Snakes

by Guy N Smith

  It was the second night in succession that Cynthia Eversham had heard the rattlesnake in her dreams, like a bag of witchdoctor's dried bones being shaken frantically, a sinister background noise that got louder. And louder. Until it woke her up, brought her upright in bed, her naked body shiny with sweat, a scream forming on her lips.

  This time she screamed because she knew it was not a nightmarish figment of a bereaved and tortured mind. It was real!

  She stared about her in the darkness, feared for one terrible moment that the reptile was in the room. No, it was outside somewhere, down below on the drive.

  She didn't want to look, never wanted to see a snake again as long as she lived but she had to check; make sure.

  Cynthia climbed out of bed, crossed to the window, parted the curtains. She had taken to leaving the exterior light on all night since Peter's death, a 150-watt bulb which illuminated almost the entire driveway. And now there was no doubt in her mind that it was a snake that was making the noise. Reality, no dream, a six-foot length of diamond-covered death flinging itself insanely at the door.

  The thing was mad, crazy with anger, obsessed with a desire to force an entry, throwing itself at the polished oak-panelled woodwork, falling back, trying again, a whiplash of fury that had only one thought in its poisoned mind—to kill, to take revenge on those who had slaughtered its mate. It knew, you could tell, knew that this was the place. Cynical vengeance—it would take the life of the mate of he who had slaughtered its own mate.

  But it could not get inside the house. Or could it? Cynthia clutched the window sill, her terror mounting. Not through the door, certainly, but perhaps there was a ventilator somewhere through which it could pass by contracting its vile body. Or a window left open. When your husband was three days dead you could not rely on yourself to attend to detail.

  She was safe, though. All she had to do was to ensure that the bedroom door was shut, pick up the bedside phone and call the police. They would come with guns, shoot the snake.

  Even as she was turning away to check the door something out on the drive caught her eye, had her peering intently. A cat or something, a creature which travelled in furtive darting movements, crouched low. The snake will kill it! She wanted to tap the window, shout, warn it before it was too late. But she could not move, just stood transfixed.

  It was no cat, it was too large, had a bushy tail like a fox but it certainly was not Reynard. It was chattering, a sound that reminded her of a flock of birds feeding hungrily on a bird-table in winter.

  The rattler had stopped hurling itself at the door, had fallen back and there was no mistaking the fear in its posture. To flee or to stay and fight? The serpent body was tense, head raised, looking about it as though seeking an avenue of escape.

  It made a move to flee, covered no more than a yard before the furry streamlined creature was upon it, jaws moving with incredible speed, seizing the rattlesnake by the back of its head. The attacker rose up on its hind legs, its prey still gripped in its teeth, shaking it, biting it. Rattling it; death rattles that were frantic at first like a child's marbles box being shaken, dying away to the odd click. And then silence.

  Cynthia watched as the ferocious four-legged animal cast the snake to one side, a limp harmless corpse, sniffed at it as though making sure that there was no life there. Then it bounded away, hurrying as though it had an urgent appointment somewhere, a purposefulness about those jerky movements until the shadows beyond the bright artificial light swallowed it up.

  Cynthia Eversham was still standing at the window when the eastern sky began to lighten. She had not phoned the police, she had no intention of doing so now because the rattlesnake was dead and she was in no danger.

  Today was going to be a severe test for her, as it was for any woman who had to face the ordeal of a husband's funeral.

  At first the mongooses had kept together, travelling side by side, picking up the fresh scent in the disused churchyard. Gone was their domestication, they were back in the land of their ancestors where snakes were an everyday prey to be hunted down and killed, had cast off the mantle of captivity.

  They found the Russell's viper first, the faint starlight glinting evilly on its greenish scales as it crossed the open tract of land in front of the church. One of the most feared snakes of India and Burma, it instinctively smelled its hated foe in the vicinity, turned its toadish head, showed its half-inch fangs. Fear, but that would not stop it from fighting, giving a good account of itself. Sometimes a viper overcame and killed a mongoose, this could be one of those occasions.

  It saw its pursuer, turned and waited. Come and get me, mongoose. The mongoose stopped, began chattering loudly, danced in the manner which stoats sometimes employ in order to create a gathering of curious birds. First one way, then another, always just out of reach of those terrible venomous fangs, a macabre ballet.

  The viper's head darted, followed every move. Just a little closer, mongoose, and you will be dead. Intent, oblivious to all else.

  Which was why the Russell's viper was unaware of the approach from behind of the second animal, until the fangs of Tick, the female, sunk deep into the back of its head, dragged it flaying and lashing from the fray, allowing Rick to move in for the death blow.

  They left the mangled viper's corpse draped across the church steps, moved on with haste for this was to be a rare night of carnage, the like of which they might never see again. They heard gunfire, made a detour of the Rising Sun even though the night air was heavy with the stench of snake's blood.

  And then they split up, each following a different spoor, pointed noses close to the ground where reptile bellies had flattened and soured the dry undergrowth.

