The Snake

by John Godey

  He yelled after Converse, knowing that he wouldn’t pay any heed, even supposing he could hear him over the racket of sirens and bells and hooters. He tossed some bills into the cabbie’s lap and started running. But he knew he would never catch up.

  Twenty years ago, maybe, but not now. Still, he ran, favoring his bad knee. The street intersections were a mess. There were cops and squad cars at every corner, frantically trying to shunt passenger cars off Central Park West and into the side streets. To Eastman’s experienced eye, it looked hopeless. All over the park, orange flames were shooting up, enveloped in thick black smoke boiling upward to the soiled sky.

  He tried to keep Converse’s angular running figure in sight, but it was already becoming complicated. From nowhere, with their infallible talent for smelling out trouble, people were pouring onto the scene of the disaster, eternally hopeful of a cleansing tragedy that would reinforce their doting belief in the surpassing wickedness of their city.

  ***

  The two cars holding the ten men comprising squad S pulled off the East Drive at the point where it intersected with the Police Department connecting road to the West Drive. The squad members piled out of the cars, and formed on Buck Pell. The cars drove off at once.

  Buck Pell gave a hand signal, and began to run. The squad followed his long-legged stride on the double, awkward with their burden of gasoline drums, shovels, axes. Buck Pell led them quickly into brush, where they were hidden from the road. They stopped only once in response to a hand signal. Crouching low to the ground, Buck Pell shone a tiny flashlight on the map Graham Black had marked for the Reverend Milanese, studied it briefly and ran on again. He led the squad through heavy brush to the landmark rock that overlooked the hollow where Graham Black had been bitten. He pointed down into the hollow, and in a whisper warned his men to be on the alert, to move slowly, to check out exactly where their foot was going to land, to make sure they didn’t spill any of the gasoline on their clothing.

  He led the way into the hollow, carrying one of the gasoline drums himself.

  ***

  As he ran, Converse began to attract followers, people who, seeing someone run, were sure he had inside information and would lead them to the scene of action. But they dropped off after a block or two, either because they lacked stamina, or were diverted by something else, or simply because he was taking too long to get someplace.

  But Holly wasn’t giving up. By now he recognized the sound of her footsteps, smooth and regular, and although she didn’t seem able to catch up with him, she was holding her own. He felt a surge of possessive pride—beautiful girl, beguiling smiles, and a good runner, too! But he didn’t slow up for her. He pounded on, awkward but tireless. He had always been able to run, from boyhood on, it was his one athletic skill. He was almost unaware of the clamor of police cars and fire engines roaring by, and of the flame and smoke that kept heaving upward all over the park.

  When he turned his head for a glance at Holly, he was surprised to see Eastman behind her, head down, running doggedly. He felt sorry for Eastman, he was too old and heavy for the pace. But he couldn’t wait for him. The Boys Gate was just a few hundred yards away now. When he looked behind him again, Eastman was still well back, but Holly was no longer in sight. He felt a pang of regret, followed at once by a sense of relief. He wouldn’t have to worry about her now, he could concentrate a hundred percent on trying to catch the black mamba before it could be destroyed by a pack of maniacs.

  ***

  After he had emptied his own gasoline drum, Buck Pell supervised the activities of the members of squad S, keeping a sharp eye on their movements. A few of his troops were gagging from the concentrated stink of the gasoline in the still air, and he grinned. So far as he was concerned, gasoline smelled beautiful, and what it did was even better.

  When he had first broached Operation Pillar of Fire, a few people had protested that green vegetation wouldn’t burn. It was a common fallacy, and nobody knew it better than he did. Every time he had torched a hootch in Nam, all the green stuff in the neighborhood went up too, a nice little bonus of defoliation. The reason was that gasoline made the hottest of all fires, and the heat would almost immediately parch out the foliage around it, and the green stuff wasn’t green anymore and it would burn like tinder. Look at the way the diversionary fires were blazing all over the park—that was green stuff, and it was burning real good.

