CHAPTER 1
HERE COMES THE FLOOD
* * *
In the woods of Nebraska, during the transformation from summer to autumn, a rifle barrel sticks out from a camouflaged blind. The cross hairs of the rifle are fixed on a female bear. The bear is wearing a curious red collar.
She is feeding to the north of the blind, which is cloaked in netting and camouflage. A secretive smile slithers across the rifleman's face.
I am shrouded similarly in a ghimli suit, recording the hunter's expression with a digital camera from a vantage point 100 meters to the northeast of the man. I had been tracking the black market trade for bear, and my work had led me here.
An investigative lead had identified Park Ranger Shelby Reeves as a person of interest. During surveillance, I witnessed an unknown man give Ms. Reeves an envelope. Ms. Reeves then presented the man with a state map highlighted with red circles and numbers.
The mysterious man would later be found to be the international exotic animal trafficker known as "The Rooster."
After the exchange, the Rooster's next stop was at an Army Navy surplus store, where he purchased camouflaged hunting fatigues and camping gear.
That night, while the Rooster slept at a local motel, I purchased an identical set of camouflage fatigues and camping gear, and returned to stake out the motel. Being an investigative reporter, I am always prepared with cameras, bags, binoculars, and most importantly, cash.
On the afternoon of the next day, approximately 100 miles from the hotel, I observe the Rooster point a rifle at a black bear rooting for grubs in the decaying mass of a fallen silver maple.
It had taken the Rooster only four hours to locate this bear. Amazed at the efficiency of this operation, I hold my breath.
The Rooster closes his left eye, thumbs the safety, and releases a half-breath. Suddenly, an explosion of dirt and twigs and leaves surrounds the poacher, sweeping him away in a wave of sound and earth.
Just as quickly, the noise dies.
The man has vanished.
I am left staring at the vacant spot once containing the hunter, wondering if the suspended dust floating on the faint breeze really marked the location of the other man.
Panicked, I study the surrounding brush for any sign of the armed poacher. Had the Rooster discovered me? Am I now a target?
Before I could carry these thoughts any further, a panicked grunting sound is heard to the immediate west. The bear, obviously spooked by the explosion of leaves, is fleeing the area.
Now I am faced with two immediate concerns. One: The bear is racing in my direction. Two: a potentially violent and definitely armed man has vanished in the underbrush before my eyes.
After a quick re-examination of the scene, I bolt upright and race in a southwest direction, towards George Drouillard trail.
This would take me uncomfortably close to the Rooster's location, but that seems preferable to staying here and having a panicked bear run into me.
I am preparing to leap a fallen log, when a searing pain shoots down my left leg. Tripping awkwardly over the fallen tree, I reach around and discover something foreign and solid protruding from my left buttocks.
Tugging on the mass reveals a red-tufted tranquilizer dart. I only have time to recognize the device before strange barking sounds erupt to the immediate north.
Lifting myself from the ground, I continue the southerly flight.
Leaving the shelter of the trees onto a dirt trail, I recognize this trail, which eventually will take me to the primitive campsite where the car is parked. Hoping to reach the campsite and safety, I turn west. Before me, the road stretches surreal into a fading hollow echo of drugged muscles flexing sporadically in the viscous afternoon air.
As the scratching sound of the rustling leaves turns into this long steady static imprint, I collapse in the dust of the trail.
As I lie in the dirt, dust settling on my unflinching open eyes, I could swear that some animal lopes out of the woods and moves to my side, all of the while scenting me noisily.
"Now what do we do?" asks a strange voice.
CHAPTER 2
PRISON
* * *
I have just awakened in some kind of cell. Dirt walls, dirt floor, dirt ceiling. At first glance, the cell has the appearance and texture of an adobe hut. But after further examination, the only conclusion that accounts for the temperature and the feel of the walls, and the distinct lack of sound (absolutely NO sound) is that the cell is underground.
The cell measures barely eight feet by eight feet, and is only inches above six feet high. A cot lies against one wall. A small desk is in a corner. The room is further furnished with a stool, a bucket, a writing pad, and a pen. A very glaringly bright light bulb stands naked from the wall from some kind of electrical conduit. The only entrance is a solid door set squarely in the remaining corner. The door has a feed slot, maybe two feet off the ground. Interestingly, it also has two Jacob's slots for peering into my cell from the outside. One is set at approximately five feet high, but strangely, the other is set right below the feed slot.
When I woke from my rather humiliating capture, I was laying on my back on the cot. Still groggy, a search of the room revealed that none of my belongings were present. After trying the door and finding it locked, I began a more thorough search of the cell. A description of the cell's contents precedes this paragraph, and I am sorry the text is so jumbled and erratic, but my God, I only awoke an hour ago after being shot by a tranquilizer gun.
I spent the last thirty minutes trying to open the slots of the door to no avail. So I plumped down on the stool and am now writing this narrative to organize my thoughts. But, why would someone shoot me with a tranquilizer and hide me underground? Am I a prisoner? Maybe I'm a new zoo exhibit? But a tranquilizer dart?!!?
CHAPTER 3
IN THE PRISON CELL, HENRY MEETS HOOD
* * *
Underground, there is no time. Aside from the incessantly blaring light bulb, my grumbling stomach, and my awkward bowel movement in the bucket, I have no idea what day or time of day it is. Well, that is not entirely true. I know that it is time to get that bucket out of here.
"Hey! Let's open up here! Come on!" The desk is in my hands, and I beset the door with berserk rage. I hit and I hit and I hit the door, and when the desk in my hands breaks, I grab another piece and begin again. Now the cot is in my hand, and my red vision only focuses on pushing against the door, slamming everything against this barrier.
