At the sight of the reptile wrapped around Gabi, blood streaming down her arm from where the snake had locked onto her, bile rose in Chuck’s esophagus. He gagged on it, choking it back,
forcing himself not to vomit. His stomach knotted. A storm surge of revulsion, fear, and shock rippled through his body, momentarily paralyzing him.
Sam stumbled toward Gabi, knelt, and, ignoring the snake, felt for her pulse. He looked back at Chuck. “She’s almost gone,” he said.
Chuck, breaking from his paralysis, threw himself on the snake, hammering at it with his fists. He might as well have been an ant attacking an elephant. The python responded by tightening its coils around Gabi. Chuck glanced at her—limp and motionless, her eyes rolled back in her head.
“Damn it, do something,” Chuck screamed at Sam. Stormy, frightened by the fury in her master’s voice, backpedaled.
Chuck realized the futility of his assault, but in that futility found new determination to save Gabi. Past his initial shock, he willed himself to find a solution. He glanced around the wreckage, searching for Gabi’s gun. Not there. Something else then, a weapon of any sort. A piece of wood, a shard of glass, a metal shaft. He scanned the debris. All candidates either too large or too small.
What else? Snakes are cold blooded. He stood. “Ice? Have you got ice, Sam? We can bury the snake in it. Maybe render its muscles useless.”
Now Sam seemed frozen, unable to think or take action. He stood over Gabi, gaping at the horrific scene, not moving, not responding to Chuck entreaties.
Chuck rose, gripped Sam by the shoulders, shook. “Ice, Sam? Where’s the kitchen? We need ice.” His words rang with desperation.
Sam stared back, vacuous.
“Godammit, Sam, come back to me.” Chuck slapped his friend.
Sam raised his hand to his cheek, felt where Chuck had struck him. “Why ice?” The words barely came out.
“To kill the snake.”
“Kill Monty?”
“He’s killing Gabi,” Chuck bellowed.
Sam took a step back. “Ice?”
“Jesus, yes. Snakes are cold—”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Sam seemed suddenly endowed with new life, as though he’d been away on a trip, perhaps back to the horrors of Vietnam, but had abruptly returned home. “No, not ice.”
“Yes, Sam, yes.”
“No. Stop thinking like a scientist. Start thinking like a warrior. Follow me.” He turned, dropped to his knees and scrambled underneath a tumble of crumpled and splintered wood.
Chuck hesitated, then followed. Stormy remained and resumed her angry barking at the python.
A quick crawl brought Chuck and Sam into the remains of the Gust Front’s kitchen. Water sprayed from broken pipes. Pots and pans littered the floor. Several commercial-sized ovens and dishwashers lay broken and bent under piles of wreckage.
Sam, now frantic, pawed through the debris until he uncovered a large cabinet. He yanked open several drawers and found what he was looking for. “Here,” he yelled.
He extended a large carving knife to Chuck. Came out with a meat cleaver for himself.
The two men plowed back into the charnel room. Sam launched himself at the snake, swinging the cleaver at the midpoint of the reptile, the portion not wrapped around Gabi. Chuck targeted a point just behind the creature’s head and plunged the knife into it, precise and determined with his aim to avoid injuring Gabi.
The snake twitched, but refused to release its meal.
Sam swung the meat cutter again and again. Chuck withdrew the knife and drove it deep into the reptile repeatedly, twisting and turning the weapon each time. The python suddenly released its grip on Gabi and lunged at Chuck, rolling Gabi over as it did so.
Chuck stumbled backward, away from the snake’s charge, dropping the knife.
At the opposite end of the snake, Sam wielded the cleaver in a final, vicious motion, severing the rear ten feet of the reptile from the remainder of its body. The massive tail continued to twitch and flex as though it possessed a life of its own. Only a minimum of blood appeared, oozing from the pink innards and muscles of the python.
The snake unwound one of its coils from Gabi and lunged repeatedly at Chuck, who scooted backward on his butt, away from the creature as it came after him, jaws gaping, wide open enough room to consume his head.
