John Godey - The Snake

"Close on in," Buck Pell shouted, "but slow, careful."

With their weapons extended, the Puries shuffled forward, contracting their circle. The snake turned its head to follow their movements, hissing, it’s anterior rigid and swaying, mouth wide open. Suddenly, as the ring pressed in, it began to crawl forward. The crowd gasped and re coiled. A Purie leaped forward, and, half running to keep pace with the snake's movement, smashed the flat side of his shovel down on its curving posterior quarter.

"Death to the Devil," he screamed.

Ile snake rolled over completely, writhing, coiling over on itself. A ragged cry rose from the crowd, half horror, half exultation. Writhing, knotted, the snake moved forward again, its shattered rear dragging behind.

Buck Pell signalled, and the Puries of squad S closed in, flailing downward with their weapons. The snake's head rose, and it launched a strike at a Purie that fell short. A swinging blow from a rake knocked the snake flat.

Its body squirming, knotting, it tried to right itself. The head came up, but a second blow struck it to the ground, bleeding. It flopped over on its back, and its light underside was turned up before it succeeded in righting itself. As it started to crawl forward, Buck Pell went to meet it, an axe raised high over his head. He braced himself, and brought the bright axhead down in a gleaming arc. Sparks flew from the pavement, and a chip, white at its edges, flew off into the crowd. The snake's head was severed just behind the neck. Near it, the long body, oozing blood, pulsed and shuddered and writhed.

Converse was still struggling against the density of the crowd when he saw the axhead flash upward and then down. He heard the thud and ring of the axe, and, from the crowd, a concerted gasp like a sudden gust of wind. At the same time, whether in awe or revulsion or both, the crowd eddied back, flowed around him, and he stood at the forefront. The black mamba's head and writhing body lay on the blood smeared pavement, no more than six inches apart, but grotesquely out of line with each other.

The man who had wielded the axe, grinning triumphantly, bent over suddenly and reached downward.

Converse screamed, "No! Don't touch it! No!" But he was too late. The man had already picked up the severed head.

The snake's gaping mouth snapped shut over Buck Pell's hand; each of its fangs injected a minim of venom.

Buck Pell drew back his hand reflexively. The snake's recurved teeth held their grip. Buck Pell whipped his hand downward sharply, and the head fell free. It struck the pavement, bounced slightly with the force of its descent, and rolled a few inches before it subsided, mouth open, eyes staring.

A Purie stepped forward, lifted his leg, with the knee flexed, and brought his foot down squarely on the snake's head. The crowd screamed, surged forward, and, in a frenzy of competition, fought to reach the bloody pulp of the snake's head with their stamping feet. The Puries of squad S began to beat the snake's twisting body with their weapons.

Eastman watched a squad of blue-helmeted TPU cops form a wedge and start to bull their way through the crowd. If they were going to try to collar the Puries, they were in for serious trouble. Maybe the crowd would allow them to take some names, but that was the limit. Never mind that the Puries had burned up Central Park-they had killed the killer, hadn't they? They were the heroes of the hour, weren't they? He shrugged. Maybe the cops would have sense enough to act prudently.

The crowd murmured ominously and offered resistance to the passage of the TPU wedge. Walk away from it, Eastman told himself, you're just an Emergency Service cop on special assignment whose job is now finished, even if somebody else did it for you. Fade out of the picture, you're too old to brawl with an aroused citizenry.

He saw someone burst out of the crowd like a cork popped from a bottle, elbows flailing, face dark and scowling. It was Converse, still carrying his snake catching stick. For a moment they came face to face.

Eastman started to speak, but Converse muttered, "So long" and moved on.

Sore loser, Eastman thought. He listened to the voice of the crowd. It was swelling to a roar, peppered with obscenities. He saw fists being formed.

He sighed, and began to push his way through the crowd, toward the stalled TPU wedge. "Police. Make way. Police officer."

A hand reached out from somewhere and ripped his Hawaiian shirt down the front.

Marvin Thurman, a television reporter assigned to shooting "man in the street" reactions, spotted the Police Commissioner's limousine two blocks south of where the snake had been killed. The P.C. and the mayor were in the car, which was barely able to move because of the hordes of people who had poured out into the street.

Pushing his microphone through the window of the limousine, Thurman said, "Mr. Mayor, have you been informed that the snake has been killed?"

The mayor's pale, unshaven face lit up. "Wonderful. I didn't doubt for an instant that New York's finest would once again display their ability to cope with a difficult and unique problem." He turned to the P.C. "Congratulations, Comraissioner, to the dedicated and tireless men of the NYPD."

Thurman, who was far too clever for his own good, refrained from telling the mayor who bad killed the snake. Instead, he said, "What about the Puries? What will be done with them?"

"They will be prosecuted for arson, and all the other crimes they have committed, to the fullest extent of the law." The mayor pounded on the side of the limousine for emphasis, and the commissioner, who was devoted to his car, winced. "There is no room for lawlessness and vigilantism in this great city, and it will be punished accordingly."

"I see," Thurman said. "Does that include the Puries who killed the snake?"

The falling open of the mayor's mouth was recorded for posterity in fall color. So were the rapid changes his complexion underwent from ashen to bright pink to nearly black. But the epithet he flung at Thurman-"cocksucker"-went unrecorded because the Police Commissioner, with lightning-fast anticipation, had covered the microphone with his hand.

A police detachment, led by a Deputy Inspector, in deference to the subject's importance, arrived at Purity House, and was admitted without incident. The Reverend Sanctus Milanese, who was fully dressed and obviously expecting the visit, offered no objections to accompanying the police to headquarters. He was fully cooperative and jovial in manner.

As he was being helped into his red-lined cape he said smilingly to the Deputy Inspector, "I can come to no harm since I am under the divine protection of a holy trinity-God, my attorney…" He nodded to the distinguished white-haired man by his side.". and the grateful people of New York who, when all others had failed, I delivered from the cruel and merciless limb of Satan."

But once outside the mansion, perhaps at the sight of the television cameras, the Reverend's demeanour changed. Spreading his cape, he dropped to his knees, made a steeple of his hands beneath his chin, and turned his face upward to the skies.

"Dear God," he said in a hushed tone, "I give Thee thanks. Again hast Thou prevailed over Evil, wielding, as the sword in Thy strong right arm, Thy faithful and humble followers, the members of the Church of the Purification. For Thy great trust, o Lord, we do bless Thee and rejoice.

Amen."

It might have been high noon, Converse thought, as he walked aimlessly southward on Central Park West. At 2 o'clock in the morning, streets were alive with people, some streaming toward the center of the action, others returning from it, all of them feeling, perhaps justifiably, that they were actors with a role to play in the drama. He was astonished to see how many children were out, some as young as six or seven, apparently unattended by parents.