Snake Handlin' Man

by D. J. Butler

  Almost.

  “Apep is one of the Egyptians,” Twitch said lightly. “He’s a snake, as it happens.”

  “Or maybe not just as it happens,” Eddie countered. “Snakes seem to be the order of the day.”

  “Mierda.”

  “Right.” Twitch considered. “Well, that’s not good. He’s not thought of as one of the good ones, not even by the Egyptians, and you know how crazy they can be. Bird-headed men and dogs with aardvark snouts and all that crazy mixing up of forms.” He grinned mischievously. “Hilarious.”

  “What does he do?” Eddie asked.

  “Ah …” Twitch thought. “I don’t know. Eats people. He’s a giant snake, what do giant snakes do? Shed giant skin? Dance for giant flute players? Live under giant sheds?”

  “So we got an Egyptian snake god on a pamphlet printed by a guy who preaches under the sign of the snake, which we found in the car of a woman who gave birth to a bunch of snakes that ate her alive.” Eddie grabbed the Remington 870, checked its magazine and shoved a handful of shells into his pocket. “That about sum it up?”

  “And Adrian was bitten by a snake,” Twitch reminded him.

  Jim pointed again. At the top of a very slight rise sagged a dilapidated yellow and blue double-wide trailer. Above it, a tilted rusty weathervane rooster dawdled lazily back and forth, and to one side, half-collapsed and leaning right up against the wall of the trailer, slouched a big dirty canvas tent. At the start of the dirt track that turned off and led to the trailer, a sheet of plywood hung nailed to a lashed tripod of two-by-fours. On the plywood was painted a ragged cross, and a long snake coiled around it, meeting the viewer’s gaze with beady eyes and flickering tongue.

  “Friendly,” Mike joked.

  “Cheerful!” Twitch added.

  “Better than Sears,” Eddie shot back. “Best park the van here. We don’t want to go in guns blazing, in case we need this guy’s help.”

  Mike stopped the van and they piled out. Jim took his sword this time, buckling its belt around his waist right over his jeans. Twitch looked unarmed, but he was always able to produce those wooden batons he used both to play the drums and to pound the minions of Hell over the head. Mike had the .45 semi-auto he’d picked up in New Mexico tucked into his belt; as an afterthought, he grabbed a knife out of the driver’s side door pocket and stuck it in his pants.

  It was Eddie’s van, more or less, and he tried to keep it full of weapons. It was easy enough, when you didn’t really have to worry about questions from the cops.

  Eddie carried the Glock in its shoulder holster and the Remington hanging off a sling. His old green jacket’s pockets were stuffed full of things that could be useful, too, though most of them weren’t weapons per se—pocket knives, a compass, string, a deck of playing cards, matches, duct tape, that sort of thing. The duct tape especially came in handy when you played in the kind of band where your gear was always falling apart. He had a couple of odd knick-knacks that really just had emotional value, too, he could admit to himself, like a plastic cup full of jacks and a red bouncing ball. In a pinch, he could kill a person with any one of those things, if nothing else, by stuffing them down the poor bastard’s throat.

  Even the jacks.

  Giant snake gods, he was less sure about.

  The afternoon sun hammered down hot, despite a stiff desert breeze that came and went, thick with the scent of sagebrush. “I got point,” he told the others, “and Mike’s got the rear. Keep an eye on the van. Twitch, get overhead and give it a look.” He turned and headed out.

  He heard Twitch’s sharp cry as the fairy sprang into the air, and the silver falcon’s horse’s tail brushed Eddie’s head as he took flight, racing up the gentle slope and towards the trailer. Twitch was pretty—though kind of weird—as a bird, but Eddie had seen it before, and kept his attention focused. For all that he didn’t want to kick in the door, he didn’t want to get caught with his pants around his ankles either, so he walked with the Remington in his hand, pointed down at the ground but ready to pull up and shoot if he needed it.

  Eddie was calm, and normally he trusted his own judgment and coolness. He still felt a bit shaken by his vision of the backcountry Sears, though. He worried he might see frozen heads sticking out the ground and feel like he had to shoot them.

  Instead, he heard a hiss and a rattle off to his right. He turned, brought up the stubby nose of the shotgun and almost fired, anyway.