Stormy, emboldened, resumed her own offensive, attempting to sink her teeth into the reptile’s neck where Chuck had opened a jagged wound. Stormy would attack, nip, back off, then make another run. She punctuated her attack with aggressive barks. Then, too slow. The snake turned and propelled itself in a blur of motion at the dog, catching a paw as she tried to retreat. Stormy wailed in pain as the python dragged her across the room.
Sam, clever still in hand, fell headlong on the reptile, slashing at the massive gash Chuck had carved out. Monty released Stormy and turned on its keeper, locking its teeth onto his hip. Sam screamed but continued his onslaught. Chop. Chop. Chop.
Chuck could see Sam’s energy flagging, but he refused to relent. Then at last, success. The gargantuan body, at least the portion still attached to the head, fell away from it. But the snake’s jaws still held Sam in a death grip.
Now two parts of the python twitched and squirmed, one on the floor, the other still wound around Gabi. The reptile’s head remained glued to Sam.
“Get this son of a bitch off me,” he screamed.
Chuck recovered the carving knife, jammed it into the snake’s nose, and twisted. At last, the head fell away from Sam’s hip, plopped onto the floor, and remained there, mouth agape, its beady eyes staring at nothing.
“Monty, you turncoat bastard,” Sam yelled.
“A little help here,” Chuck demanded. He pried at the dead coils encircling Gabi, the muscles spasmodically contracting and relaxing. The pungent odor of the snake’s innards, human blood, and body fluids filled the room.
Sam joined Chuck in his effort to free Gabi of the snake’s spasming body. Stormy lay in a far corner of the room, licking her bloody paw and whimpering.
“Hang on, Storms,” Chuck said. “You’ll be okay.”
The two men worked rapidly, at last freeing Gabi. Chuck pulled her away from the carnage of the battle and laid her on a spot of the floor brushed clear of debris. She appeared lifeless, not moving or breathing. Chuck’s eyes misted as he positioned himself to perform CPR. He’d at least learned rudimentary first aid when he ran Thunder Road Tours.
He placed the heel of his right hand on the center of Gabi’s chest and laid his other hand on top. He interlaced his fingers and went to work, pushing straight down, hard and fast. Press. Press. Press. One hundred times per minute. Even faster for the first 20 seconds. Need to get oxygen to her brain.
“Sam,” he said, “do you have an AED in here? Maybe we can shock her heart back to life.” Press, press, press. No stopping.
“I used to. It may be buried in all this shit.”
“Look for it.”
Chuck persisted with CPR. Blood seeped from the wounds in Gabi’s forearm, and she remained unresponsive. Stormy continued to whimper, more softly now.
Ty burst into the room. “Oh, my God! Holy shit! What happened in here?”
Chuck looked up, but kept working on Gabi’s chest. “Little bit of a mess, isn’t it?”
Ty pointed at the snake . . . snake parts. “What the hell is that thing?”
“It was a python. It got Gabi.”
Ty’s eyes widened, something dawning on him. “That’s not even funny. Monty Python?” He spotted Stormy and knelt beside her. “You, too, girl?” He reached for her paw, but Stormy pulled back and growled.
Metcalf appeared. “We got back here as soon as we could. We found Boomie. He said you guys—” He stopped in mid-sentence, apparently stunned b
y the scene. He whirled. “Ziggy,” he yelled, “get a Steadicam in here.”
Ty went for Metcalf, grabbed him by the collar. “Out, you motherfucker. If I see a camera anywhere near here, you’ll need a proctologist to remove it from your butt.” Spittle from Ty’s mouth sprayed into Metcalf’s face.
He spun Metcalf around and gave him a shove, propelling him into a stack of debris. Metcalf righted himself and started to say something, but didn’t; instead, he stumbled out of the wrecked room, muttering inaudibly.
Ty squatted next to Chuck. “How is she?”
Chuck looked at his son but couldn’t speak, his eyes welling with incipient tears. He could only shake his head. He continued CPR.
“She needs mouth-to-mouth, too,” Ty said. “I learned that much from hanging around army medics. Let me help.” He tilted Gabi’s head back, positioning her for rescue breaths. He checked for a pulse, looked at Chuck, and shook his head.
