Hell Snake

by Bernard Schaffer

  “We ate no such things, tu culo!” Mirta said.

  Connor untied the sticks that formed the swing for the cooking pot. “That right? Way you carry on, I figured you burrowed into the dirt so you didn’t freeze to death in the winter.”

  “That’s enough,” Odell said.

  Mirta glared at Connor. “We did not have a ranch or servants, but my parents were decent people who would never let their children suffer,” she said.

  “And yet you think mine were somehow less decent for wanting the same thing?”

  “I didn’t say they were not decent. I said you were spoiled.”

  Connor carried the rest of the items over to the wagon and loaded them inside. “Don’t be mad at me because you’re jealous of how I grew up.”

  “I am not jealous of you,” she said. She went around to the driver’s side of the wagon and waited for Connor to climb into the passenger seat.

  He grabbed the blanket from the back and wrapped it around himself. He started shivering again.

  “Are you sick?” she asked.

  “No. Just drive the wagon.”

  “Your grandfather thinks you look sick.”

  “And I think you look like the meanest woman I ever met, but you don’t hear me bringing that up.”

  From behind them, Hank Odell called out, “Just keep heading north and we’ll see signs for Boldfield soon enough. Let’s hurry up and get there. Their tavern serves a half-decent breakfast from what I remember and I think we could all use a little coffee.”

  Mirta snapped the reins to get the wagon moving and Connor settled into the blanket and got control of himself once more. Soon he was sweating and he took the blanket up and wrapped it in a ball and set it between his feet. As they rode, he turned his head toward Mirta and asked, “What’s a calo?”

  “Excuse me?” she said.

  “You called me one. You said tu calo. Tu is you, I think, so what’s a calo?”

  “Culo,” she corrected him. “It’s nothing.”

  “It’s not nothing or else you wouldn’t have said it,” Connor said. “I bet it’s something good. That’s why you won’t tell me.”

  Mirta rolled her eyes.

  “It means handsome man,” he said.

  “It does not mean handsome man.”

  “What’s it mean, then?”

  “It means you are an idiot,” Mirta said.

  “No, I don’t think so. Tu culo,” he repeated, and did his best to imitate her. “Listen to how good it sounds when I say it. It has to mean handsome or smart. I bet I’m the most culo man you ever met.”

  She laughed despite herself. “Cállate, idiota.”

  * * *

  * * *

  The sign for Boldfield came into view and Mirta pointed. “We’re here.”

  “That’s good,” Odell said. “We made decent time. How’s Connor?”

  Connor Sinclair had the blanket wrapped around himself again. He was no longer shivering but his hair was damp with sweat. Mirta turned her head toward Odell and said, “I think we should find him a doctor if we can.”

  “All they’ll do is give him some sassafras tea and tell him to get some sleep,” Odell said. “Bet we can find that at the general store. Or maybe they’ve got something else that’s better. Mr. Hanover, the fella that ran it, seemed like the decent sort. I’d trust him before I’d trust some old sawbones, anyway.” He held up the stump of his right hand and said, “I’m not partial to people who are eager to chop off your parts, as you can imagine.”

  They noticed the stink of rotting vegetation as they traveled closer to the town. The fields of corn that had surrounded Boldfield when Odell was there last had been left to rot. The weather had turned and no one had bothered to pick the last harvest. The ears of corn drooped from their stalks and were riddled with worms. Their kernels had turned black and swollen like a man’s body that had been left in the heat for too many hours after he died.

  A man walked his mule along the road as they rode past. The mule’s ribs showed through its sides and its stomach was distended. Flies circled around its head and landed on its eyes, but it did not try to shake them off. The man leading the mule had cut all the hair off his head with a dull blade because parts of it were sticking out like sprouts and others were shaved so close that his scalp had been nicked.

  “Morning, friend,” Odell called out.

