by Guy N Smith
'I'm not pregnant.'
A sudden pang of anxiety had him asking, 'But you will marry me, won't you?'
'Of course I will,' she smiled, brushed her lips against his, 'I was always going to anyway. It was just that my folks made everything so difficult for me. I guess it took these last few hours to make me realise that I don't have to do everything they say. So some good has come out of it. Don't spoil it all, Keith, don't let that snake bite you.'
'I'll be OK.' He kissed her again. 'I'd say right now its number's up if it's foolish enough to get too close to me.'
He felt light-headed, euphoric, wanted to open die window, shout out loud that everything was fine, that Kirsten Davis was going to marry him no matter what her folks said.
There was only one thing marring his happiness: that snake coiled up on the bonnet of the van—primed to kill.
Chapter 17
THE SNAKES were becoming restless down in their underground lair. They had slept throughout the heat of the day and now with the coming of night they were stirring. They were hungry, they were afraid. But that was not all.
The inborn hatred of different species for each other was beginning to manifest itself. Above all, most hated the huge African rock python that dominated them, ruled over them. Nature's pecking order, it existed in every form of life. I'm the biggest, the boss, so I can kick you. But you can kick the next smallest. And so on.
The python had stolen their prey, the Man that had dropped into their lair; it had driven them from him so that it could feast. It had also made a foray into the open under the cover of darkness and they knew it had eaten again. It was capable of killing them, too.
Throughout the day it had slept, curled up on a worm-eaten coffin in the far corner, the ancient wood creaking beneath its weight. Asleep but alert, aware of every movement the others made.
There were five of them clustered together down in that tomb: a Russell's viper, a cobra, an African mamba, a western diamondback rattlesnake and the python. The coral snake had gone off somewhere and had not returned; possibly it had been killed as its male had been. None of them were concerned for anything but themselves, for this was a forced uniting. Soon they would all go their different ways, seek out their own territory. They had been too long in this place cooped up together.
They had been cunning enough to fool the hunters. It was the python who had found this place, dislodged the flat stone with its weight, and they had followed it down, entered into a kind of truce which was now coming to an end. Tonight they would all leave, but they would not flee like a defeated army because their anger and their pride would not allow it. They would become individuals again, hunt and kill in their own way.
They knew all about the village. Man was easy prey except that he was not food; except for the python. They would kill before they left, strike in the only manner they knew, swiftly and silently under the cover of darkness, moving from one victim to another, taking their revenge for a lifetime of incarceration, inflicting terror and pain on those who had come to mock them in their prisons.
In the beginning the snakes had been afraid, bewildered at finding unexpected freedom in a land where they became the hunted. But now they had adapted; their terror was gone.
The python was the first to leave, sliding off the coffin and easing its long body up through that hole in the roof, the heavy stone pushed to one side so that the others might follow, the darkness swallowing it up. It was gone, no longer their leader, each one on its own once they were in the open. This was the parting of the ways.
The Russell's viper followed, the mamba close behind it, separating in the overgrowth, their ways diverging. The rattlesnake left some time later and then the cobra which had been sleeping heavily, vacating that place below ground which stank heavily of death and decay.
They took various routes but all headed back towards the village where their Enemy slumbered. They moved silently, barely a rustling of the sun-scorched undergrowth denoted their passing.
Following the hedges, skirting the hard road. Picking up the rancid stench of Man in the warm atmosphere. And becoming angry.
The young corporal had taken up his position in the porch of the Rising Sun at ten o'clock. All the others, policemen and soldiers, envied him, but it would have been more than his stripes were worth to go into the bar. Anyway, he did not need to; there was a pint awaiting him on the step when he arrived, two fill-ups before closing time, and when the doors were locked the landlord left a couple of cans of Export within easy reach.
He was a hero without having done anything to warrant it and probably would not have to do more than sit there until dawn with a double-barrelled 12-bore loaded with BB shot across his knees.