Sam reappeared. “I couldn’t find the defibrillator,” he said, discouragement threading his voice. “The place where we kept it is . . . gone.”
Ty placed his hand on Chuck’s shoulder. “Dad, let me take over the compressions. You do the breathing for Gabi. I’ll do 30 compressions, then you do two breaths. Okay?”
Tears tracked down Chuck’s face, like drops sliding down a picture window on a rainy afternoon. Tears for Gabi. Tears because his son had just called him Dad. He nodded, and moved aside, allowing Ty to take over.
Ty, counting, pressed down 30 times. “Now, two breaths,” he said to Chuck. “Pinch her nose shut. Cover her mouth with yours and blow.”
Chuck followed instructions, gave Gabi two strong breaths. Ty resumed compressions.
They continued the cycle for several minutes, then switched positions.
As Ty waited to give Gabi mouth-to-mouth, he pointed at Sam’s bloody hip. “Snake get you, too?”
“Nailed just about everyone except for your dad.”
Ty gave Gabi her breaths, then pulled out his cell and punched in three numbers. “We need help,” he said when someone answered. He listened, then spoke again. “Hear me good. Don’t give me this ‘we’re kinda busy’ bullshit. I fucking know that. Get medics to the Gust Front Grill now. I’ve got a patient in cardiac arrest, another losing blood, and a third down with a severe injury near the auxiliary generator. I don’t normally make threats, miss, but unless help arrives within three minutes, I’ll make it a personal crusade to make sure you never hold another dispatch job in your life.” He disconnected the call.
“Okay, Dad, switch again,” Ty said. “I’ll take over the compressions.”
Once more they traded tasks.
“Tell me what happened in here,” Ty said.
Chuck explained. The brief version.
Ty listened, then said, “Those SOBs cold-cocked Gabi, set the snake on her, then drug Sam’s safe outta here?”
Chuck nodded, then gave Gabi more breaths. This time she responded, opening her eyes and staring at him, drawing a shallow breath. “Stealin’ kisses?” she said, the words more akin to tiny gasps than speech. Chuck started to answer, but she lapsed back into unconsciousness, slipping away from him, sea foam on an outgoing tide.
“We almost had her,” Ty said. “Can’t quit now.” He resumed the compressions.
Chuck held his head close to Gabi’s. “Come back,” he whispered, “come back.”
Moments later, Chuck and his son switched positions again.
Chuck pushed against Gabi’s chest, relentless in his work, refusing to let her go. He wouldn’t lose another person on his watch. Especially her. “No, no, no.” He mouthed the words in cadence with his compressions. Sweat mingled with his tears, blurring his vision almost to opaqueness.
He persisted in his efforts. His shoulders grew weary, matching his spirit, but he rejected even a fleeting notion of quitting. He’d found a groove, a rhythm, in his compressions and kept at it. He thought once again that Gabi’s eyes fluttered, but wasn’t sure.
He snapped his head up as the sound of moving and shifting debris punched through the wreckage. Two EMTs scrambled into the room, Ty guiding them.
“We got her, sir,” one of them said. He dropped to his knees beside Chuck and uncased a portable defibrillator. The other withdrew an Ambu bag, a hand-operated resuscitator, from his kit. Chuck moved out of the way and let them take over.
He watched as they worked, pumping air into her lungs with the Ambu bag, slitting her blouse, waiting for the AED to analyze her heart rate, shocking her, waiting, another shock, then . . . a definite fluttering of her eyelids, a moan, a breath!
Chuck tilted his head toward the ceiling and let his tears flow.
“I think she’s gonna make it, Dad,” Ty said, resting his hand on Chuck’s shoulder.
Sam startled them. “Hey,” he said, “feel kinda floaty.” He lowered himself into a sitting position on the floor.
Ty went to him. “You’re losing blood.” He tore off his shirt and gave it to Sam. “Press this against your wound.”
“Could use a Dust-off about now.” His eyes went glassy.
“I know, I know. Help is here. Hang in there.”
“Thanks,” Sam whispered.
