Treasure Hunters: Danger Down the Nile Read online

  “I told you,” said Tommy, “we’re not afraid of Collier.”

  “Just that gunk he gels his hair with,” said Beck.

  Beck’s crack made me laugh. It made Uncle Timothy mad.

  “Look, you two small children and you two small-minded older children: None of you has any business out here in the jungle.”

  “Except for, you know, all the treasure in King Solomon’s Mines,” said Tommy.

  “That’s our family business,” added Beck. “Treasure hunting!”

  “Well, one day,” fumed Uncle Timothy, “on one of these ridiculous treasure hunts, you will all die, and I will write the blockbuster, bestselling, tell-all book about your grisly deaths and cash in, big-time!”

  I was feeling better, so I sat up in my cot.

  “And one day, you’ll die, too, fake Uncle Timothy. Speaking of which—are Mom and Dad still alive?”

  Uncle Timothy scowled at me.

  “I’m sorry, Bickford. That information is classified.”

  CHAPTER 63

  The next morning, I was feeling fine. My fever was completely gone and my feet were their usual pinkish color. And, yes, I was wearing clean socks. Beck lent me a few pairs of hers. They were coral-reef pink with avocado-green polka dots, but, hey, if they helped keep my feet from being amputated, I’d wear them with pride.

  Uncle Timothy saw us packing our gear, getting ready to, once again, traipse through the jungle on our quest for King Solomon’s treasure.

  “I have to apologize for my outburst yesterday,” he said with his hands firmly on his hips. “In all honesty, kids, I am mightily impressed by what others would surely consider your foolhardy attempts at adventure. Perhaps school will never be the place for children like you.”

  Uncle Timothy pulled a satellite phone out of his back pocket and pressed a speed-dial number.

  “Hello? Chumley Prep? This is Timothy Quinn, legal guardian for Thomas, Stephanie, Bickford, and Rebecca Kidd. My four wards will no longer be attending your fine institution. They will continue on their never-ending hunt for treasure, no matter the danger, no matter the risk, no matter where that hunt might take them!”

  There was a pause.

  “Yes, of course I know what time it is.” He tilted his wrist so he could read his bulky watch. “Oh-nine-hundred hours.”

  Another pause.

  “Right. Sorry. Forgot about the seven-hour time differential. So I guess it’s, what, two AM in New York?”

  He held the phone away from his ear so whoever was yelling at him wouldn’t puncture his eardrum.

  When the screaming stopped, he said to the phone, “Sorry to disturb you. Please relay my message to the headmaster. And good luck with your nocturnal mop duties.”

  He snapped off the phone.

  “That was the night janitor. But, rest assured, he will pass along my message. You four will not be returning to Chumley Prep, and I will move the assets of your trust fund back into the banking account of Kidd Family Treasure Hunters Inc.”

  Tommy shot out his hand to shake Uncle Timothy’s. “Yo, thanks.”

  I stepped up to shake his hand, too. “Maybe you’re not as weird as we all think.”

  “Thank you for that, Bick. You know, you kids remind me of those other Kidds—your mother and father. No matter the assignment, no matter the obstacles, they were always filled with gritty determination. So go on. Make them proud. Go find King Solomon’s Mines. It’s what they’d want you to do. But, remember, keep one eye over your shoulder at all times.”

  We nodded. We knew the Zambian pirates, Guy Dubonnet Merck, and Nathan Collier weren’t very far behind us.

  In fact, given all the delays our trip down the river rapids and my trench foot had caused, they might be closer than we feared.

  Uncle Timothy and Major Lin lifted off in their sleek helicopter.

  Over the thrumming rotor wash, we could hear our uncle who wasn’t really our uncle belting out another tune. This time, it was Bob Dylan instead of the Beach Boys.

  Judging by the lyrics, it seemed like Uncle Timothy had just heard the local weather report.

  CHAPTER 64

  That hard rain fell like crazy.

  Drops the size of pigeon poop pelted the canopy of tropical foliage, dribbled off leaves, and turned the jungle floor into a muddy lake.

