Guy Smith - Snakes

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.

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 ordeal 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.'