  The man kept walking. They rode past a home that had burned to the ground and no one had bothered to clean any of it out. Among the heap of charred lumber were scorched lengths of fabric that might have been curtains or bed coverings or a family’s whole supply of clothes. In what had once been the kitchen stood the remains of an iron stove. The stove’s vent was warped and filled with straw for the nest of rats that had taken up residence inside it.

  Mirta turned her head toward Odell. “This is the same town where you and my father met Mr. Ash?”

  “It is,” Odell said. “But it wasn’t like this. It looks like some kind of plague hit.”

  “Is it safe to be here?”

  “I don’t see any warning signs telling us to keep out because there’s cholera or whatnot.” Odell looked around worriedly. “You see any smoke?”

  “No,” she said.

  “Me either. That’s good, I guess. If they were burning bodies we’d turn around right now.” He reached up and scratched his beard. “I don’t rightly know what this is. Hopefully Mr. Hanover can give us some information.”

  They followed the road until they reached the Boldfield general store and Mirta stopped the wagon. The doors were wide open and the front windows smashed. Shards of glass littered the ground in front of them.

  “What in the hell happened here?” Odell said. He got down off his horse and went up the steps to look inside the store.

  Every shelf was bare except for cobwebs. The cash register had been torn off the bolts securing it to the counter and tossed onto the middle of the floor, its tray hanging out like the tongue of a dead animal.

  “Mr. Hanover?” Odell called out. “Anyone in here?”

  When there was no answer, he walked back onto the porch and looked around the rest of the town’s main square. All of the other businesses were closed as well, except for the saloon. People milled about the streets, but he saw no horses. All of the men wore the same cropped, misshapen haircuts and all of the women he saw had covered their heads so that none of their hair showed through. All of the women were escorted by men, some of them old enough to be their fathers, or grandfathers even, but Odell was not so sure they were.

  A woman walking past the wagon glared at Mirta’s long, flowing black hair.

  “Do you not enjoy your eyes?” Mirta asked. “I can remove them for you.”

  The man escorting the woman pulled her along and Odell came down the steps. He tied his horse to the hitching post and said, “Leave the wagon here. We’ll go and get some food at the saloon and see if they will tell us what’s happened here.”

  Mirta shoved Connor Sinclair. “Get up.”

  He sat up straight and blinked his eyes. “What’s happening?” he asked.

  “We’re here.”

  He looked at the town around them in confusion. “This is Boldfield?”

  “So it would seem,” Mirta said.

  “Come on, Connor. We’ll get you something to eat and drink.”

  Connor got down from the wagon with the blanket still wrapped around his shoulders. He shuffled behind Odell, his shoulders hunched. “I’m not hungry, Grandpa Hank.”

  “You have to eat,” Odell said. “If you’ve got a fever, it’s the best thing for it.”

  “I don’t have a fever,” Connor said.

  “No? Then what’s wrong with you?”

  “Maybe there was something wrong with that stew last night.”

  “I ate
that stew and so did Mirta,” Odell said. “We’re both fine.”

  “I think he’s just homesick and misses his mama,” Mirta said.

  “That’s not a real thing,” Connor said.

  “Best cure for anything is hot coffee and a plate of greasy eggs, bacon, and biscuits,” Odell said. “That’ll absorb whatever you got in you.”

  Connor looked gray at the mention of food.

  “And if all else fails, we’ll get you a room upstairs where you can sleep. They’ve got nice soft beds here,” Odell said.

  The first thing they noticed in the saloon was the silence. The piano had been moved out of the room and the place where it once stood was filled up with stacks of unused chairs. The staircase leading upstairs to the rooms had been tied off with a rope. There were only a few tables left on the floor and no one was seated at them. There were men at the bar but they all drank from wooden cups instead of glass mugs and they sat hunched forward with both hands around the cups like someone might try to take them away.