  I think this is why they sometimes call jungles rain forests.

  The four of us held Dad’s yellow rain slicker over our heads like a tarp as we pressed forward through the jungle. The center of the slicker sagged like a bloated water balloon the size of a water buffalo’s belly. I stared up at the MADE IN CHINA label and wondered, once again, why Dad had stashed his foul-weather gear in a supersecret compartment on The Lost.

  The torrential downpour was of epic, maybe even biblical, proportions.

  I saw zebras, giraffes, lions, and elephants pairing off, two by two, looking for somebody to build them an ark. You ever smell a wet monkey? Ten times worse than a wet dog. Trust me.

  Through it all, Tommy kept acting more and more like Dad.

  And Storm was as steady as Mom.

  Beck and I (being Beck and I) still bickered, but it was much more playful than before I got sick. We had only one Twin Tirade, over the difference between a deluge and a drencher.

  But after seven solid days and nights of unrelenting rainfall, we knew we were doomed.

  Because our porters and guides—Sonkwe, Lord Fred, and the other guys from the Rent-A-Guide hut—quit.

  “Sorry,” said Sonkwe, speaking for the group. “It’s a union rule. Seven days and seven nights of rain is our absolute limit. We’re heading home.”

  “But,” said the chipper Lord Fred, “you lads and lasses are in luck. The pirates who have been assisting Guy Dubonnet Merck are in a similar union, and, therefore, they are also quitting. Monsieur Merck, like you, will be stranded in the jungle, all by himself, what-what?”

  “The pirates aren’t chasing us anymore?” Tommy said to Sonkwe. “Dude, are you sure?”

  “Absolutely,” said our (former) lead guide. “The head pirate is my second cousin twice removed. He texted me this morning. Merck is on his own—just like you Kidds.”

  “Ta, then,” said Lord Fred. “Good luck finding King Solomon’s Mines.”

  And just like that, they took off—taking almost everything they’d been carrying with them. We were stranded, with very little food and nothing but Dad’s droopy rain poncho for shelter.

  Also, there was no one to show us the way forward or the way back.

  It looked like the Kidd family had reached the end of its final treasure hunt with nothing to show for it but sopping, wet hair; empty stomachs; and soggy socks.

  CHAPTER 65

  “Okay,” said Tommy, about fifteen minutes after our guides and helpers had deserted us. “What would Mom and Dad do in a situation like this?”

  “Weep and gnash their teeth a lot?” suggested Beck sarcastically.

  “No way,” I said. “They’d obviously keep calm and carry on! They’d climb over that whatchamacallit mountain range.…”

  “The Suliman Berg Mountain Range,” said Storm.

  “Right! They’d cross those mountains and head into whatchamacallit land.”

  “Kukuanaland,” said Storm.

  “Exactly. So that’s what we need to do. And we need to make it to Kukuanaland and King Solomon’s Mines before Merck does!”

  “Quick question, Storm,” said Beck. “How come this Kukuanaland isn’t on any map? How come Google Earth has never even heard of the place?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” said Tommy. “It is on the only map that really matters: Dad’s treasure map!”

  And so we pressed on, doing our best to pick up our pace.

  The rain kept coming down as flood season continued. But we figured if this endless, teeming, steaming nightmare was slowing us down, it had to be slowing Merck down, too.

  One night we made a little extra progress in our sleep. T
he rains were so heavy we slid about a half mile farther down the trail on a slippery mud flume.

  It was like tobogganing in our sleeping bags.

  The next night, a wide variety of snakes slithered across our faces.

  But still, we kept thrashing and machete-chopping our way through the rain-soaked jungle.

  We’d wake up before dawn, pack up everything we still had, and carry it on our backs a few more miles down the soggy, vine-tangled trail toward the looming mountains.

  “Remind me how all this is going to help us save Mom and Dad?” Beck said to Storm as we hiked through the kind of muck that could suck your boots off your feet.

  “Caesar,” Storm huffed in reply. “Thirteen.”

