The Great American Eagle Hunt (Prologue)
Below is an excerpt from my novel, the Great American Eagle Hunt. I am targeting the book to be published this fall. After his father’s sudden death, grieving teen Robbie McDaniel moves to Seattle, where an old photo album reveals a shocking secret: his punk-rock dad was an Eagle Scout. Inspired, Robbie joins a local troop, only to clash with a vicious bully. He finds his place not by following the rules, but by creating his own tribe of misfits. Guided by his dad’s enigmatic ex-bandmate, Robbie learns that true victory isn’t about winning, but about forging your own path. It’s a raucously fun story. (Think Bad News Bears meets the Boy Scouts) If you are interested in reading the full novel when it is published, join my email list.
PROLOGUE: Early October 1999.
“Just keep moving. Keep pushing forward. Keep moving. Get to the tree line and maybe I’ll be safe,” I kept repeating to myself. With every step my was heart pounding harder, practically bursting out of my chest. I was drenched; I felt like I’d just showered. “Find your clothes. Stay off the trail. They’ll be looking for you there. Stay on your feet and look for the others.”
Three months ago, I would never be in a situation like this. Three months ago, I would be home alone in my room playing StarCraft all weekend.
But no. Tonight I’m out here in Olympic National Park at midnight, running buck-ass-naked through the deep forest. Every branch that grazes me adds to a growing collection of red scratches all over my body. It’s impossible to take a step without a stick digging into my bare feet. My legs look like a cheese grater scraped them, and every bug within fifty feet devoured my chest, cheeks, and armpits. I reek like a toxic cocktail of three-day-old sweat, dirt, and stagnant lake water. Dried up pine needles and dead leaves are scratching places that dried up pine needles and dead leaves shouldn’t scratch. I’m pretty sure I just stepped in something that wasn’t mud. I’d give my right nut for a hot bath and a warm bed right now. In one hand I’m clutching someone’s underwear; in the other hand I have someone else’s shoe. In our mad dash to avoid getting caught, we just grabbed what we could. God only knows where my clothes are.
Somewhere behind me, I’m sure my pants and underwear are floating over the falls and drifting down the river. Soon they will float their way to the Puget Sound. They’ll probably end up in some fishing trawler’s net. The crew will hang them on their mast for all to see as they pull into port. I’ll be the mascot of the Pacific Northwest fishing fleet, their comedic catch of the day.
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The others are out here too. But I can’t see or hear any sign of them. There is no way I’m calling out to them. I don’t want Kyle and his goon squad triangulating my position. At the first sign of trouble, we panicked and scrambled. We didn’t plan on this, so once we got separated, it was every man for himself. Hopefully, the others have some of my stuff. We’ll figure it out when and if we make it back to safety.
The only thing holding me together at this point is sheer panic and the deep-rooted fear of freshman year high school ridicule. I’m three months into high school; this will be my legacy. The kid caught running naked through a national park. What an idiot. But here we are. I’ll be the punchline of Queen Anne High’s gossip mill.
Three months ago, I was just a kid unpacking boxes in my new home in Seattle. Our new house still smelled of fresh paint and cleaning solution, and I had half-emptied moving boxes stuffed in my room. Mom keeps saying things like “fresh start” and “new opportunities.” And she’s right. We need those. But now, it’s all crashing down and I’m on my way to become the school’s newest laughingstock.
My fresh start is becoming less like a peaceful, clean slate and more like a sweaty, violent mosh pit. The last two and a half years have felt like being constantly tossed around without warning. The first big hit that started all of this was my dad dying. One morning, he drops you off at school. That afternoon, mom picks you up telling you he’s never coming home again.
Two and a half years of shock, depression and anxiety and boom, mom sits me down and tells me we’re moving across the country to Seattle. Then the swirl of confusion amps up when I find an old photo album that’s been collecting dust for decades. Listen, I’ll tell you the full story later when things calm down, and I find my clothes. Then, I can back up. Way up.
But right now, Kyle and his goon squad are out here somewhere. Kyle’s helicopter mom has been gunning for my removal since day one. And Kyle himself? He’s still butt-hurt and nursing his fragile ego from when I embarrassed him the first time we met. They’re probably forming a search grid, hunting us down like a pack of wolves, or worse, someone with a vendetta. Kyle is nothing more than an insecure little weasel who overcompensates for his insecurities by yelling, bullying, and taking advantage of his mommy-fueled power trips. Catching us out here would be all Kyle and his mom needed to kick us out. In my mind, I can imagine them cackling, ready to turn me into the school’s next urban legend.
Someone may have already captured the others, for all I know. Or maybe they’re still out here too, dodging and weaving between trees, trying to make it back to safety, just as naked and afraid as I am. No way to know. No way to check. All I know is that I can’t stop. Stopping means capture. Capture means humiliation. That means Kyle and his crew win. And the worst part? If I get caught, well… I could kiss my Eagle Scout plans, my social life, and possibly the ability to show my face in public ever again goodbye.
This time, we may have crossed that invisible line between “funny story to tell someday” and “permanent record material.” This time, we may have gone too far. Either way, I keep running.
Best. Weekend. Ever.