  The barkeep was a different man than Odell had dealt with before. This new one was tall and thin and his hair was gray and cut in the same fashion as all the others. Odell told Mirta and Connor to sit down at one of the tables, saying, “I’ll go arrange us some food.”

  Odell reached into his pocket for a coin. Leaning between two men who were seated on stools, he put the coin on the bar and said, “How about three piping-hot coffees, friend?”

  The barkeep slapped the palm of his hand down on the coin so hard the mugs sitting on the bar rattled. He slid the coin back toward Odell and said nothing.

  Behind the barkeep was a wooden plaque painted with a crude-looking design. Odell tilted his head to try to see it better. “What is that?” he asked. “It’s new.”

  The barkeep walked away.

  Odell kept staring at the painted image until he was able to make out what it was. A spear, being thrust down through the center of a snake’s coiled body. The snake’s mouth was open to reveal its fangs, and above the hilt of the spear was what looked like a crown made of flame.

  The men at the bar saw Odell inspecting the sign and had turned in their seats toward him. He could feel them staring. He dropped his coin back in his pocket and turned around to go back to the table.

  “We’re leaving,” he told Connor and Mirta.

  “What about the room?” Mirta asked. She tilted her head toward Connor. “He can hardly keep his eyes open.”

  “I’m fine,” Connor muttered.

  Odell pulled his grandson up by his arm and said, “Get up. It’s time to go.”

  When they were outside, Odell hurried Connor toward the wagon with Mirta’s assistance. “Put him in the back,” he said.

  The people outside the saloon were staring at them now as well. Mirta and Odell helped Connor climb into the rear of the wagon and moved the rifle and bow and quiver out of his way so he could lie down. He pulled his knees to his chest and shivered. Odell went around the side of the wagon and grabbed Connor’s blanket, then threw it over him. “You get in and get going,” Odell said to Mirta.

  Some of the townsfolk were waving for others to come down the road toward the town. Others began moving toward the wagon itself. “What do these people want?” Mirta asked as she climbed into the driver’s seat.

  Odell pulled himself up onto his horse with his one hand. “For us to be gone from this place, and I think it’s best we oblige them.”

  They went down the road and gathered speed until the town was behind them, and neither of them looked back.

  * * *

  * * *

  They’d ridden deep into the desert by the time the sun descended toward the western horizon. The wind grew colder and blew dust into Mirta’s eyes as she drove. The cactuses cast long spiked shadows across the sand and she could no longer see where to steer the mule. She brought it to a stop, lowered her head into her arms to shield her eyes from the blowing sand, and tried to blink them clear.

  Hank Odell rode up beside the wagon. “What are we stopping for?” he asked.

  “We have to make camp,” Mirta said from beneath her arms. There was a speck of dust that felt like a large rock inside her right eye. She blinked and blinked and tried to get it out but it would not budge. She rubbed her closed eye against her arm so briskly that when she blinked again, it felt like the insides of her eyelids were covered in cactus needles.

  “Not out here,” Odell said. “We have to go on.”

  “I need to rest,” Mirta said as she rubbed her eyes. “So do the animals. We can’t see. Connor needs to warm himself by the fire. There are a thousand reasons to stop and not one single good one to keep going.”

  “There’s one,” Odell said.

  “Really? What is it?”

  “Snakes,” Odell said. “There’s snakes out here and they hunger for man flesh.”

  “Lucky for me, I’m not a man,” Mirta said as she got down from the wagon.

  They made camp and built a fire using scrub brush and rotted branches from dead Joshua trees. “I came through here with your pa not too long ago,” Odell told Mirta. “It was right after me and him convinced Ash to come with us. On the very first night, a snake crept up on me while I was sleeping. It would have got me for sure if not for Lorenzo. He was good with a knife, boy, I’ll tell you that. Saved my hide but good.”

  “I do not think there will be any snakes,” Mirta said. “It’s too cold.”

  “Yeah, well, I didn’t think there’d be any either,” Odell said. “Keep this fire going and I’ll go see what food I can rustle up.”

