Randy White - Dead of Night

Someone had let the animals out. He was aware.

The woman kept her voice low. “Take the tape off my ankles and we’ll overpower him. Together.”

I’d put the carton of eggs on the floor, was leaning over her. I began to rip away duct tape. Her lean calves were fuzzed with hair; thighs muscled. She didn’t flinch.

When the tape was gone, the woman flexed her legs, stretched. “Help me up.”

I shook my head. “Roll on your side and step through those handcuffs.”

“What?” As if she had no idea what I meant.

“Drop the act, lady. I don’t think you want to go out there with your hands behind your back.” I was pushing her legs into a fetal position, trying to position the cuffs. “You never jumped rope? Same concept, only the rope’s shorter.”

She contracted into a ball and extended her arms. I helped her work one foot through, then the other. Lifted her by the elbow and she came to her feet, hands cuffed in front now. Tall woman, dark tan, body of an athlete.

“My name’s Dasha. Not ‘lady.’”

I said, “Then you’ll understand why I don’t shake hands,” as I took her by the shoulders and spun her body away.

“Idiot. What are you doing? Aleski will kill-”

I clamped my hand over her mouth, pulled her close. Held her in a bear hug until she stopped struggling. Took my hand away, and said into her ear. “I think you and your partner are setting me up. I’ll find out soon enough.”

She turned, pale eyes searching for something. “No. I swear it. You can trust me.”

I’d saved a section of tape. Turned her again, saying, “No, I can’t,” as I pressed the tape over her mouth and did a quick wrap. Put my lips close to her ear again. “If you don’t do what I tell you, we’re all going to die.”

Outside, there was the scuff of footsteps on gravel.

I picked up the carton of reptile eggs and steered the woman toward the quarry door. Took a deep breath, then stepped out, pulling her along behind.

The giant mamba had found the chimp. Even though it was too big for a meal, the snake was preoccupied with inspection. Its tongue stabbed the air, its head flattening cobralike, as it raised six feet of its body off the ground.

The tape didn’t stop the woman from talking, only muffled her voice. She said something that sounded like, “Jesus Christ, are you crazy? Don’t make me do this.”

She wasn’t acting now. She was hyperventilating, her eyes locked on the mamba only a few dozen yards away. I’d backed her against the bank of snake cages, which was to the left as you exited the door. She was the first thing Ox-man would see if he peeked out.

I was tempted to say that I’d be crazier to let her, and her partner, go to work on me. Instead, I whispered, “Stick with the plan and you’ll be fine.” Then I hurried to the other side of the doorway. Flattened my back against the coral wall.

The instructions I’d given her weren’t complicated, but I didn’t expect her to follow them. If she did, we both had a good chance of surviving this hell hole. If she didn’t, I had a plan for that, too.

I could hear Ox-man inside the room. He was kicking rat cages, making sure we weren’t hidden among them. Yelling words in Russian that had the rhythm of profanity.

Then silence.

I’d stationed the woman at an angle a few yards from the door so that I had an unobstructed view of her. Hands cuffed, mouth taped, ankles crossed as if bound, she looked convincing-a comrade in distress. Her terrified fixation on the snake added to the effect.

I pressed harder against the wall when I saw the door handle move. I watched the door open an inch… another inch. Could see the wire stock of the man’s weapon through the hinges. He saw the woman. I heard him speak-an exclamation of surprise, but also anger. I got the impression that he had a reason to be surprised-something in her expression, not only his tone.

For an instant, Dasha looked at me, then looked away.

I had the carton of reptile eggs palmed in my right hand. Had my left hand up and ready as the door opened wider. I expected the woman to pull the tape away and yell a warning to her partner. Nod in my direction, or at least use her eyes to tell the man that he was walking into a trap.

Instead, the woman surprised me. Again.

“PANILA?”

Ox-man’s voice grew louder. He was shouting questions. Hopefully, an obvious question: Where’s the American? In response, I watched the woman motion to the incubator, and gesture vigorously with her head: He’s behind that box, hiding.

Exactly what I’d told her to do.

The door pressed against me as Ox-man took a careful step into the quarry. The barrel of his weapon preceded him. I waited a beat, then grabbed the barrel with my left hand; jerked it skyward, expecting him to fire.

BOOM.

A shotgun’s discharge.

In the same motion, I mustered all the torque my legs could produce as I lunged around the door and knocked his head backward with the heel of my open palm. A potentially lethal blow not softened by the plastic carton I held.

“Govnosos! ”

He roared the word. Nearly went down but caught himself. Then he used his left hand to paw at the mess of yolk and shell that was blinding him, used the other to wrestle for control of the gun.

I had a good grip on his right wrist, my thumb buried deep in the soft flesh beneath tendon. To move him away from the open door, I kneed him hard in the thigh. Moved him a few more steps from safety, then clamped my arm over his right elbow. I adjusted to get effective leverage, then let my legs collapse beneath me.

When a hinge joint breaks, it makes a sickening sound. That sound was simultaneous with Ox-man’s bawling scream of pain.

The shotgun was on the ground and I gave it a kick-accidentally lofted it in the woman’s direction. A mistake.

Ox-man wasn’t done. I was. I wanted to send him crashing into the incubator. All those eggs in a pit inhabited by nesting reptiles. The scent of the invader was already dripping down his face. A horrible end for a man who’d done something horrible to a friend.

But even with a broken arm, he was too big and strong to pursue a determined finesse.

I got behind him and levered his left wrist up between his shoulder blades. Pivoted him to face the incubator. Tried to drive him toward it but couldn’t get any momentum. He outweighed me by seventy, maybe a hundred, pounds. His heels dug just as hard in opposition.

As we wrestled, I glanced over my shoulder. The giant mamba was giving us her full attention. She was flushed with color, head flattened for attack, the zombie-stitched mouth wide as she shook her head. A striking display. It reminded me of the rattle on a rattlesnake’s tail.

She’d already covered half the distance between the dead chimp and us.

I gave Ox-man a last shove. When I felt his legs drive backward in response, I swung him in the opposite direction, and used his momentum to give him a final thrust. An old game: crack-the-whip. I watched him go running, stumbling toward what he thought was freedom.

I continued to watch as I retreated to the door.

Saw Ox-man slow, then stop, when he noticed the snake. They were separated by a few yards, the mamba at eye level. Two creatures with heads of similar size, each studying the other in this unexpected encounter.

Ox-man turned to look at Dasha without moving his body. His face was white, paled by a mix of the inevitable and terror. He tried to cry out but could only whisper, a pleading phrase in Russian. He backed a few steps, then he began to run. Legs churning, left arm pumping. Big man, adrenaline-charged.

The snake lunged after him. Ox-man looked over his shoulder and howled something. I’ve read that, according to black boxes recovered after plane crashes, the most common last words of doomed pilots are: “Momma! Momma!” His words had that childlike quality.