  Tick came upon the African mamba in a shrubbery, surprised it and struck quickly, hurled the dead greenish body from the branches where it had been curled, heard it slump on to a bed of dead dry leaves, roll once and lie still, not even twitching.

  Rick had the longest battle of all for the cobra was a large male, eighteen feet in length, its dark colour a perfect camouflage in the gloom of a silent garden. Only inbred mongoose instincts and reflexes saved him from the lunging bite which is capable of killing an elephant in a few hours. The head, as large as a man's clenched fist, missed by a fraction and for the next few minutes Rick was on the defensive, dancing another ballet of life and death, chattering ferociously, trying to lure his adversary into a headlong rush.

  Possibly its lifetime of confinement in a zoo cage had robbed the cobra of that extra bit of cunning which would have swayed the outcome of this battle in its favour. Had it been jungle bred and born it may well have hung back for an extra minute or two, awaited an opening, an Achilles' heel in the bounding, cavorting creature that confronted it. But all it knew was blind hatred and it struck viciously; missed a second time, enabling the mongoose to secure a hold on the underside of its hooded head.

  Rick played his foe as a fisherman might play a fifteen-pound salmon, holding on, letting the other tire from its efforts and its wound, keeping his teeth firmly sunk in the reptilian flesh until at length the cobra began to tire.

  It took the mongoose twenty minutes to overcome its enemy and when it was all over Rick lay exhausted, panting, chattering softly. He waited, and in due course Tick joined him and the deadly partnership was complete again.

  They sniffed at each other, their way of checking to see if either had suffered wounds, asking questions and receiving answers in the manner for which Nature had equipped them.

  Then they were lusting again for the blood of their hated foe, disappearing into the darkness.

  For this night of snake death was not over yet.

  Chapter 19

  IT WAS starting to get light. Keith Doyle stretched his aching and cramped limbs, was aware of the knotted fear in the pit of his stomach, his thirst-swollen tongue threatening to make him throw up or choke him. He was cold, shivering, wondered if he had caught a chill but that was a minor inconvenience when compared with the orde
al that was to come, the gauntlet of death which he had to run. This was it, the moment that could not be put off any longer.

  He reached over into the back, picked up the sickle. Sharp as its blade was it felt puny, a mere token weapon against the multi-coloured length of death that was coiled up on the bonnet watching him with unblinking eyes. The bloody thing guessed, knew what he was about to do. You could read the sadistic glint in its baleful glare. Come on, Man, you've kept me waiting long enough. You'll soon be dead, your girl too. Hurry up, I'm bored.

  'Keith ... no! I don't want you to go.' Kirsten clutched at his arm, her fingernails gouging his sunburned skin. 'Please, let's give it another try, see if someone comes.'

  'We can't, we won't make it through another day.'

  She closed her eyes, knew that he had to go, that it was their only chance of survival. And that she had to stay here and wait.

  'I'll go through the back doors,' he muttered.

  The snake moved, unfurled a foot or so of its coiled length. Damn it, the bloody thing had heard him, understood.

  Not only that, it read your thoughts, knew what you were thinking; that he was going to crash the back doors open, jump as far out as he could. Then run like hell. If his legs would move. Ever since they had been trapped in here he had been shifting his position every so often trying to stop his limbs from going to sleep. He wondered if he could even stand. 'Wish me luck.' He kissed her, felt how she trembled. She did not say anything, there wasn't anything to say. Just close your eyes and pray. I daren't watch, Keith.

  'See you then.' He eased himself over into the back with some difficulty, his body cumbersome, stiff and weakened. Don't look back or else you won't go.

  Sickle in one hand, he felt for the door lever with the other. The catch was stiff, always had been. In fact, he had never operated it from the inside, never had to, He had to force it, a screeching and grinding of metal, a noise that seemed to vibrate on his teeth the way it always had in his boyhood days when some of the kids ran their fingernails along the paintwork of the school bus.

  But he did glance backwards, he could not stop himself. He saw Kirsten's pallid, frightened features, switched his gaze to the bonnet. The make was gone, had read his movements and slid away to lie in wait for him!

  He crouched, tensed himself for the leap, knew what an ungainly turkey poult perching for the first time felt like, sensed that his leg muscles were flaccid, useless; a parachutist on his first leap, holding on, afraid to let go. Now!

  If he had not leapt out then he would never have done, a frog-like hop, a long-jumper striving for length. He hit the ground, staggered, went over, twisting an ankle as he fell awkwardly. A combination of pain and fear swamped him, jerking his head round, trying to see . . .

  The snake was underneath the van, seemingly a coloured extension of the exhaust system, stretched full length and poised, about to propel itself at him. And, oh Christ, the van doors were still wide open, Kirsten staring out after him in shocked horror.

  'Close the bloody doors!' he yelled. Because that's your only chance. I'm done for!