  But Jim got there first. With a loud snick! his sword jumped from its scabbard and the head of the rattlesnake snapped off and went flying into the brush. The snake’s body, scaly yellow-brown and surprisingly long, danced spastically before collapsing into the dust.

  And then suddenly there were two more snakes lifting their heads from the dust to threaten Jim. The big singer kicked one incoming with his boot, sending it sailing into the back of the church’s plywood sign with a loud, meaty thud. The second lost its head like its companion.

  “Huevos!”

  And then there were a dozen.

  “Twitch!” Eddie yelled.

  So much for the quiet approach. Eddie pumped the shotgun and waded into the hissing curtain of rattlesnakes.

  Boom! went Eddie’s shotgun. Snick! followed Jim’s sword. And then Mike finally got his gun out of his pants and joined in, bang! bang! bang!

  “I don’t like this!” Eddie shouted, stepping over spattered snake meat to take aim at another serpent, blasting it to oblivion.

  Jim nodded and pointed up at the trailer by way of answer. He skewered two rattlesnakes with a single deft stab of his blade and then scraped them off with the instep of his heavy boot.

  Mike saw Jim’s gesture and led the way, jogging up the track towards the trailer. He got ahead of Eddie, who took a couple of seconds to turn around and follow, but Eddie could tell by Mike’s continued shots, and the plumes of dirt that exploded into the air around the bass player, that he was still threatened by attacking snakes.

  Jim brought up the rear. Eddie didn’t worry much about him, and worried even less when Twitch swooped down suddenly from the blue sky to snatch up a pair of snakes, one in each claw.

  Mike, though, looked like he was in trouble. Snakes closed in on him from behind, and on both right and left, as he staggered over a cattle guard and between two driftwood fence posts. He fired again and then dug into his pocket for his second clip.

  The big guy stumbled—

  Eddie whipped up his shotgun and broke into a run as snakes swarmed out of the tall dry grass and sage, slithering towards the bass player on the ground—

  and then a wave of gray-brown fur washed over Mike. Something like a dog—several things that looked like dogs, or maybe foxes, it was hard to tell at this distance—scurried over Mike’s back and legs and threw themselves at the snakes.

  Something was helping Mike. That gave Eddie the breathing room he needed to blast a couple of rattlers out of his own way, and then he was on top of the bass player, grabbing Mike by his elbow and dragging him to his feet.

  “Cojón!” Mike shouted. Jim caught up with them and they raced for the double-wide. Bouncing blue and yellow in his jogging vision, the little building didn’t look cheerful at all—it looked ominous and false, like a clown’s greasepaint smile. The trailer sat on blocks, Eddie saw, and was hugged by a rough wraparound plank porch. Under the trailer was darkness, and he wondered if there were more snakes lurking. And if there weren’t, what was lurking inside? Was Phineas Irving, preacher, some kind of snake-summoning warlock, sending his minions at them by mind control?

  But zigzagging lines were chopped into the planks of the porch, and though Eddie saw snakes coiling and sliding on the ground right up to the edge of the wood, he noticed that none of them actually so much as touched the planks.

  “What are those things, badgers?” Mike shot at another snake. “Ferrets?”

  “You’d have been a great farmer, Mike,” Eddie laughed. Jim swiped with his sword and swept three snakes out of th
e way, clearing a path to the porch. Eddie and Mike charged through, with the singer on their heels, and then they spun to look at the field of snakes behind them.

  Twitch the falcon snatched another snake from the ground, tearing it in half with his talons and shattering its skull with his beak. The gray-brown things, whatever they were, played havoc with the snakes. They had long faces and bodies and tails but stubby little ears, and they were quick as bullets, slipping out under every rattler’s strike and then biting snakes through their windpipes, killing them instantly.

  “Weasels?” Eddie guessed. It had been a long time since he’d earned his Mammals merit badge. Whatever these things were, he hadn’t seen any in Chicago. Or Iraq. He kept the Remington trained on the snakes nearest him—just because they hadn’t come on the porch yet didn’t mean they couldn’t or wouldn’t do so now. But the rattlers hissed, shook their tails at him, showed him their long, curving fangs, and stayed back.

  Twitch alighted beside the three of them, melting into his human form. He chose his female shape, which Eddie assumed was for Mike’s benefit and the amusement it gave the fairy, because Mike saw Twitch and did a double-take. “Whatever it is,” Twitch hazarded, “it isn’t cats.”

