I pounded viciously on the soft steering wheel of my rusty old pickup truck. I realize now, that I should have gotten gas, as well as not followed my brother’s directions this far off the highway. I got out of the car and took a look around the dry, mid summer wood of Maine. Quickly, I tried to pull a Jimmy Neutron, and brain-blast a way to escape this mess. The only problem was, my brain was emptier than an abandoned house; and I began to worry.



“Hey, Chris!” I shouted, “we are way too far off the highway and it’s too late. We have no choice but to sleep here tonight.”



“Really? You really want to do this?” Chris asked me in an uncertain tone.



“Yes. We have no choice but to sleep here for one day, and tomorrow we will search for a town where we can get some food and shelter for a while. However, it may be a long journey to civilization,” I replied assertively, “thanks to you.”



“Yo Eric, what do we need from the tiny tin toolbox?” Chris questioned.



“Well, seeing as I don’t have many tools to help us, I’d say only the dagger,” I responded.



Without any effort, I found a clear area of plush grass, and went back to the truck. Chris and I loosened the thick bolts that attached the brown, squishy seat to the car, and then pulled it out. Subsequently, we carried it over to our camp, and began to find wood and dry leaves for a fire. Luckily, it seemed as though there had been a recent drought, so several of the logs we found were almost as dry as Chris’s personality (insanely dry).



Now, it was almost 8:30pm, and we still haven’t made a fire. As if on cue, Chris came running up to me with a stone and my steel wrench.



“I’ve got it!” he yelled loudly, “I found this piece of flint by a small river. Oh yeah, there is a river, to provide us with water, as well.”



Then, Chris began striking the flint and wrench together over the mound of sticks and crumbly leaves. First, one spark flew, but there was no fire. Then another spark, and on the third strike, our site was illuminated. After that, we both hopped on the “couch,” and began to fall asleep, as the fire danced in the light breeze.










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*




“Eric! Eric! Eric! Wake up,” said Chris in an excited manner, “we must get an early start today.”



“Yaaawwwwnnn. Whatever you say bro. Well, I am hungry, so we better find a town, fast.”



Quickly, I threw on my puce shirt and raggy old Nike sneakers. A few minutes after rousing, my brother and I began walking, with no destination. Hope was the only fuel in our hungry bodies that allowed us to go on. After continuing on our path for miles, I looked around at the barren forests of my birth state, but do not stop.



Suddenly, it hit me, as hard as A-Rod smacked his last home run. For the first time since departure, I stopped.



“What are you doing?” Chris asked furiously.



“We must stop,” I responded, “we drove too far off of the road, and we must get back to our supplies before nightfall.”



“If you insist,” Chris sighed.



After about six hours of rapid walking, we turned around, without any hope.



By the time we arrived back to our truck, our bodies wanted to drop dead. Despite our fatigue, both of us were clearly dehydrated, so I was determined to get water.



I quickly remembered a way to sterilize water, that I had seen on a survival show. So, I took the top of my metal toolbox, and used it as a pan to collect water from the nearby stream. While I was doing that, Chris started up the fire again, and threw some rocks in it. When I came back, he carefully placed the stones into my tray of water. Instantly, the contaminated water was boiled, and clean.



While the water was cooling, I heard an ear-piercing noise.

“I couldn’t tell whether it was just the wind whistling in my ear, or something else roaming the atmosphere.”



All of a sudden, a bright blue jet flew through the air above us. It hovered swiftly over me and my brother, as Chris looked up in shock.



I began to throw many dry leaves into the remaining embers of the fire, and I jumped for joy. The fire was gargantuan, but the distant airplane soared right over us. I couldn’t even fathom why the aircraft didn’t see the smoke.



“Maybe it was because of the tall trees,” I wondered, “maybe it was….”



Then it struck me like a lightning rod to Ben Franklin’s kite. We had gray smoke, not black, which is barely noticeable in the colorful evening sky.



I sat down on the chair we had ripped out of my truck, and turn to Chris with a disappointed face. Randomly, I feel a drop of water smack my arm.



“Oh no! It can’t be,” I thought, “it is, we are dead. Literally.”



Out of nowhere, I hear, “Boom, Smash, Bam.”



Next, my brother came walking over with the worn-out hood of my truck. He wedged it horizontally in between two small trees, so it was covering our “couch.”



“I didn’t even realize you left,” I said while laughing, “how did you….”



“Don’t ask,” he cut me off.



So once again, Chris and I sat down, listening to the pitter-patter of the rain. And we went to sleep hungry, in the middle of the woods, for the second day in a row.



After a long night of uncomfortable sleep, I woke up, with my body that hadn’t eaten for 2 days. Although Chris was still asleep, I took my rigid dagger and went to find some meat.



Due to my love for seafood, I first went to the stream. It took me awhile to notice, but I saw two, six-inch long fish blending into the murky river bottom. They were very close to the moist land, so I crept up, and, “Bam!”



I impaled the blade directly into both of them, at once. I picked them up and held the two fish in my right hand, and dagger in the left. I walked back to our camp, and when I arrived, Chris was awake, and exhilarated about the food.



He quickly left to gather some more water, while I started the fire and skinned the fish. Thereafter, I cut out the thickest, and most juicy pieces of meat I could see. Chris came back with water, as well as two sharp sticks. I stuck the small pieces of meat on the sticks, and Chris boiled the water. At last, we both sat down and roasted the fish over the fire to complete our first meal in the wild.



Just as I was about to devour my juicy shish kabob, I heard it, again. This time, it was a red, colossal helicopter. Since I usually learn from my mistakes, I sprinted to the car as fast as Usain Bolt, and hauled the spare tire out of the truck bed. Finally, I catapulted it into the fire.



At last, there was thick, black smoke from the burning rubber that was arising from our location. The helicopter circled in the air, and then landed about 100 yards away from us in an open field. Chris and I ran forth with happiness, and our shish kabobs in hand.



“I knew we could do it brother,” I said thankfully.
“Anything’s possible,” he replied.