  When the gasoline drums had been emptied, Buck Pell chased his squad all the way back to the big rock. He would have liked to push them even further, he had that much respect for the range of gasoline fire, but then they wouldn’t be able to see much. Once they were on their way he laid his trailer fuse. It would have been fun to use twisted toilet paper—he had once set a whole village on fire with a toilet paper trailer—but timing was important and toilet paper wasn’t all that dependable.

  When he noticed that one or two of his men were a little slow getting back to the rock, he sang out with some of the old Marine Corps zip. Minus profanity, of course, which he had given up when he joined the Church of the Purification.

  “Move it, move it, you Puries there. Move it, you hear!” He watched the laggards light out for the rock on the double. “Okay, now. I’m gonna touch it off. And when the fuse burns down to the gasoline, she’s gonna blow. If the snake is in there, it’s gonna get burned up good, but we wanna know about it. I want every eye peeled on the fire. She’s gonna burn real bright, so if the snake is in there, you’ll see it. Make sure you check out the trees. Look sharp, you Puries, look sharp. And if you see it, I want you to sing out, and I want to hear you sing out. Any questions?”

  They shook their heads, or said “No,” and one or two of them, like old grunts, sang out a crisp “No questions, sir.” Grinning, Buck Pell crouched over the fuse end and cupped his hand around his lighter.

  ***

  Deep in its burrow, the snake felt the vibrations of footsteps. They moved around for a long time, very close to the burrow. The smell was heavy and rich and alien, and the snake was alarmed. It was the disturbing smell, after the footsteps had receded, that made the snake glide upward toward the second hole of the burrow and stick its head out.

  It saw the shadowy figures standing on the rock. Another figure was running in the direction of the rock. Nearby, on the ground, a bright sputtering flame was approaching. The snake slid out of the burrow, and, for the moment, watching the brightness crawling toward it, did nothing.

  ***

  As soon as the fuse was lit, Buck Pell turned and ran for the rock in long, rangy, ground-covering strides. Someone put a hand out and hauled him up. Seconds later, with a pffft, there was a blinding burst of flame.

  “Look sharp, you Puries,” Buck Pell shouted. “Peel them eyes.”

  The squad members were leaning forward, peering intently, shading their eyes with their fingers. Suddenly, one of them screamed, “There it goes.”

  Buck Pell caught a glimpse of the snake, behind the flames, and it was moving so fast that he knew it was not burned or injured.

  “Okay,” Buck Pell shouted, “let’s go get him!”

  He had to restrain some of his squad, who, in their eagerness, seemed intent on going straight forward into the burning hollow.

  “No, goddamn,” Buck Pell shouted, “around it, around it. Forgive me, Lord, for cussing. Let’s go.” He headed off in a wide arc to his left, his troops streaming after him. “Move it,” he shouted over his shoulder, “get the lead out, you Puries!”

  NINETEEN

  Once, before he pulled so far ahead that Eastman had trouble seeing him, Converse turned and looked back. He wants to make sure he’s losing me, Eastman thought, the treacherous bastard, so he can play Good Samaritan to that stinking snake. He tried to turn on an extra burst of speed, but just then a squad car pulled up onto the curb and cut him off. Both doors fanned open and two cops came running toward him.

  One of them yelled, “Freeze!” and put his hand on the butt of his revo
lver. “Freeze, you!”

  For an instant, Eastman considered ramming into the cop and knocking him ass over teakettle. But the guy’s partner was running up, and he already had his gun in his hand.

  Panting, sucking air, Eastman yelled, “On the job,” and started to reach for his I.D.

  “Freeze,” both cops yelled at once, and the second cop crouched and brought his piece to bear, holding it in that terrific two-handed grip he had picked up from television. “Don’t make a move!”

  “Shit,” Eastman said.

  ***

  There were so many police vehicles on the scene that they were forced to compete with each other for access to the park. Once inside, they streamed onto the main auto routes and walkways, searching for suspects.

  The Puries, squads A to H, had left the areas of their fires once they were certain they were burning satisfactorily, but they did not flee. They walked through the park in formation, singing hymns. They offered no uniform resistance to being gathered in by the police, although there were a few minor clashes. The net also swept up a few innocent muggers.