  “Cats?” Mike asked.

  “Mongoose,” said a voice Eddie didn’t know, and he realized the colossal screw-up he’d just committed. “Hands up.”

  Eddie relaxed his grip on the shotgun, letting it dangle by its strap from his right shoulder. He raised his hands over his head, his companions doing the same, and they turned to look at the source of the voice.

  The man was tall and wiry, the kind of wiriness you got by living in the desert and not taking in enough water or calories. The skin of his face and his big knuckles was sunburned and rubbed raw by the wind, and a shock of bristly yellow hair made his head look like a scrub brush. A once-nice gray wool suit jacket hung off him like a trench coat off a scarecrow. He squinted down the barrel of an M1917 Enfield into Eddie’s chest. That would be a .30-06 cartridge, Eddie knew, and it would blow a hole in him the size of a pineapple.

  “You Phineas Irving, by any chance?” Eddie asked.

  ***

  Chapter Four

  “I’m the owner of this land,” the scarecrow spat out. “And you’re trespassers.” His elbow was a little jittery, but his aim didn’t waver.

  “Mierda.”

  “Easy,” Eddie said. “We didn’t come looking for a fight.” Jim looked poised to stab the guy; that he hadn’t done it yet probably meant he took seriously the threat that the homeowner would kill Eddie.

  “You have guns out,” the blond man pointed out. “You’re shooting.”

  “At snakes!” Eddie snapped, exasperated. “Didn’t you notice you’re surrounded?”

  The gunman dropped his elbows to his sides and seemed to relax, just a little. The gray-brown animals bounded up onto the porch and cuddled around his ankles. “Yeah,” he said, “but the fact that you’re carrying them at all makes me nervous. And your friend has a sword.”

  Jim’s nostrils flared menacingly.

  “He’s old-fashioned,” Eddie said. “And this is Oklahoma. Aren’t we required by law to carry guns?”

  The man grunted and considered. “I’m Irving,” he admitted. “What do you want?”

  “Can we talk?” Eddie suggested. Irving hadn’t shot him when he had the chance, which made him think the preacher might not be a bad guy. “We’re just looking for a little information.”

  “Put down the guns,” Irving countered. “And the sword. And if the fairy talks, I start shooting.”

  Eddie was a little unsettled that Phineas Irving had spotted Twitch for a fairy. It probably meant that he had seen Twitch transform himself from falcon form. And it definitely meant that he knew enough about the real nature of the world not to be freaked out at the thought of fairies. And he knew that if Twitch talked, he might pull out the Glamour.

  But he unslung the shotgun and laid it on the planks, and Mike and Jim followed his lead.

  Eddie didn’t mention the Glock.

  “You preach under the sign of the serpent,” Eddie observed. “But it’s the raised serpent, the one that heals snakebite.”

  “Oh?”

  “The Nehushtan.”

  “You know your Old Testament,” Irving conceded. He kept the rifle pointed at Eddie’s chest. “Or you read the signboard. Good for you. How did you find me and what’s the information you want?”

  “If I could just reach into my pocket?” Eddie waited for the preacher’s slight nod, and he pulled out the church brochure. He unfolded it and showed it to Irving.

  “You friends of Sami’s?” There was a note of concern in the man’s voice. “How is she?”

  “How did you know that was Sami’s?” Mike sounded impressed. “What, did you only print one of them?”

  “I only wrote on one of them.” Irving nodded at the squiggle and the name APEP.

  “You got the drop on us,” Eddie noted calmly, “and either way we need your help. Maybe you’d better tell us whose side you’re on.”

  Phineas Irving chuckled bitterly. “Choose you this day,” he quoted.

  “Joshua,” Eddie said. “Moses half,” he added, for Mike’s benefit.

  “As for me and my house,” Irving nodded at the plywood sign of the Nehushtan, “we will serve the Lord.”

  “And Apep?” Eddie asked.

  “Sami had a … a problem,” Irving said. “She came to me, and I tried to help her.”

  “I think she gave birth to her problem,” Mike grunted. “And it ate her. Not to mention a lot of other people, almost including us.”

  “Dammit.”

  “Yeah,” Eddie agreed. “Flying poisonous snakes. Dammit is right.”

