by Guy N Smith
That was how Bufton had briefed young Mark Bazeley on the first morning he reported for motorway patrol duty. A week last Monday. Things had been quiet, just two or three smashes, one death but the victim had died in hospital three days later from internal injuries. Now the horror was about to start. The real horror.
'Sounds like a bad 'un, Sarge,' Bazeley tried to keep his voice even, attempted to sound almost casual. Better get in first before the bastard gives me a run-down of what to expect.
'You heard what the radio said,' Bufton shouted to make himself heard above the whine of the siren. 'A multiple pile-up. That could mean a dozen vehicles. Or fifty. We won't know until we get there and as it's only at junction twenty-two we'll be first on the scene. Another minute and a half by my reckoning. I'll count the vehicles, you count the corpses.' A laugh that was devoid of humour,
Bazeley wished there was somewhere he could vomit in private, just a quick throw-up to clear his guts and then he'd face it. His companion wasn't just being sadistic for the sake of it, it was a kind of mental barrier, a shield he was throwing up to protect the two of them. Don't think of them as people, think of them as units, units of work, and when the job's done you can put it all out of your mind. If you don't, you'll end up in the head farm. But Bufton wouldn't put it into words, you had to read him like a complicated book to see what he was driving at. Just don't let him see you're scared.
'Here we are.' The sergeant eased his foot off the throttle, the speedo needle dropping from 80 to 70. To 60. Braking.
It was difficult to discern details through the deluge, the wet road reflecting the deep red of rear lights interspersed with the flashing blue from the police car. A tail-back of traffic, people out of their vehicles and walking down the lanes oblivious of the thunderstorm or-slowing cars and lorries.
'Idiots!' Bufton slowed, eased off the motorway and on to the hard shoulder, kept his speed down to 30 mph. 'Ghouls. AH they're interested in is gawping at mangled bodies. You get 'em at the scene of every accident. Now, it seems to start here . . .'
The police car came to a halt, warning lights and flashers left on as the two officers got out. Two or three prangs, nothing more; the bad ones would be further along where the first vehicles had collided at speed.
Bazeley's mouth was dry as they put some orange cones out. This was the easy part; take your time and follow the sergeant. He's a bastard but you need him now more than you've ever needed anybody.
The constable glanced back behind them. He could hear wailing sirens. Ambulances, fire engines and more motorway patrols were on the way. Jesus, hurry up.
The rain storm was at its peak. The thunder and lightning had passed on, left the cloudburst to follow, a deluge of water that hit the officers' orange plastic jackets with force.
Then they heard the screams of pain and terror, the hysterical cries for help. Vehicles were crunched up now, these were the ones that had taken the full force of the accident at speeds of up to 70 mph.
A van, it was impossible to recognise the make, was flattened beneath the trailer of an articulated lorry. A sheet of pressed metal; the chassis would have to be prised apart if they were going to find out who was inside. Human silhouettes. Bazeley noticed a pool of scarlet fluid being diluted by the rain and tasted bile at the back of his throat. But at least he didn't have to do anything about it.
The artic had ploughed into a big carrier, which in turn had crunched a small car; it could have been a Clubman estate but the details would be sorted out later. The young officer felt something else besides fear, sheer helplessness. I can't do anything, I can't help anybody. I'm just a bystander like these ghouls the sarge was on about, except that I don't want to be here.
A car was blazing somewhere, the thick black smoke kept low by the thunderstorm, creating a dense black fog that made everything a thousand times more terrifying; shapes that moved and screamed, came at you out of the blackness and you only saw the injuries and the blood when they got close; had you stepping carefully in case you fell headlong over a corpse. There appeared to be bodies everywhere.
Bazeley kicked something, recognised it as a severed arm as it rolled away. That was when he threw up, vomited everything out of his guts in one spouting spew and hoped that the sergeant did not see him in the smoky darkness.
And then he saw the girl. Her piercing screams had his blood running cold and when she came staggering out of the darkness he almost turned and ran. Oh God, she had to be hurt bad, he didn't want to see, didn't want to have her clinging to him and bleeding all over him.
Miraculously she wasn't bleeding, in fact she did not appear to be injured at all. He stared at her with smarting eyes and wondered for a second if his brain was playing tricks on him, if he wasn't up to all this and something inside him had snapped.