Life was a doddle. An army career was like a lottery, you drew your ticket and took what they gave you. Now take Charlie Ford, he reflected, he'd had a Belfast posting, was currently lying on a hospital bed because a sniper's bullet had chipped his spine, probably would never walk again. You had to take what Lady Luck dished out to you. The money was no great shakes but they fed you, clothed you, gave you a home, and your pay cheque was just spending money.
The snakes were a welcome diversion. A week ago he had been on a commando training course in a remote area of Wales. They put you through it, tried to find your limit of endurance. The corporal had almost broken, but the snakes had saved him. The orders came through and twelve hours later he was sitting on his backside, drinking beer in a village he'd never even heard of before.
They wouldn't find the snakes, of course they bloody well wouldn't, but they had to be seen to be doing something about it or else there would have been a public outcry. The whole business could have turned into a political issue, a squabbling match in Westminster. The snakes would not be seen again. The poor buggers were probably scared to death, lost in a strange land with nothing to eat. OK, so a few people had been killed, there were some funerals tomorrow, but that was because the frightened snakes had panicked. In all probability, the reptiles had now crawled away somewhere to die. People were getting killed all over the world every day of the year and always would be.
A single streetlamp cast a circle of orange light across the road and into the small car park. That was handy, you didn't have to keep straining your eyes in the dark. He was paid to do a job and he would do it, you got lazy if you didn't.
The soldier popped another can of Export, took a long drink and set it down on the stone step beside him. His eyes dropped to the shotgun across his knees. Funny things shotguns, he had never handled one before, let alone fired one. To a professional they seemed amateurish, nothing technically complicated, no range-finders or anything like that. You didn't even have to sight them, just pointed them at your target, pulled the trigger and blasted whatever you wanted to blast. Clumsy, he thought, no marksmanship required, a spread of shot that couldn't miss. That's why these sportsmen used them, because they wouldn't bloody hit anything if they used a rifle.
The company had had a briefing from the CO on the use of shotguns. Swing with your target and keep on swinging even after you've fired. Keep both eyes open. The soldier supposed they had to say something, couldn't just dole out weapons and leave you to find out for yourself how to use them. He'd read somewhere that the RAF used them for clay-pigeon shooting, some kind of training exercise. More like a bit of sport for the toffs.
The corporal checked that the safety catch was on. Don't want the bloody thing going off and demolishing the pub, else I'll be on my way back to Wales tomorrow.
Christ, you could still smell that field that had burned, the stench of charred undergrowth wafting on the faint breeze. Some fire that had been, he wished he had been here to see it. It had been virtually out when B Company had rolled into Stainforth, just a damping-down operation left for the fire-fighters.
Idly he wondered why the firemen had left that hose lying across the road. Bloody careless of them; it was all right for cars, they could bump over it but it might unseat a cyclist, even a mot
orcyclist if he was going too fast. The soldier decided he would report it to the major in the morning. There's a hose left lying across the road by the Rising Sun, sir, a potential hazard to motorists and cyclists. See how alert I've been, I haven't been kipping like some of the boys have.
He drank some more beer, checked the time again. 2.35. Another hour and a half and it would be starting to get light. His duty finished at seven and he had the rest of the day off until 8 P.M. 20.00 hours in military terminology. He wondered what the birds were like in this place. Country bumpkins probably; it might be better to take a bus into town. The trouble was with night duty you never stood much chance with birds in the daytime, most of them were at work. See you tonight, soldier boy. Sorry, I'm on duty. But you couldn't have it both ways; he could be lying in a hospital bed, flat on his back with no chance of ever walking again, like Charlie.
Something was wrong, he did not quite know what it was; something his trained senses had picked up and said, 'Hey, boy, that's not quite right.' Check your foreground and background, log every detail in your mind. Listen. Look for something out of place, movable camouflage bushes creeping in on you.
