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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.
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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
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