She could not have been more than twenty. Long blonde hair that fell below her shoulders and a figure that any model would have been proud of. So beautiful. And naked, except for a shoe on her left foot.
She was screaming hysterically, clutching at her stomach, bent double, straightening up again, but even in her crazed agonised state she recognised a police officer, knew that he might be able to help her.
Police Constable Bazeley stared, mentally recoiled, but there was no blood coming from the girl. Maybe her injuries were internal, in which case it wouldn't be so bad for him. He would help her, stay with her until the ambulances arrived. It was a let-off, not a pleasant one, but better than tending injuries that spouted blood all over you whilst you tried to stem an arterial wound. Coward! OK, I'm a coward but I'll try and calm this bird.
He reached out for her just as she stumbled, slipped through his grasp and fell face down on the tarmac. Immediately her body was convulsing, doubling up, her toes on the unclad foot curling inwards in sheer agony. She was clutching at her abdomen.
Mark Bazeley felt her pain as he grasped her, every nerve and muscle in her lithe body at breaking point as it took the strain of the ultimate in pain, shuddering. Crazed, she tried to fight him as he rolled her over, her white even teeth clenched as though in the throes of a fit, spittle frothing from her soft red lips.
For a split second his mind shut off and he saw her as a young man sees a beautiful naked girl. The shapely thighs parted, legs wide and kicking frantically as though she had just hit a climax. Moans that he wished were orgasmic cries of delight and the two of them anywhere else but here. Her hands came off her stomach, her fists clenched and she pummelled at him crazily, those groans escalating into screams. Back to reality, she was in unbelievable pain, probably dying.
Take it easy.' What a bloody stupid thing to say. He began to smooth his fingers over her rain washed slippery flesh, probing for an injury of some kind, a swelling maybe. Anything. And all the time she rained blows on him, caught him full in the face and he tasted blood in his mouth.
She was writhing, jerking, sobbing, and in the end he caught her wrists, had to kneel on her to prevent her from twisting out of his grip. What the hell do I do now, slap her across the face? Assaulted by a police officer at the scene of the accident, attempted rape. Christ, Sarge, where the hell are you just when I need you most?
But Bufton had gone off into the rain and smoke, doing what hardened experienced officers do at the scene of motorway carnage. You're on your own, copper.
The girl was desperately trying to tug free of her captor, managed to drag a hand away and those fingers shot back to her belly just above the triangle of pubic hair. The moment she made contact with the flesh her lips parted to emit a piercing shriek of pain.
'What happened?' the policeman had to shout to make himself heard above the screams from around him and the banshee-like noises of the ambulances which were nosing their way down the slip road. 'What happened?'
She muttered something and he bent his head low in an attempt to hear, half thought that she might attempt to bite him. Her lips were moving again, frothy with saliva, grinding her teeth.
'Bitten.' She got the
word out and there was no mistaking the sheer terror in her rolling eyes.
He stared at her, let the word sink in. It was nonsense.
'Bitten?' His mouth was close to her ear, shouting. 'Bitten by what, for Christ's sake?'
The expression of terror was back on her pallid features, her eyes rolling. Her head moved from side to side, and the hands which had punched him now clutched at him. Her lips were moving again, fighting the pain to get the word out.
'Snakes?'
She was delirious of course. She had to be. 'Take it easy, I'll try and get you to an ambulance.'
She groaned and her body went as taut as a steel hawser, took the strain and then reached breaking point. She came off the ground like an uncoiling spring, convulsing so that her spine was in terrible danger of snapping, a landed fish desperate to flap its way back to the water. She hit the ground, rolled, came up to her knees in a grotesque, unnatural posture, dug her fingers deep into the flesh of her lower stomach as though she were intent on clawing out some cancerous growth.
Pain and terror, doubled up yet jerking her head from side to side, peering fearfully into the darkness with eyes that bulged unnaturally. Bazeley watched, helpless. Where the fuck were the ambulances? There was one stopped about fifty yards away, some a little further down, stretcher-bearers hardly knowing who to take first.
'Hey!' he called out, but gave up. Even if they heard him, which they weren't likely to in all this din, they wouldn't be taking orders from a rookie copper. You're wasting your time; maybe if you carry her across to them they'll have to put her in one of the ambulances.