That bloody hose, that was what it was! The bugger was lying on the edge of the car park now and the road was clear. Sorry, sir, I made a mistake, it wasn't on the road after all.
Now how the fuck did that get across there? Somebody must've . . . Oh Jesus on a bike, it's moving!
He stared in horrified fascination as the long length eased itself across the shale as though somebody had an invisible wire attached to it, was pulling it along. Some kind of joke, the local yobbos taking the piss out of the soldiers trying to scare them with make-believe snakes.
It was a snake, a bloody big one!
The corporal instinctively retreated up a step, knocked his beer over, sent the can clinking and rolling across the sloping forecourt leaving a trail of frothy fizzing amber liquid in its wake. And that was when the advancing snake saw him, stopped, reared its fearsome head a foot or so off the ground. It was a boa-constrictor of some kind, you didn't need a university education to know that. God, it had to be all of twenty feet long and as thick as your leg. The corporal went cold, wished to Christ he had his rifle instead of this scatter-gun, But you'll have to shoot else it'll get you, 'cause it was trying to sneak up on you in the first place.
He raised the gun to his shoulder. Never mind what they tell you about keeping both eyes open and all that crap, get a sight on it and blow the fucker to smithereens.
The force of the blast knocked him back against the door. He crouched there trying to see. Oh fuck, the bastard's still coming, how in hell did I miss? On the verge of panic he fired the second barrel, saw the python go down.
It flopped, rolled, squirmed. And came back up. The corporal fumbled to extract the spent cartridge cases from his gun, unfamiliar with manual loading, feeling in the pocket of his combat jacket for live shells.
The snake was moving fast, throwing itself forward in a series of flops like a landed sea-lion, hissing its fury, oblivious to the pain where a scattering of BB shot had caught it just below the head, pumping blood as it charged.
The corporal pushed fresh shells into the breech, snapped the barrels shut but he was too late. Its vicious lunge, a hurtling forward of its dragging body, sent the gun spinning from his grasp, its fangs fastening in his throat, cutting off his scream as it tore out the flesh, blinded itself temporarily in a fountain of human blood.
Its instinct was to wrap itself around the body of its prey, crush it to a mulch, but it sensed that it no longer had the strength; time was running out. It flopped back, ignored the fallen convulsing human who still jetted scarlet blood from his throat wound, lay there and felt the pain from its own injury, knew that it, the king of the snakes, must flee. Only its supreme strength enabled it to turn, to head back the way it had come, its frantic slithering slowing with every yard. Bright lights blinded it, it heard the roaring of engines, the frantic shouts of men who saw it, knew that it was fatally wounded, yet kept their distance. If it could only get back to that dark hole in the ground it would be safe.
The Land Rover had stopped on the road, the mobile searchlight on the cab focused on the twitching python. Three soldiers ran forward, fanned out into a semicircle, Browning 5-shot automatic shotguns at the ready.
The corporal was dead, the big snake had almost had it, but they were not taking any chances. A volley of gunfire shattered the stillness of the summer night, each soldier emptying his magazine into the African rock python. Dissecting it, decapitating it, cutting it into segments, splattering the reptilian body across the forecourt, reducing it to an unrecognisable mulch. Later the experts would scrape up the remains, cross it off their list. Another one down, five to go.
The King of the Snakes was dead.
Chapter 18
JOHN PRICE had lost valuable time on the A701 just outside Dumfries. The petrol pump was playing up, cutting out every few miles, bringing him to a stop. He pulled into the side of the road, waited a few minutes and the engine started again, a spasmodic fault that would worsen over the miles. Disconcerting on the motorway, always the nagging fear that it might stop you in the middle of the fast lane . . .
In all probability the car would get him back to Stainforth. In stages. There was no time to stop and get it fixed. Sorry, sir, we don't seem to have a pump in stock but we can phone and get one sent out from Glasgow, no more than a couple of hours at the most. He decided to chance it.