  “Riiiiight,” said Beck.

  Neither Beck nor I had any idea what Storm meant. But we slogged on.

  We’d do anything if it could help us save Mom and Dad. Even sleep with snakes or ride that mud flume again.

  CHAPTER 66

  But then there was the nightmare-spawning African rock python.

  He’d been hiding on the banks of the next stream we needed to ford to reach the mountains. Storm called it the Kalukawe River even though that particular name wasn’t on any map besides Dad’s, either.

  At first, I thought the long, floating thing in the water was some sort of speckled tree trunk. But then it started to slither and squirm.

  Beck screamed first. I was right behind her.

  The giant wiggle worm was at least thirty feet long. No exaggeration. Not even an inch. And it weighed as much as most linebackers—like, 250 pounds.

  If an African rock python coils itself around you, it’ll squeeze you and squeeze you until blood spurts out of your eyeballs and every pore in your body. It also has a very stretchy jaw so it can open its mouth wide enough to eat an entire antelope—and most antelopes are bigger than me or Beck.

  Plus, African rock pythons eat only meat. No vegetarians are allowed in their snake pits. They chow down on crocodiles, pigs, goats, gazelles, and little children lost in the jungle looking for King Solomon’s Mines.

  Think about all that.

  Luckily for us, with the combined might of all four Kidds, we were able to wrestle it out of the water and scare it off before it strangled and ate Beck. (Sorry, Beck, you know you’re probably more delicious than I am.)

  After our adventure with that snake, I suggest forcefully resisting anyone (like me) who suggests that you go on a treasure hunt to the jungles of Africa.

  Next time I’ll know better than to listen to myself.

  CHAPTER 67

  Finally, miraculously, the rain stopped. A brilliant rainbow arched its way to a valley on the far side of what Storm kept calling the Suliman Berg Mountain Range.

  “We cut through that pass up ahead,” she said, “and we’ll be at Sitanda’s Kraal.”

  “What’s a kraal?” I asked.

  “An Afrikaans word for a circular cattle pen surrounded by a mud wall.”

  “Is that where the mines are?”

  “No. It’s just a landmark. Next we’ll need to find the sand koppie.”

  “And what’s that?” asked Beck. “A circular horse corral made out of sand?”

  “Hardly. It will resemble a giant anthill about a hundred feet high that covers two acres of ground.”

  “You’re making this stuff up.”

  Storm grinned. “Not me. Come on. We just need to head up Solomon’s Road and move closer to the mouth of the treasure cave.”

  Weary and worn out from our death march through the jungle, we somehow found the energy to run up the trail, through a narrow pass, down into the valley, and—ta-da—right where Storm wanted us to be.

  There was only one slight problem. Actually, there were a few.

  First, we never saw a cattle kraal or a giant ant mound.

  Second, the road we were on didn’t have a name. In fact, it wasn’t even a road. More like a pair of rutted tire tracks in the mud.

  In fact, there was nothing at Storm’s mental “X marks the spot” that was any different from what we’d been seeing for weeks.

  “Um,” said Tommy, “you sure about this, Storm?”

  “Yep. This is exactly where the treasure map will lead.”

  “Cool,” said Tommy. “So, um, where are we?”

  “We just crossed the border into the Democratic Republic of the Congo, a country that has been in a constant state of war for years. In fact, the most recent State Department bulletin suggests that US citizens avoid travel to the DRC because of instability and violence.”

  “So, um,” I said, “what exactly are we doing here, then?”

  “Waiting for Guy Dubonnet Merck. And maybe Nathan Collier, too.”

  CHAPTER 68

  If there was anything special or different about the patch of jungle where Storm had decided we’d just wait for the bad guys, it was the number and quality of the mosquitoes.

  There were trillions of them.

  If you don’t believe me, try counting the bites on my legs. You’ll hit one million before you reach the back of my knees. Which reminds me: The next time we go treasure hunting in the jungle, I’m definitely packing a pair of long pants.

