Guy Smith - Snakes

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 motorcyclist 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.