  All of the detainees were piled into squad cars and then transferred to patrol wagons with a capacity of twenty persons. They were taken to the Central Park Precinct, where they were booked, charged, investigated, and fingerprinted. Because the Central Park Precinct had no lodging facilities, the suspects were dispersed for the rest of the night to the Two-oh, the Two-three, and the Two-four. The females were sent to Midtown North.

  ***

  As he rounded into the park, Converse saw flames and black smoke boiling upward almost directly to the east, and he knew that the Puries had ignited the snake’s territory. Bastards, they would roast it! But he ran on, though he was certain there was no way he could save the snake now. Even supposing it had not died in the flames, but had been driven out into the open, were the Puries going to stand by and allow him to bag it? Still, the snake might fool them. In Africa, during the seasonal burning of the dried grass, black mambas frequently survived by remaining in a burrow under a dead tree or a disused ant heap. Since it was natural to the species and would help explain how it had escaped detection for so long, it was reasonable to suppose that the snake in the park had found such a burrow.

  A few hundred yards short of the snake’s territory, Converse heard excited voices. He stopped. The voices came closer, and then they came into view, black-clad Puries running, waving their improvised weapons.

  He watched as they streamed past him in a loose formation that he remembered vaguely from his ROTC days as an infantryman’s extended order drill. From their purposiveness, it seemed certain that they had flushed the snake and were on its trail. From the way they were running they seemed to think the snake would move ahead in a straight line. But, of course, it would zigzag to take advantage of natural concealment, and it might even double back, although the flames would prevent it from returning to its territory. On the other hand, the Puries might actually be on its trail.

  Converse hesitated, indecisive, then, on instinct, ran after the Puries.

  ***

  One of the cops handed Eastman’s I.D. back to him and said, “Sorry, captain, but you know how it is.”

  “No,” Eastman said. “Tell me how it is. And put that gun away.”

  Both cops returned their revolvers to their holsters. The second cop said, “Well, we sure are sorry, captain.”

  “Tell me how it is,” Eastman said to the first cop. His voice was shaking with anger. “Go ahead, tell me how it is.”

  “Well, we see this guy running—”

  “Which guy running are you talking about?” Eastman said. “Me?”

  “Yeah. You’re running, going like hell, and I spot you, and I says to Joe, my partner—”

  “There were fifty goddamn people running,” Eastman said. “Why me?”

  The cops looked at each other, and after a moment the first one said, “Well, sure there was all these other people running, but we spotted you and we said, we both said, Hey, that big guy, he looks big and tough, you know, well, you know, captain, what I mean, you should of seen what you looked like, what you look like….”

  “You dumb sonofabitch,” Eastman said, “I know exactly what I look like. I look like a cop.” He glared at the first cop. “Don’t I?”

  “Yeah, come to think of it….”

  “Don’t I?” Eastman said to the second cop.

  “You sure do, captain.”

  “Now that we got that straightened out,” Eastman said, “I’m commandeering your car. Let’s get moving.”

  “I don’t know, captain,” the first cop said, “we got our orders from the sergeant, we gotta—”

  “Get in that car, you pair of shitheads,” Eastman yelled, reaching under his shirt, “or I swear I’ll shoot you both dead right in your fucking tracks.”

  ***

  Because the fires were dispersed over so wide an area, six fire companies were eventually brought into the park. By the time the firemen reached some of the fires the gasoline vapors had already burned off and the color of the flames had changed from black to a dirty brown.

  The spread of the individual fires varied, depending on the contiguity of trees and bushes in the surrounding terrain, but none, fortunately, posed a threat to any of the park’s structures. Since hydrants were unavailable in most of the affected areas (hydrants were emplaced only on the East and West Drives, in the transverses, and adjacent to buildings), the firemen were obliged to use pumpers for their source of water. In the case of the most difficult of the fires, the pumpers of two companies emptied booster tanks as well as their regular tanks, and were faced with the alternative of running a stretch to the nearest hydrant or using a hard-suction hose, a device which, dropped into a lake or pond, would suck up water rapidly and impel it at the nozzle with force. In the event, pumpers from other companies responded to the emergency with untapped tanks. Presently, the smoke from even the most stubborn of the fires changed from brown to white, and at this indication of abatement, the firemen breathed easier.