  The coral snake edged forward a foot or so, mocking him with that same cold merciless reptilian expression. So sure of itself, not hurrying, knowing his terror and wanting to make him suffer the agonies of hell. Damn it, Kirsten had not moved, was just kneeling on the front seats staring at him, wondering why he did not scramble up and run.

  Keith saw the strike coming, the raised head, the snake's body tensed for the rush which would take it to him. He closed his eyes, knew there wasn't a jack-damned thing he could do about it. They had suffered the agonies of heat, thirst, hunger, terror, he had planned this do-or-die rush for freedom with such precision and now he was going to die. Kirsten, too. They might as well have given up and died at the very outset. He had failed.

  He heard it coming, felt the vibrations of its thrashing body, its hissing. He braced himself in readiness, but nothing touched him, no revolting rough, cold, scaly skin, no agonising stabbing of poisonous fangs. Nothing but the sound of its flayings and hissing, interspersed with a rapid chattering noise which he thought might be distant machine-gun fire.

  He forced his eyes open, did not for one moment believe what he saw. His mind had snapped, it was delirium brought on by snake venom. Whatever it was, it could not be happening.

  The coral snake was writhing, its lashing tail striking the van doors, pinioned to the ground by two brownish-grey creatures which had a secure hold on it, clasping it by its evil head, biting deep into the tough skin, bleeding it to death like a helpless calf in a slaughterhouse.

  The snake was growing weaker, its efforts now only a token resistance, whipping faintly with its tail, its hate and fury spent.

  Then going limp.

  And dead.

  The mongooses backed off, stood there watching Keith inquisitively. Wary. Was it permissible to kill snakes? They did not know, they were not taking any chances. Next second they were gone, diving back into the undergrowth; only the swaying stalks of seeding wild willow herb and bracken fronds marked their exit.

  Kirsten was out of the van, struggling to help Keith to his feet, crying, holding on to him. The relief, the sudden turning of the tables was too much for her. 'What were . . . they? she asked.

  'Well, they looked like mongooses to me.' He winced, tried to put his weight on his injured foot and decided against it. 'Can't be sure but I'm not going to argue. The snake's dead but there might be more of 'em around. Come on, let me lean against you and between us we ought to be able to make it down to the road.'

  Staggering, holding on to each other, they set off down the track to freedom, their course erratic as they skirted dense clumps of vegetation that could have concealed a lurking snake. Their flesh crawled, their pulses raced and the effort was almost too much for them. But not quite. They made it out on to the road.

  Chapter 20

  THE PACKED church created an atmosphere that for John Price transcended sadness. More than just the death of a fond relative; a tragedy, a horror, a waste of life. Somebody who was about to embark upon a journey prematurely, had not had a chance to say her farewells.

  Every pew was crammed full and outside crowds thronged the driveway from the church doors to the lych-gate, spilled out on to the road and lined the pavement. TV cameras trained on the cortege, the climax to a drama which the whole nation would watch tonight, had been following in instalments for days.

  John fought back the tears which welled up behind his eyes, knew that they had the cameras on him in close-up during the slow walk back from the graveside. An interval of fifteen minutes just for respectability (we don't want to be seen to be rushing it), and then it was the turn of Barbara Brown and her child. Then Eversham. Later in the week it would be Joan Doyle (God and the undertakers alone knew what would be in her coffin, a bloodstained bedsheet probably, there wasn't anything else); that corporal's body had been taken south to be buried in his home town. And they still had not found PC Aylott.

  The media were highlighting John's role in the whole bloody business. At least Rick and Tick were safe back in that old suitcase now hidden inside the coal-bunker. Tomorrow, or the day after, he would smuggle them back up to Scotland; he must get the petrol pump on the Mini fixed first, though. You had to think of mundane things like that to convince yourself that it was all real.

  The mongooses had been seen and recognised, but nobody knew any more than that. Maybe Burlington suspected; John thought he might be questioned later. But what the hell, the snakes were dead, accounted for, they had found the corpses. The mongooses would just disappear, not to be seen again. If people wanted to hunt them, let 'em. They had never found that puma down south and that was all of twenty-five years ago, nor the cat beast that had ravaged flocks of Welsh sheep more recently.

  John made it back to the main street, all eyes still on him. That's John Price, he knows all about snakes, got a degree in 'em. Ugh! A news reporter stepped out of the crowd, barred his way, a m
icrophone thrust at him like some threatening weapon.

  'Where do you think these mongooses came from, Mr Price?'

  'I haven't a clue.'

  Liar! You read it in the other's eyes, the implication in his tone of voice.

  'Do you think all the snakes are dead?'

  The million dollar question. Have we got 'em all?

  'Mongooses are pretty thorough hunters.' He chose his words carefully. 'They just live for hunting snakes. If there are any left they'll surely get 'em.' He pushed his way past the reporter, increased his step until he reached the bungalow.

  Are all the snakes dead?

  Maybe, maybe not. That initial inventory of the escaped reptiles was compiled by a process of elimination from the intended recipients of the reptiles not from that cowboy zoo. Nobody really knew.

  Only time would tell.

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