Guy Smith - Snakes

Sam bit his lip, knew only too well what his father was about to do. Please God, let me faint first.

''Old still then.'

'Dad, take me to the doctor.' It was a long time since he had last pleaded with God or his father and it appeared that neither were prepared to listen to him. In olden times they gave you something to bite on. A swig of rum. You wouldn't get either from Dad, they took time and cost money.

He yelled and writhed as the knife blade made an incision, tried to faint but failed. He guessed what the dirty old bugger would do when he'd cut into the wound. Ugh! Sam threw up but could not shut out the slurping sound his father made as he sucked the venom out of the wound; the same noise he made when he drank his tea. Spitting, that was another of his habits, a blob of phlegm and venom.

'You'll be OK now, boy.'

Sam opened his eyes, stared at the mess of vomit dripping off the bale by his head. It reminded him of the canned potato salad that his mother sometimes bought.

'What's the matter with you now?' Annoyance, a reprimand because he had not leaped straight up and begun re-stacking those hay bales. 'You should be bloody grateful to me, boy, lucky I was here to get the poison out for you.'

'I'm in bloody agony, that's what.' God, he'd've punched the old bugger if he'd had the strength. 'I need to see the doctor, get something put on the bite, maybe an injection.'

'You'll be all right. We got too much work to do without wastin' time goin' to the doctor, and a lot o' bleedin' good 'e is anyway!'

Sam managed to stand, leaning up against the bales. Everything was topsy-turvy, spinning round. But he did not think he would faint now, Unless he looked down at his leg.

'Tell you what.' There was a sarcastic, condescending tone in his father's voice, spittle trickling down his bristly chin. 'I'll stack these bales up and you can have a nice lazy time sitting on 'em on the ride back down. Then by the time we get home you'll be feelin' well enough to off-load 'em.'

Every bone in Sam Jervis's body jarred on the slow ride down the sandpit field and out on to the road. And his leg hurt like hell. It was bleeding quite a lot; he did not dare look but he could feel the sticky warm blood seeping down into his shoe, a cloud of black flies swarming on it, settling to feed, buzzing loudly.

They were in the yard now, reversing up to the bay. Sam opened his eyes. Everything was going dark like dusk had come several hours early. The tractor's engine died and his father was bawling for him to get up and start throwing those bales off. Shaddup, you old goat. 'Come on then, stop playing up.'

I need a doctor. Where's Mum? Something I got to tell her ... oh yes, there's somebody in trouble in the sandpit. Those shouts. Got to let somebody know. He started to struggle up, 'Get slingin' them bales off. Come on, we ain't nowhere near finished yet. There's nowt bloody wrong with you now.'

Sam Jervis had been indoctrinated by his father for far too long to give an outright refusal. He was on his feet, letting go of his support, the barn in front rocking steadily from side to side and then upturning completely.

'Dad ... in the sandpit . . .' a hoarse whisper that took everything he could put into it. 'I'm bleedin' waitin', boy.'

Sam Jervis took a step forward and then everything went black. He fell, rolled off the top of those bales and hit the yard with a sickening thud.

And in the open doorway of the house Dora Jervis began to scream.

THE SNAKE was back on the bonnet of the van. Keith Doyle had not been aware of its return, only saw that it was there again, coiled up and watching them intently.

He twisted round to look at his watch, noted that it was almost nine o'clock. Christ, what a bloody day. That snake had been the lucky one, it had been able to take advantage of the shade beneath the vehicle during the hottest hours, whilst he and Kirsten had roasted and suffocated inside.

Kirsten was still in an uneasy sleep, moving her head restlessly from side to side; her cracked lips had a bluish tint and were slightly swollen. Her dress, saturated with sweat, clung wetly to her shapely figure. Any other time or place it would have been a turn-on for him. Right now, though, he just felt weak and ill. But most of all he was worried about her.

No way could either of them last another day. That spell of shouting for help had robbed them of their last reserves of strength, swollen their tongues and brought their thirst to a peak. They had spent hours listening, occasionally caught the faint hum of a passing car back on the road. Kirsten had commented how far away the traffic seemed and eventually it had dawned on her that if they could only just hear vehicles then anybody on the highway stood little chance of hearing them shout. There had been a look of despair in her eyes at this realisation and Keith had attempted to reassure her. He did not think that he had succeeded. Then they had heard a tractor, close but still muffled.

It was no good shouting whilst the farmer—presuming it was a farmer—had his engine running, and so they waited. Eventually there was silence and they had yelled until they were hoarse, until they had spent themselves mentally and vocally. Some time later, it seemed hours, they heard the tractor start up again and drive away. It did not come back.

That was when Kirsten broke down and sobbed again, cried herself to sleep in Keith's arms.

The day wore on and towards evening the atmosphere cooled somewhat. Keith experienced nausea and thirst, a terrible combination that resulted in a desire to vomit, only he did not have anything left to throw up. Neither of them had used the bucket since midday and he knew they were beginning to dehydrate.

He had been tempted to open the door a few inches and take another look beneath the van; perhaps the snake had tired of waiting, had slunk off somewhere. Surely it, too, had to sleep sometime. But even if it was not in sight he would not know exactly where it was; it was cunning enough to try to trick them, lull them into thinking that it had gone away and then, when they emerged, ambush them from the thick cover which grew luxuriantly all along the track leading to safety. There wasn't much point in seeing if it was still beneath the vehicle. It could be anywhere within a few yards of them.

He knew they could not last another day in here. Certainly Kirsten could not. Whatever the outcome he would have to try and go for help. He calculated mentally his weaponry in the back; a spade, a fork, a hoe, a sickle. Possibly the latter was the most suitable. He had honed the blade to a razor sharpness only two or three days ago. It was capable of cutting that monster out there in two, provided it did not get him first.

If nobody had found them by morning he would make the attempt. Just thinking about it sent little shivers up and down his spine, his imagination giving him a frightening preview of what might happen.

No sign of the bastard, getting out slowly, carefully, trying to stop that door from creaking. A quick look round. Now! Running the gauntlet of undergrowth that tore at his legs, tried to bring him down, low branches whipping his face. Always the fear that the next tuft of long grass might suddenly unfurl a coloured serpent, a devil that moved too fast for the eye to follow. Not this one, then maybe the next, nearly crazy with fear. Exhausted, his reflexes slowed down, worried about what would happen to Kirsten if he did not make it.

He wondered again what species it was and how deadly was its bite. Even if it inflicted its venom into his body surely death would not be instantaneous, he would be able to make it to the village and raise the alarm before . . .

There was no way of knowing what might happen until he actually made the attempt. He closed his eyes and felt his body starting to relax. Sleep if you can, you're going to need all the energy you can muster.