How dare someone restrain me, confine me! Smash! Smash! I have slammed the entire contents of the room against the door, and am now standing in front of a sealed door amidst a pile of broken furniture. Sick to my stomach, I lie down on the cell floor and contemplate again how I became involved in this predicament.
Who could be involved in this ordeal? I am exhausted and disgusted and anxious and sick. I have been darted, and from what I can determine, it looks like I have been tagged around the neck with some sort of homing device. I pick and claw at the collar, which holds a small box. I assume that the small rectangular box riveted to the collar houses a battery and a transmitter, but shudder at the thought that this collar could host something more sinister. Unfortunately, I have been unable to open or dislodge the device.
I have explored this room. I have examined this collar. I have searched the door. The only escape option that remains is to dig upwards. The cell is just barely over six feet high, but the ceiling is hard and the only tools available are wooden fragments that once were a table and chair. An hour of digging has only produced a shallow groove in the ceiling and a roomful of dust.
Again on the floor. Dust sifts through the 100-watt beams. A piece of wood settles on the pile before the door. Anxiety is setting in, now that my initial frantic activity has eased. Daydreams of destroying the door and rushing for the surface, taking my captors down before me as I shock through them to the waiting sunlight. Suddenly, to my immediate left, I hear, "Mr. Henry?"
The voice nearly causes me to jump out of my skin as I bolt upright. Before me stands some sort of raccoon-skunk looking animal. It's a badger, actually. A badger with a very quizzical look about her. Two things are immediately apparent. One: My captors know who I am. Two: These same captors have stuck a live badger in the room with me.
Vaguely familiar with the handling of stray animals, I hold out my hands for the animal's inspection, hoping to appear non-threatening to the beast. "Hi there," I say. "Nice badger. Good girl."
I continue to cajole and hold out my hands. "Nobody is going to hurt you. There there. Good girl. Good ..."
"Mr. Henry," the badger interrupts, "I should be making those same assurances to you."
* * *
Later, I blame the faint on the tranquilizer and the physical stress. But the truth of the matter is that badger shocked the living hell out of me.
CHAPTER 4
HISTORY LESSON: DESCRIPTION OF AMERICAN BADGER
* * *
The American Badger(Taxidea Taxus)
"Flattish body, wider than high, with short bowed legs. Shaggy coat grizzled gray to brown. Short, bushy, yellowish tail. Face dark brown or black with white cheeks; narrow white stripe runs from above nose over head to nape. Snout pointed and slightly upturned. Ears small. Feet dark, with large foreclaws. Male larger than female. BODY LENGTH 20-34"; TAIL LENGTH 3 7/8 - 6 1/4"; HINDFOOT LENGTH 3 1/2 - 5 1/8"; WEIGHT 7 7/8 - 25 LB
National Audubon Society
Field Guide to North American Mammals
2nd Edition, 1996
Published by Alfred A. Knopf
Page 772
CHAPTER 5
BADGERS AT PLAY: YOUNG BADGERS FLEE FROM DEN
Many years ago, a Monarch butterfly lights beside a small, shallow hollow under a sleepy oak. The hollow masks the roomy lengthy twisting badger sett that exists beyond the unassuming entrance. The sun is losing its fight against the spinning of the world and resolving its loss by pouring her beautiful red rays against the ultramarine clouds framing the earth's borders. The wistful gaze longingly at the Sun's passing and wonder what glorious discoveries are to be made where she goes. The clouds overhead grow pregnant with promise of rain.
And all of this natural wonderment and serenity is shattered by two barreling careening badger cubs running helter skelter from the oak's hidden hollow.
Inside are heard the excited shouts of a badger mother. A frog, freshly disturbed from his revelry inside a warm dark bowl of potato and cauliflower soup blinks quizzically at the sudden light. A large badger male is huddled over a fallen skunk. The male fans the skunk, who lies on the ground clutching the lid to the soup bowl. The skunk has apparently fainted.
CHAPTER 6
BADGERS AT PLAY: THE BADGERS' FLIGHT REVISITED
Trupela and Brata nearly fly out of the den-hole with Sow Denmaker's voice bellowing at their backs. During this part of the story, both Tru (short for Trupela) and Brata are adolescent badgers. Tru is the more gregarious of the two, while Brata is quieter and smaller.
While Tru possesses the awkwardness of adolescence, he is still a big badger, and judging by his huge paws would grow to be even bigger. Tru has a brilliant coat of shiny brass and rich blacks and grays.
Brata's coat is subtler. In fact, everything about Brata is subtler.
At this particular moment, Tru is running so hard his back feet outrun his front feet. Brata watches Tru cartwheel head over rump, as Brata continues forward unable to stop himself, and steps onto Tru's head and then Tru's stomach. Tru oompfs and Brata launches into his own gymnastic routine now that his own four legs tangle themselves.
They immediately gain their legs and race towards Seward's glen, sure that Tru's mother, Sow Denmaker, is behind them ready to start clubbing. The cubs would be hard-pressed to explain why they did what they did. It had seemed funny when Tru had suggested it. "Hey, let's hide a frog in my cousin's soup!"
But seeing their cousin faint, and his mother's eyes flash with outrage, quickly chased away any humor.
Now they were fleeing the scene. Neither of them bothered to notice the sky, what with the excitement in the den, so they are unaware of the dark rolling thunder clouds that are displacing the cumulus clouds. Nor do they notice the dripping static in the air, until some discharge lights the darkening sky.
Tru has always prided himself on his connection with the ground. He always wins Digger Dig Down, and his ability to connect with the ground also allowed him this time to root solid like an oak. This is a great characteristic when you are playing Push-em-Pull-em games, but not a great characteristic when someone is following you pell-mell through the woods. Lightning flashes, and Tru stops short.