  “And you?” Irving asked. “The snakes wanted to bite you, so you’re not one of theirs. Whose side are you on?”

  “Mostly,” Eddie told him, “we’re on our own side. But we have a problem, and I think we need your help.”

  Irving looked at the four of them, his inspection lingering on Twitch. “Are you telling me the fairy’s pregnant?” he asked.

  “Ew!” Twitch snorted.

  Irving failed to make good his threat, and shot no one. Eddie noticed the omission, and relaxed a few degrees.

  “I’m telling you that our buddy … our organ player, actually, got bitten by one of … one of Sami’s problems.”

  “When?”

  Eddie checked his watch. “About half an hour ago.”

  “Then your friend is dead.”

  “He might be,” Eddie agreed, “but he might not. He’s a wizard, and he put himself into some kind of magical coma right after he was bitten. I think he meant to slow down the poison, and I’m hoping it worked. But it won’t mean anything if we don’t find a cure.”

  “You’re hoping that because I have the Nehushtan raised over my church that I can cure your friend,” Irving finished the thought. He didn’t bat an eye at the word wizard.

  “Yeah,” Mike said.

  “Pick up your weapons,” Phineas Irving said, “and come inside.”

  “Can I talk now?” Twitch asked impishly.

  “Depends on what you say,” Irving answered. He patted the stock of his rifle affectionately, like he was patting a baby’s bum. “I’m still armed.”

  The inside of the trailer was an unholy mess, but not the kind of mess Eddie expected. There was no sign of drugs or booze or personal filth, and it smelled okay, but the trailer was full of books and papers in total disarray. It was like a library-meteorite had hit inside and exploded, scattering handwritten notes and diagrams all over the place. The linoleum countertop and the plastic coffee table and the sunken-centered couches fraying at the shoulders were all barely visible under snowdrifts of paper.

  “Read much?” Mike asked.

  “Not enough,” Irving said grimly. He gestured at the couches. “Shove that stuff onto the table. Coffee?”

  “Please.” Eddie mean
t it. He and Jim shoveled papers aside so the band could sit down. He sat on the nearest couch and sank deeply into it—the couch was ugly, but worn to the perfect point of comfort. But for the scorched skin of his backside, the couch might have put him to sleep.

  “I’ll put on a fresh pot.”

  “Screw that,” Eddie said. “Gimme the coffee. Black.”

  “I’ll take sugar, cream, whatever you got,” Mike added.

  “When my brother and I fell out,” the preacher recounted, pouring coffee into chipped mugs, “it was over a woman.”

  “Isn’t it always?” Mike grunted.

  “I totally wanna hear your life story,” Eddie said. “It sounds like country music, and I am definitely a fan of Nashville. First, can you tell me how to help my friend?”

  “I’m telling you now,” Irving said, shuffling slowly across the scabby shag floor with mugs in his fists. He was a little shaky, but he managed not to spill. It didn’t escape Eddie’s notice that he’d left the rifle in the kitchenette. “It’s the woman. And fell out is something of an understatement.”

  Eddie took the coffee. It smelled bitter and the warm mug stung his burned hands at the touch. He took a sip and felt strengthened. “Ah,” he sighed, “acid for the battery. Go on.”

  “Her name was Miriam,” the preacher said. He drew up a three-legged stool and settled his lanky frame onto it. His pets flopped down on the floor next to him and wrestled each other. “Maybe it still is. I loved her very much.”

  Jim snorted. It was a cynical sound.

  “Don’t talk much, do you?” Irving asked the singer.

  “He’s cursed,” Eddie said. It was sort of a lie, but it was much simpler than trying to explain the whole story. “So this woman of yours, Miriam, she can heal snakebite?”

  “Jeez,” Mike muttered, “you don’t know how to tell a story. Get to the part where something happens already.”

  Irving ignored both of them. “I was an Egyptologist,” he said, and then he chuckled wryly. “Who am I kidding? I was a grad student at Penn, studying to be an Egyptologist. I was going to be to the next Flinders Petrie. I was doing physical archaeology, potsherds and garbage heaps. Miriam was in my program. She was doing the sexier stuff, the Coffin Texts and Old Kingdom demonology. She was young and beautiful and I fell in love. I thought we both did. We got engaged.”