Guy Smith - Snakes

Ken Aylott's reason almost snapped, hovered precariously on the brink between sanity and madness. You've found 'em, copper, the snakes everybody's been searching for, holed up in a derelict crypt in a disused churchyard.

No, they weren't real, they were a fevered nightmare brought on by the pain from his injuries. If he closed his eyes, and then opened them a few seconds later, they would be gone, evaporated. If there's anything there it's only rats and I've got snakes on the brain. They bloody well aren't snakes!

He sensed them moving, heard their bodies dragging across the uneven floor, slithering towards him. No, they don't exist, They don't . . .

Sudden agony in his leg, his whole body jerking up, pain that in no way could have come from his fall; like a heated bradawl had been bored into his flesh, gouged a burning hole right down to the bone.

The policeman managed one long shriek of pain and terror, almost succeeded in standing on his fractured limbs, then fell backwards. The torch bounced from his hold, rolled, and shone its light back on the awful scene, cruelly showed Ken Aylott everything he did not want to see. A 3-D horror show in which he was the principal actor.

They were everywhere, long ones, fat ones, thin ones, dazzling deadly colours shimmering in the harsh artificial light; sliding up to the convulsing human body, striking at the exposed white flesh. Fangs that dug deep and tore mercilessly, drew blood and hungered for more. Darted, flicked, speared him with their poison.

Ken Aylott watched his own flesh swell, bloated veins pulsing with deadly venom, reddening, purpling. The snakes slid over him, obscene attacks, savouring this victim that had dropped obligingly into their lair. He felt their coldness, gave up any thoughts of escape. How long did it take a man to die from a snakebite? It depended upon which species bit you. He didn't have a chance, just wanted the end to be quick.

I found 'em, sir, when everybody else failed. Didn't I? And I won't get promotion, not even a posthumous award. They'll always remember me as the copper who fucked up the Raglan case.

The snakes were backing off him, a sudden withdrawal that puzzled the dying policeman even in his pain-crazed state. The bastards wanted to gloat, to watch him die, listen to his pleadings. They'll get you, make no mistake about that. You've fooled us all for the moment but they'll find you, they'll come with guns and blast hell out of you.

He could barely breathe now, as if his lungs had given out, collapsed; his eyes were swelling, restricting his vision. But he saw enough, enough to topple him down into that abyss of madness, even had him trying to laugh.

He had wondered where the big fucker had got to, the twenty-foot python that should have found it impossible to hide out in any tract of English countryside. Well, it was here now, must have been gorged and sleeping off some feast in the shadows, had missed out on the action. Now it was here, which was why all the others were keeping their distance.

A giant amongst reptiles, a Goliath of evil, driving the others back to skulk in their corners, watching them slink away.

Aylott's eyes were just twin slits now but the fear and the pain were gone. I've been looking for you, feller, there's a warrant out for your arrest. You'd better come quietly without any bloody fuss. Come on, now, no nonsense, I'm a police officer. Damn you, don't you understand? I'm a police officer and I'm placing you under arrest. Anything you say may be taken down and used in evidence against you . . .

The python was angry because its victim was dead but all the same it lashed the corpse mercilessly, struck with an incredible speed for its size, vented its fury on the human body. There was no need to entwine itself around the corpse, encircle the broken body and crush those frail bones, but it did so because that was its nature and it was very angry.

Tightening, squeezing, feeling its prey crunch and begin to pulp, blood oozing out across the dry floor. Finally it relinquished its grip, reared up and looked down on the mangled form. Its fury was vented and now hunger took over, its body expanding so that it might consume the morass, swallowing it whole, almost noiseless. Reptilian gluttony.

The other snakes were forgotten, hidden in their various corners, afraid because circumstances had forced them to share their hideout with a king amongst reptiles. A kind of temporary peace pact because they were the hunted in an alien land, reptilian guerrillas compelled to band together for survival. Man was their common foe and thus they were united in a single cause.

Down here in this dark underground place they felt safe. They would remain here as long as possible for even the keen-scented dogs which had hunted the ground above had not smelled them out They had food—rats and mice, an abundance of voles. The king, too, had fed

But every one of them was a killer. Tomorrow, or perhaps the next day, their very nature would drive them out again to kill.

A SUMMER dawn was beginning to infiltrate the night sky by the time sheer exhaustion finally claimed Keith Doyle and Kirsten Davis, brought brief respite from the sheer horror of the past few hours. All around the birds were beginning to twitter and sing but they did not hear them as they slumbered restlessly in a cramped position, bodies entwined, breathing easily.

It was the numbness in his left arm which finally had Keith stirring, wakefulness coming slowly, his brain gently easing him slowly back to reality. He thought at first that they were in a bed together, like the time Kirsten's folks had gone away for a long weekend and the couple had crammed into the girl's single bed, spent a blissful uncomfortable night together, an experience which they would hold dear for the rest of their lives. It had happened again; a thrill began to course through his body then died as quickly as it had begun. Oh Christ!

The horror was back. He stiffened, didn't turn his head to look out of the windscreen because he knew the snake would still be there on the bonnet, a revolting length of colourful coiled death just watching them.

Kirsten was still sleeping, her face pallid, crumpled dress and hair awry, hunched up in a position in which no human could have slept unless totally exhausted. Keith recalled a remark his father had once made, a disparaging reference to his wife. 'Before you marry a girl you want to see what she looks like first thing in the morning. She can tart herself up for the rest of the day but it's when she wakes up you know what she really looks like.' Not that I'm condoning pre-marital sex, though, just a piece of advice.

Kirsten looked beautiful, he decided. A queen amongst young girls. He would always remember her this way. But it did not alter the fact that their priority was to get away from here. All the same he could have stayed here just gazing down at her for ever.

He felt her stir. Her breasts rubbed softly against him, her eyelids began to flicker. Damn it, I've woken her up just when she needs all the sleep she can get.

'What time is it?' She tried to stretch, pushed her feet against the old van heater, the one that had no means of being switched off, roasted you in summer and did not work much at all in cold weather.

'Ten past four,' he murmured, adjusted his embrace. 'No, hurry, sleep on as long as you like.'

'No ... hurry . . . I'll be late for ... Oh, God! 'It's all right.' He kissed her softly. 'We're safe, a bit uncomfortable but everything's all right.' 'Is it ... still there?' 'Don't look.'

She struggled with him, twisted her head round, the terror back in her wide eyes. Then she gave a cry of mingled relief and amazement, euphoria. 'Keith, it's gone!'

He didn't dare to look where Kirsten had looked, barely comprehended her words. It hasn't, it can't, because it won't go away whilst it's got us trapped in here, you could tell that by the look in its eyes.