He turned back to her, saw that her fit had subsided; she lay slumped on the ground, muscles quivering after the strain. Her eyes were closed but they flickered open as he knelt beside her.
'Relax, I'm going to try and carry you to one of the ambulances.'
'It's no good.' She tried to smile and in her expression he read a resignation to death. 'I'm ... done for. Snakes... lots of them . . . loose on the motorway.'
'We'll round 'em up afterwards,' he said, sliding an arm under her buttocks, another behind her shoulders. 'Now easy does it.'
He lifted her up, stood a moment to get his balance and that was when he felt her go limp. Her head fell back, arms dropped and dangled. Oh God, no! His dilemma arose from his inexperience: should he lay her down again, give her the kiss of life, or should he hurry to one of those ambulances, let the experts in first aid take over? He chose the latter.
God, this had to be hell, it could not be happening anywhere else. Flames were raging where vehicles had caught fire, a thick pall of smoke reduced visibility still further and the rain lashed you mercilessly. And mingled with the choking atmosphere were the screams of the injured, blasphemous curses thrown at ambulancemen and policemen because they could not be everywhere at the same time. She's dead, a little voice inside PC Bazeley whispered, bitten by a snake, died in excruciating pain. You couldn't have done anything for her. Damn it, she's only passed out, fainted with agony. And one place you won't find snakes is on an English motorway. Get that into your thick skull before you go crazy.
The smoke was becoming thicker, burning tyres scaring your lungs, smarting your eyes. There was an ambulance not too far away, even this evil vapour could not screen its flashing beacon. Head that way. And hurry.
A hose was stretched across the road between some mangled cars; he sensed it rather than saw it, and went to step over it, swore as he stumbled, almost fell and dropped his burden. Damn, it wasn't easy in these conditions, your judgement was impaired. That fucking hose . . .
Something encircled his left leg, tightened. He kicked at it with his right foot, stared down in disbelief, felt the hairs on the back of his neck start to prickle. That hose, it had coiled, had trapped his leg with such pressure that it was already beginning to cut off the circulation. The firemen must be rolling it out and it had become lodged on some obstruction, kicked back.
It moved again, a flexible thing that came alive, whipped upwards and threw itself around his waist; he felt the pressure on his ribs, a constriction that threatened to crush and break them.
An inarticulate cry of terror escaped him as he saw the end of the hose in silhouette, a small slender head with eyes that shone redly in the glow from the burning vehicles. It shifted, secured an even tighter hold that virtually halted his breathing and looped round him again, pinioning his arms.
Mark Bazeley screamed but nobody heard him. His second shriek was merely a wheeze as his supply of air was cut off. The girl fell from his arms, thudded lifelessly on to the tarmac and sprawled full length, death sparing her this fresh horror.
The policeman realised only too well what it was that was swiftly crushing his bones and throttling the life out of him. He'd seen the species at the zoo, watched it in more spectacular settings on the television. He thought, oh my God, the girl was telling the truth! This can't be happening.
His ribs cracked and he knew that it was. Breathless, tasting blood, a roaring in his ears and his vision blurred and streaked with crimson as he felt himself being pulped. Consciousness was slipping from him, he had given up struggling, just wondered with his last thoughts where the sarge was.
The python relaxed its hold the moment it felt its prey go limp, uncoiled itself with amazing rapidity for its eighteen-foot length. Wary but hungry, capable of devouring a waterbuck, it began to swallow the corpse. There were other bodies it could have taken more easily but it was primarily a hunter and only ate its own kill.
The creature was confused, frightened by the noise and the smell of fire and now that its hunger was satisfied its instinct was to find a place of safety. A strange land of artificial surfaces, yet beyond these were grass and trees, and something else which it had never before known and yet had craved for freedom.
Chapter 4
THE TALL police superintendent had all the hallmarks of one who had not slept in 36 hours. His sallow face was etched with lines; there were discoloured puffy patches beneath his red-rimmed eyes. Tight-lipped he consulted a sheaf of papers on the desk before him in the temporary headquarters which had hastily been installed adjoining the small police station in the sleepy little village of Stainforth.
The set-up, the procedure, were all too familiar. Last summer a child had gone missing; it had taken them a week to find her body buried on the extensive moorland. Before that it had been a gunman holding an elderly couple hostage, and it had taken the police three days to talk him into surrendering. Now Stainforth would be in the public eye.
