Guy Smith - Snakes

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.

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-bunker.

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.'