The last thing he wanted was attention drawn to that battered suitcase on the back seat with a number of holes punched in the scuffed leather, some busybody of a mechanic poking his nose into what did not concern him. There's something alive in that case, mister. Yes, it's ferrets, I do a bit of rabbiting now and then. That's odd, I keep ferrets myself, mister, but you can't ferret rabbits at this time of the year. They're breeding, your ferrets will lie up eating the baby rabbits and you'll never get 'em out of the warrens. Mind your own fucking business, I'll ferret whenever I want to.
John could not chance anybody seeing those two animals that were lying asleep in the cramped, suffocating suitcase. Rick and Tick, a pair of mongooses; at first sight the layman might mistake them for ferrets but their size would give the game away. About a metre in length with brownish grey fur, short legs, pointed muzzle and a long bushy tail. Domesticated up to a point—until they scented snakes and then they reverted to their wild instincts. At least, John hoped they would. The safety of the people of Stainforth depended upon it. It was like that experiment that the Forestry Commission were conducting, importing a predatory insect from Sweden in an attempt to eradicate the larch beetle from the forests of Wales. They could not be sure whether or not it would work. A process of trial and error.
Once he hit the motorway he kept to the slow lane, joined a mile-long convoy of heavy transport lorries. Twice the petrol pump faltered and he glided on to the hard shoulder; waited, resumed his journey. As long as some bloody police motorway patrol car doesn't come along trying to be helpful, I'll be all right, he decided. They didn't, they were too busy policing the fast lane.
He estimated that it would be midnight before he reached Stainforth, began to re-think his plan of action. Realistically an hour or two did not make much difference (except that somebody else might get killed in the meantime); so long as he released the creatures under cover of darkness nobody would be any the wiser. He just hoped Rick and Tick would keep clear of soldiers and police, would not get shot by some trigger-happy rookie.
It was 12.15 when he pulled up at the roadblock on the outskirts of the village. Fortunately the soldier on duty recognised him, waved him through. He drove on steadily through the village, noted the Land Rovers and trucks parked at intervals, knew that armed police and soldiers would be stationed nearby in the shadows. Waiting.
He parked outside Aunt Elsie's bungalow, carried the suitcase up the short drive and round the back, laid it down adjacent to the aluminium coal-b
unker.
He was trembling, trying to peer into the shadows, expecting an armed figure to emerge at any second. 'What you got there, son? Releasing wild animals into the environment, eh! I'll have to report it. And in the meantime I'll hang on to those creatures.'
But nobody came, there was no sound to be heard anywhere, Stainforth might have been any one of a thousand English villages on a hot summer's night, its inhabitants fast asleep in bed. Except that John Price knew different. He was sweating heavily.
He unfastened the straps, lifted the lid cautiously, made out the silhouettes of two ferret-like bodies, heads upraised enquiringly. Thank Christ they were still alive, it had been stifling in the Mini.
'This is it, Rick and Tick,' He spoke softly, let the lid of the case rest back against the bunker. 'It's up to you now. Go and do your stuff and when you've finished the case will be here for you to come back to.' They don't understand, but you have to talk to animals, gain their confidence. Just let 'em go and roam until they get a sniff of snakes.
The two mongooses just lay there, made no attempt to leave their temporary home. He thought about lifting them out but decided against it. It was their show, they would have to do it their way without his interference. Just leave them to get on with it.
He tip-toed away, retired to the back door, stood just inside with the door ajar, watching intently. But the snake-killers appeared to be in no hurry. They were confused, they might still be there in the morning. It was asking a lot of them.
He went inside, closed the door, and stretched himself out on the settee. He needed to rest.
A burst of gunfire jerked him out of a deep sleep, a volley of shots that were still echoing across the village by the time he made it to the back door. People were shouting, vehicles were on the move. Something had happened.
And when he checked on that old suitcase outside it was empty. The mongooses had done what he had wanted them to do, slunk off into the darkness of a village that was alive with the threat of reptilian death.