  But even after the fires were well under control, it would be a long night for the firemen. In most of the areas where the fires were ignited, the vegetation had been compacted and dried for years, and would continue to smolder with the persistence of peat. For hours after the flames had died, the firemen would be overhauling the areas, raking and chopping until no spark remained.

  ***

  “What do you think they put sirens in these things for?” Eastman yelled. “Turn it on. Turn it on.”

  But the wailing of the siren was just another instrument in the orchestra of official noises, and progress was slow. Eastman knew he could make better time running, but he needed the respite for the sake of his thumping heart and heaving chest. Both sides of Central Park West were jammed with spectators. Through a gap in the crowd Eastman caught a glimpse of Holly Markham. She was sitting on a bench, her head slumped toward her breast, her fists pressed hard into her diaphragm. Stitch in the side, Eastman guessed, and thought, If that splendid girl was my girl, I’m damned if I’d let any lousy snake keep me from giving her comfort.

  The squad car found an opening and plowed ahead to the Boys Gate. Eastman directed the car to the West Drive, and then realized that he didn’t know where to go. To the left, a group of Puries ran by, brandishing shovels and axes. A moment later he recognized Converse. Eastman screamed at the cop driving the squad car to stop, but the cop’s reaction was slow. By the time he got out, the Puries and Converse were both out of sight. He took three deep breaths, slowly, and then ran after them.

  ***

  The snake crawled into a thicket and rested, its eyes fixed on the bobbing lights that had been clinging to it in pursuit. Suddenly, a light shone directly into its eyes, and behind the light the snake could make out a shadowy figure.

  ***

  Bill Hextall, at the extreme right flank of squad S, saw the snake when his flashlight beam reflected in its eyes. The snake, except for
its head and neck, was hidden in brush. Hextall stared at the snake in fascination, then, as its head withdrew, let out a hoarse shout.

  He saw the other members of the squad stop. He continued to shout until they started to run back toward him. He pointed toward the thicket where he had seen the snake, and half a dozen of them began to beat the area with their weapons. Then someone spotted it, gliding across an open area, speeding westward, where it disappeared into brush. Shouting, squad S took up the pursuit.

  They picked up its trail again as it was crawling through the children’s playground near the Boys Gate. It fled before them and ran through the opening into Central Park West.

  Afterwards, in gloriously embroidered detail, a dozen or more citizens were to claim the honor of having been the first to see the snake slither out of the park and onto the pavement of Central Park West. Several others pinpointed the real discover as a well-dressed man wearing a pinstriped seersucker suit with shirt and tie, and a cocoa straw hat. This man, who shouted in a strangulated voice described predictably by those who heard it as sounding like “a man having his throat cut,” saw the snake reverse itself and curve back toward the shelter of the park retaining wall.

  The commingled voices of the crowd, including those who never actually saw the snake themselves, combined overtones of fear, horror, terror, revulsion, triumph, and pure excitement. The more prudent among them pushed backwards; others poised themselves in a balance that would allow them to retreat if the snake came toward them; still others pressed forward. From north and south along Central Park West, new crowds of people, hearing the screams and shouts and sensing a denouement, converged on the scene.

  Given the stifling heat and the bodily reaction to the release of their emotions, it was little wonder that everyone in the crowd was pouring sweat. The mingled odor of burned foliage and petroleum was suffocating, and massive clouds of smoke were drifting murkily across the leaden sky.

  Into this scene, a cop, who had been directing traffic at an intersection, arrived with drawn gun. He stood well back from the snake, which was crawling along the base of the retaining wall, aimed at its elevated head, and pulled the trigger. The shot struck the stone wall a full foot to the left of the snake, ricocheted, and tore a hole in the door of an unoccupied car parked at the curb.