  Some of the aerial-borne bloodsuckers were as big as birds. Some had nozzles the size of turkey basters. And to make the mosquito infestation even worse, Storm kept broadcasting more dismal mosquito factoids.

  “Mosquitoes carry malaria, the biggest child killer in Africa. They carry other diseases, too. All in all, mosquitoes are responsible for one million deaths every year, making them the most deadly creatures on earth.”

  And then, as icing on the jungle cake, while we were losing blood by the pint to mosquitoes, a pack of hostile chimpanzees surrounded our camp.

  These weren’t happy chimps like you see on postcards and calendars. None of them were wearing business suits or funny hats. None of them were on roller skates. These were angry chimps. The kind that screech, flail their arms, and throw dung balls at you.

  “There’s at least two dozen of them,” said Beck, after taking a quick chimp head count. “They have us surrounded.”

  “This is bad,” I said. “Worse than that movie Planet of the Apes!”

  “Which one?” asked Tailspin Tommy. “Because they made like a dozen. Beneath the Planet of the Apes, Escape from the Planet of the Apes, Conquest of—”

  Yes, Tommy was tailspinning out of control again.

  “All of them!” I shouted to jolt him out of his mental nosedive.

  The screeching apes tightened their circle around us. They grunted, snarled, flared their teeth, and pant-hooted at us.

  We backed up. They moved forward.

  How could we possibly hold off an army of angry chimpanzees?

  How could we possibly survive?

  Those were two very good questions.

  The kind of questions people usually take to their graves!

  CHAPTER 69

  While we were certain we were about to die, guess who was the only one to hatch a plan?

  Tommy, of all people. He must have been inspired by all those Planet of the Apes movies he’d seen.

  “Get down, you guys,” he whispered.

  Storm, Beck, and I crouched low.

  Tommy hunched over and started stalking around on his hands and knees, making all sorts of “ooh-ooh-ooh” ape noises.

  Then Tommy rose up, made himself as tall as he could, put on an angry face, and started pounding his chest with both cupped hands while making tongue-clucking noises that sounded like tumbling coconuts.

  The chimps froze.

  Tommy beat on his chest again and made more knock-knock-knock noises with his mouth.

  When he leaped forward, the chimps jumped back.

  “Tommy’s imitating a silverback gorilla protecting his troop,” whispered Storm. “It’s something we both saw Dad do once when I accidentally crawled into a lion’s cage at the Singapore Zoo.”

  Tommy roared and thumped hi
s chest again. I was amazed at how wide he could stretch open his jaw. It was almost as impressive as that hippo’s mouth.

  All the chimpanzees dropped to their knees and bowed their heads before Tommy, their new ape king. The chimp leader started chattering like a total brownnoser.

  Another chimp scurried forward and offered Tommy a gift: a sweat-stained French Foreign Legion hat with a battered crown and frayed flap. It was the same hat Guy Dubonnet Merck was always wearing.

  Suddenly there was a rustle in the brush.

  The killer chimps hooted and scattered.

  And who should come stumbling out of the jungle but a hatless and tattered Guy Dubonnet Merck.

  CHAPTER 70

  If the jungle trek had been harsh on us, it had been even harsher on Merck.

  Merck’s shredded clothing made him look like a castaway on a desert island. He’d lost his shoes, and his swollen feet were greener than mine had ever been. His face, arms, legs—every inch of his skin—were riddled with mosquito bites. He hadn’t combed his hair or shaved in weeks.

  “And so, Kidds,” Merck wheezed as he limped forward. “We meet again.”

  After a prolonged coughing jag, Merck waggled a broken baobab branch at us. It appeared to be his only weapon.

  “You four have led me on quite the chase, no? A giant hippopotamus scared off half my men. A crocodile ate all our ammunition.” Merck adjusted his mud-spattered eye patch. “An African rock python crushed the last of my food, and, of course, the torrential rains caused my few remaining troops to desert me.”

  Merck lurched forward another half step and stubbed his toe on a giant African fruit beetle, which snapped at him with its pinchers.