“Tell me, where’d those bastards go, the ones who got your safe?”
“Out back,” Sam said, his words slightly slurred, “dragging the safe across the parking lot with their SUV. Probably going to try to get it clear of the wreckage, then lift it into their vehicle.”
“Damned if I’ll let them.”
“Don’t worry about them. It’s not worth the—”
“I’ll just run a quick recon,” Ty said.
“Ty, wait,” Chuck said.
“I know what I’m doing, Dad. You stay here with Sam and Gabi.” Ty left.
“Chuck.” Sam’s voice, faint.
Chuck knelt by him. “What? The medics are here, you know. You’ll be okay now.”
Sam extended an arm toward Chuck, rested his hand on his thigh. “Those are bad people out there. Better give your son some parental guidance. He’s a good man, Chuck. Nobody else needs to get hurt.”
Chuck shot a glance at Gabi. Her chest rose and fell rhythmically. One of the EMTs busied himself attending to her damaged forearm. Chuck looked back at Sam. “Yeah, he is a good man. I’m on my way.” He stood and called to the med techs, pointing at Sam.
The one who had used the AED responded. “Don’t worry, we’ll take care of him.”
“And there’s a third guy down outside, by the generator.”
“Got it.”
Chuck darted from the destroyed building.
In the parking lot, he found Ty crouched behind a pile of wreckage and squatted beside him. “What’s up?” he asked.
“Gabi okay?” Ty held his gaze straight ahead, watching the individuals near the black SUV.
“I think so. The medics got her breathing again.”
“Ya did good, Dad.”
“You, too—” He paused a beat, then spoke the word for which he’d been waiting clearance—”son.”
“We still got a problem here,” Ty said. “Those SOBs got the safe and are trying to get it into their SUV.”
Chuck peeked over the top of the debris stack. About 150 yards away and slightly downhill in a broad gully relatively clear of wreckage, two men stood next to Sam’s safe, preparing, it appeared, to hoist it into the rear of their vehicle.
“I assume you called 911,” Chuck said. “Again.”
“Yeah. Different dispatcher. Same response: We’re pretty much tied up at the moment. I let it go. This really isn’t a life or death situation like what we had with Gabi.”
“Yeah. But these guys are probably murderers.”
“In any other situation, I’m sure the
response would have been immediate.” Ty took another quick look at the two men and ducked back down. “You don’t suppose your buddy Sam has a weapon stowed away someplace, do you?”
“Probably. But we’d never find it now.”
“Well, shit. We’re in deep doo-doo then.”
Chuck found an opening in the pile of wreckage that permitted him to watch the bad guys without exposing himself. They seemed to be carrying on an animated discussion. One of them, the taller and slimmer of the two, kept glancing in the direction of Chuck and Ty, obviously aware of the surveillance. The other, squat and powerfully built, fanned a hand in front of his face as though warding off a foul odor.
Chuck scanned the area around their GMC. His gaze fell on a puddle of water adjacent to a badly damaged outbuilding not far from the vehicle. He watched the puddle intently for several moments, then tapped Ty on the shoulder. “See that?” he said, and pointed.
Ty, too, studied the small pool of accumulated rainwater. “Ah, yes. Bubbles.” He kept his voice low. “A ruptured feeder line, I’ll bet.”
“Think we can bait them into self-immolation?”
Ty smiled. “You bet.”
“Any ideas?”
“Yep. I can draw their fire.”
“Something safer than that.”
“No, really. I got pretty good at that stuff in Afghanistan. Besides, if all they’ve got is a handgun, they haven’t got a prayer at this range.”
Before Chuck could object, Ty stepped out from the behind their cover and took off in crouching run toward the black SUV. A short dash brought him to the shelter of another heap of wreckage.
The taller thug reacted. He withdrew a pistol, probably Gabi’s, from the waistband of his pants and sprinted for cover behind the SUV. Taking aim at Ty’s position, he steadied the weapon on the vehicle’s hood. The other man squatted beside him.
Ty ran a visual recon of the area around him. He signaled Chuck of his intent to make a lateral move, a dash to a low mound of rubble about 30 feet to his left.
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