A crisis. You dropped routine work, devoted yourself mentally and physically to it, snatched food and sleep if you got the chance; if not, you drew on every bodily reserve until you dropped. This time it was different, oh Christ it was something you didn't expect ever to come across except in far-fetched movies. Dangerous snakes were on the loose in a countryside which was tailor-made for them—moorlands, woodlands—and there was a heat wave to keep them alive. A snap of cold weather would in all probability finish off the reptiles but according to the Met Office that was unlikely to happen in the near future, and before the snakes were found a number of humans might die. A sudden thunderstorm had been responsible for a motorway pile-up (no, the stupid bloody drivers were to blame for that, but right now that wasn't important), and as a result a vanload of poisonous snakes had crashed and the reptiles were on the loose. Frightened angry killers. A police officer had been crushed to death by an African rock python and a girl had been fatally bitten by a rattler. There might be other victims but there had been fifteen mutilated corpses, three as yet unidentified, out of that carnage and they could not be sure, might never be, if the snakes had got any of them.
Chief Superintendent Burlington glanced up at the others in the room. The clean-shaven PC Ken Aylott, Stainforth's resident bobby; you read resentment on the young copper's face, a chip on his shoulder because he wanted the action of the big city, got the crazy notion in his head that the Stainforth posting was a kin
d of demotion. Maybe all this would change his mind. It was up to him. It could be the big test.
Colonel Marks from Stainforth Barracks two miles away, a surprisingly mild-mannered man with rimless spectacles; but he wouldn't have got his rank for nothing. The police would need the soldiers and somebody to lead them.
Chief Inspector Watts, he would be in charge of operations outside the organisations room; a good man to have in the field, tough and meticulous, an invaluable blend of qualities.
And the civilian, Price. Burlington wasn't keen on civvy street help, a personal opinion which he was diplomatic enough to keep to himself. He let his gaze rest on the young man for a few seconds. Insignificant, like a lot of others today; he could not be more than twenty-two or twenty-three. A degree in zoology, he would not be here otherwise, with a specialist knowledge of poisonous snakes. A lot of good it had done him, just given him some kind of status on the dole. I'm an expert on snakes but I can't get a job. Might as well be an unemployed labourer. Burlington smiled cynically. Faded jeans and a T-shirt, a roll-your-own-man judging by the packet of Rizlas he was fidgeting with. Uncertain of himself; could be on drugs too. An upper-class hippy, his dark beard could do with a trim to tidy it up and his hair wouldn't miss a couple of inches shorn off it. Clean, though, so he obviously washed regularly or maybe he had had a spruce-up specially for this meeting, felt important at being called in to help the police. Burlington thought that maybe they'd have to take him down a peg or two to get the balance right but they'd give him a chance to prove himself first. 'Strewth, who else here really knew the enemy they were up against?
'Right, gentlemen,' the superintendent's voice was low, tired, and it was going to be very hot again today which was a daunting prospect when you had not seen your bed since the night before last. 'We all know what we're up against, killer snakes that have already claimed the lives of two people.' He dropped his spectacles back onto the bridge of his nose and consulted his file once more. 'We have done our best to compile an accurate list of the escaped reptiles. I cannot guarantee it and neither can that Heath Robinson zoo. Apparently, various means of transport were used to take the zoo animals away and nobody really knows which vehicles took which. Consequently, we encountered an additional delay whilst the recipients of species were contacted and our inventory has had to be compiled by a process of elimination. Anyway, to the best of our knowledge we are hunting,' he paused, flipped over a page, 'one African rock python, presumably the one that killed PC Bazeley. A pair of western diamondback rattlesnakes which apparently kill more people in the United States than any other poisonous reptile. One cobra. One African mamba. A pair of coral snakes. And one Russell's viper. Eight in all. They have to be found and destroyed as quickly as possible because until they are,' his eyes closed momentarily, 'nobody in the area surrounding Stainforth village is safe. It will mean meticulous searching of the moors and woods by police and army with shotguns. There is no question of trying to recapture the snakes. They must be shot and we must risk the lives of tracker dogs to find them. Perhaps,' he smiled wryly, trying to exude optimism he did not feel, 'we shall come upon them quickly and blast them before they can do any harm.'