Pam Withers - Drone Chase

PAM WITHERS

Copyright Pam Withers, 2021

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise (except for brief passages for purpose of review) without the prior permission of Dundurn Press. Permission to photocopy should be requested from Access Copyright.

All characters in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Publisher: Scott Fraser | Acquiring editor: Kathryn Lane | Editor: Susan Fitzgerald

Cover designer: Laura Boyle

Cover image: drone: istock.com/fitie; mountain landscape: istock.com/askinkamberoglu

Printer: Marquis Book Printing Inc.

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

Title: Drone chase / Pam Withers.

Names: Withers, Pam, author.

Identifiers: Canadiana (print) 20200214527 | Canadiana (ebook) 20200214543 | ISBN 9781459747432 (softcover) | ISBN 9781459747449 (PDF) | ISBN 9781459747456 (EPUB)

Subjects: LCGFT: Novels.

Classification: LCC PS8595.I8453 D76 2020 | DDC jC813/.6dc23

We acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council for our publishing program. We also acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Ontario, through the Ontario Book Publishing Tax Credit and Ontario Creates, and the Government of Canada.

Care has been taken to trace the ownership of copyright material used in this book. The author and the publisher welcome any information enabling them to rectify any references or credits in subsequent editions.

The publisher is not responsible for websites or their content unless they are owned by the publisher.

VISIT US AT

dundurn.com

@dundurnpress

dundurnpress

dundurnpress

Dundurn
3 Church Street, Suite 500
Toronto, Ontario, Canada
M5E 1M2

HUDDLED IN A down parka, with my hands held to the campfire, I glance down the slope to make sure my parents are still on their walk. Affirmative: Their bickering voices they havent stopped fighting since we moved here are disturbing the afternoon peace of the mountainside. Next, I peer at the little red tent a few feet away from me. My sleeping granddads unlaced hiking boots are sticking out from under the flap. In fact, the whole tent is shuddering with his snoring like a half-inflated balloon.

Zzz-zzz. The sound lifts my mood. Its a good thing whiskered old mountain men need afternoon snoozes. Here at last, an opportunity to escape this boring, chilly campsite in the Canadian boonies.

Its not the first time this city boy has been hauled unwillingly here, into a desolate land of granite peaks, waterfalls, dodgy wildlife, and monster trees, but its definitely not somewhere I feel at home. For one thing, dark woods scare me, and this place has endless trees. I hate trees. They have a bad habit of eating my drones.

Camping in general, in my private opinion, sucks. Who willingly goes for a hike in the sticks in May? Give me Central Park muggers any day over perilous predators hiding behind giant, moss-draped trees. Im a New York City guy through and through.

I reach into the beefy backpack Granddad has saddled me with Itll toughen you up, he said and touch the cellphone-sized drone the old man and my parents dont know Ive smuggled along. Its a perfect antidote to the eerie woods.

Remote-control toys are for kids, Granddad ruled in his Irish brogue last month when my parents and I arrived. Theyre for city-park shenanigans. Got to get you in shape, teach you about woodsmanship, pry you out of that workshop o yours. Real life is the mountains, kid, and Im going to teach you and yer city mom back-country survival and appreciation for nature.

Like thats going to happen. As far as I can tell, Granddad has hated my city mom ever since she stole away his son to the other side of the continent. Given her high heels, makeup, New York personality, and lack of enthusiasm for the outdoors, in his mind shes beneath his contempt. Which caused friction on our vacations here as far back as I can remember. But now that weve actually moved here, its way worse.

Sitting close to where weve strung up the food bag on a rope between two trees to make it fierce-hard for bears to reach it, grandson I pull out my fifteen-hundred-dollar store-bought drone kit: bird, batteries, and remote. The drone is four wavy rings joined by a centre that resembles a small bug. I call him Bug. The 250-millimetre, one-pound device can fly for about twenty minutes before he conks out. Then, clever robot that he is, he automatically returns to me. Another thing: He folds so neatly I can slip him into my jeans pocket. As in, I can hide him from Granddads sharp eyes.

Were with Granddad because Dad tore us away from New York City. Granddad, an expert hunter and outdoorsman I admire but will never be like (as he reminds me regularly), lives in Bella Coola, in northern British Columbia. Bella Coola (population 150) is located in a mountain valley on a saltwater inlet maybe sixty miles or I guess I should say a hundred kilometres, since Im in Canada east of the Pacific Ocean, in the heart of the Great Bear Rainforest. Dad says we had to move here because Granddads health is failing. Failing? To me, the dude is stronger and more stubborn than a nine-hundred-pound grizzly and grizzlies actually live in the forests around here. Granddad is a headstrong taxidermist who stuffs and mounts dead furry animals for clients. So disgusting.

According to Dad, Granddads terminal cancer means he doesnt have many months to live. Its true hes not as tough as he used to be, but theres still plenty of griz left in him. And while he afternoon-hibernates, Im outta here. Yes, Im supposed to stick close to camp, and yes, the woods are full of dangerous stuff that scares me to death. But the trees arent dense and dark right around camp, and its a chance to launch a drone, which is what Im all about.

I grab the bear-spray can and stuff it into my designer moto jeans pocket. Though I definitely hope I wont meet a nasty bruin, I pretend Id have the nerve to fire the peppery stuff into ones face if I had to. Slapping away early-spring flies, I follow a path to a small clearing. Concentrate on the drone, not where the forest gets darker just up the slope. And dont freak out if you see a bear. That ended badly last time.

I unfold the drones arms and click in all four propellers, or props. Next, I give the 4K-sensor mini-camera a quick wipe-down, attach it to the body, and set the drone on the dewy grass of the clearing. After charging up my radio-sized remote controller for takeoff, I take a big step back and a deep breath and throw the throttle stick up. Yes! My slick graphite baby rises on cue and hovers in front of me with a happy hum.