  He went to the wagon and was rummaging for food when Connor slowly sat up and peered across the flat, dark desert. “Where are we?” he asked.

  “We’re making camp,” Odell said. “Come sit near the fire and warm yourself up.”

  Connor did as he was told and brought his blanket with him. He sat in front of the flames and leaned close enough to feel them sting the skin on his face. Mirta pulled him back. “One spark lands on that blanket and having a fever will be the least of your worries.”

  “I don’t have a fever,” Connor said.

  “No? What is it, then?”

  “Nothing at all. I was just tired.”

  “I see. And now that you’ve slept all day, you feel better?”

  “Yes, indeed,” Connor said.

  “Good. Then you can take the first watch,” Mirta said.

  As soon as she got up to collect her bedroll from the back of the wagon, Connor gave himself over to shivering again and had to hang himself over the flames to warm himself enough for the shivering to dissipate.

  After they ate, Hank Odell collected their bowls and utensils and carried them back to the wagon. He returned with his bedroll and Connor’s. Odell dropped Connor’s on the ground next to him and spread his own out on the other side of the fire. He sat down, cross-legged, and picked up a stick to tend the fire with. “You two get some rest,” Odell said. “Mirta, I’ll hang in there as long as I can before I wake you to take second watch.”

  She smirked at Connor. “Fine. Let the little boy sleep,” she said, lying down on her bedroll next to her bow and quiver of arrows. She draped her arm around them, and pulling them close against her chest, she closed her eyes.

  “Actually, I’m taking first watch, Grandpa Hank,” Connor said. “You’ve been riding all day and look exhausted.”

  “Nonsense,” Odell said. He took a deep breath and puffed out his chest. “All this fine desert air is good for an old body such as mine. Lay down and get you some shut-eye.”

  “I insist,” Connor said. “I’ve done nothing but sleep while you both got us here. I’m feeling better now.”

  Odell squinted at him and tried to see past the flickering flames. “You are?”

  “Honest,” Connor said.

  Odell
scratched his beard. “Well, maybe just for a little while. But don’t let me sleep too long. I don’t need much.”

  “All right,” Connor said.

  “And make sure you watch out for snakes,” Odell said. He looked into the darkness all around them. “Damn things are everywhere out here and they’ll sneak up on you, sure as can be.”

  “I’ll be sure to look for them,” Connor said.

  “¡Callate!” Mirta called out from her bedroll. “If either of you doesn’t shut up, snakes will be the least of your worries.”

  “Good night, Connor,” Odell said.

  “Good night, Grandpa Hank.”

  “Last warning,” Mirta said.

  Odell lay down on his bedroll and closed his eyes. Within seconds, he pursed his lips together and they began to flutter each time he breathed.

  Connor fidgeted, trying to stay awake. When he held his hands out in front of the flames to warm them, he realized he no longer felt cold. He shrugged the blanket from his shoulders and watched the smoke rise from the height of the fire up toward the night sky, which swirled with strange colors. Long trails of dark green and shimmering purple billowed past the stars.

  “Mirta!” he called out. “Look at this!” When he lowered his head to call his grandfather, he choked on his words in terror at what sat in front of the fire, staring at him.

  The snake’s speckled skin shined so brightly that it reflected the green and purple lights above. Its body was coiled and poised to strike and its wide, triangular head was fixed on him, its reptilian eyes gleaming red with unholy light.

  Connor tried to move but found himself fixed to the ground, unable to raise his arms to guard his face, kick the snake into the fire, or even open his mouth enough to call for help.

  The snake stared, its body unmoving, and flicked its black forked tongue at him. Its red eyes looked into Connor’s and his own eyes began to burn.

  The snake began to weave its head hypnotically side to side and opened its jaws wide to reveal a series of long, curved fangs. Venom dripped from the tips of each fang and hissed against the dirt below in white puffs of smoke.