by Guy N Smith
Sam Jervis screamed a shrill cry of pain. That daft old fucker had tossed the pitchfork up at him, caught him on the leg. He bounded up with a roar of rage that turned to a shriek of terror. All around his feet were little black wriggling things like burned sausages, slithering to and fro, and amidst them was a much larger one, somewhere between a foot and eighteen inches long; a furious creature that whipped and lashed him, struck at his legs with its venomous fangs.
'Adders? He tried to flee but a heap of bales prevented him. 'There's fucking adders up here!'
At least Sam thought they were adders, they looked like the ones he'd seen before except that they were much darker in colour. He didn't care what species, just that they were snakes and everybody in Stainforth was hiding from them.
Jack Jervis moved with surprising agility, clawed his way up on to the trailer, clambered over the mountain of bales, a stubby unlit pipe clenched between his teeth, the pitchfork in his hands. His son was lying on a bale, directing a series of futile kicks at the snake which was attempting to wriggle up after him. And down below the smaller snakes were milling in a heap like maggots that had fallen from a piece of putrefying meat. Black bloated worms.
'Get yer fuckin' legs outa the way,' the farmer hissed, poised his pikle as though he was about to hurl a javelin, and struck savagely downwards. His aim was true, a prong speared the enraged reptile, and he held it up. It thrashed furiously but could not dislodge itself. 'Got you, you bugger!'
Sam closed his eyes. The pain in his leg was making him feel faint and he certainly did not wish to be a spectator to a bout of his father's cruelty. Old Jack Jervis was going to have a field day, enjoy every second of this massacre just as he had gloated over that sheep he had killed for the freezer last autumn; he had cut its throat and stood there and watched its life's blood spout all over the yard. 'Come and watch this, boy, or e'll be gone. Waste o' time and effort stunning 'em first.'
With a deft twirl such as an accomplished spaghetti-eater might have used to unfurl a length from his fork, Jack sent the mortally wounded adder flying through the air. 'E's as good as dead.'
He turned to the nest of young, and began jabbing and chopping, piling wrigglers up the prongs of the pitchfork one after another. Seven in all, in as many seconds.
'Look at them lot, boy.' There was a note of pride in his rough voice. 'Black adders. Ain't seen no black ones for years, not since I was your age. But they die just as easy as the brown 'uns.'
Sam sprawled with his back against a bale, his vision darkening, clinging to some taut baling twine in case he blacked out arid fell from the trailer. His leg was beginning to swell up, the pain coursing upwards. Oh Christ, and all that stupid old bugger thought about was killing.
'Ah-ha!' a grunt of triumph from Jervis as he held the spiked snakes aloft. 'Just look at that lot, the little devils never dreamed they'd meet up with old Jack when they got caught up in the baler. That'll teach 'em! A forward motion with the long fork, sending the baby adders hurtling into the air, frantic death wriggles as they hit the ground beyond the tractor. 'That'll bloody teach 'em!'
'Dad.' Sam was clinging on to that bale, trying not to spew.
'Now, what's the matter with you, son?'
Stupid old fucker. 'I've been bitten . . . my leg.'
Jack Jervis laid the pikle down, turned towards his son, saw the puffy blotched patch just above the ankle on Sam's exposed leg, twin pinpoint pricks that oozed a trickle of blood.
''Old easy.' The farmer dropped on to his knees, felt in his pockets and produced a bone-handled penknife. 'Nowt to worry about. It won't be the first adder bite I've dealt with, took one out o' meself on more than one occasion when I was a boy. There used to be adders aplenty in those days, don't hardly see 'em at all today. Now, let's get this done so's we can get on.'
Sam bit his lip, knew only too well what his father was about to do. Please God, let me faint first.
''Old still then.'
'Dad, take me to the doctor.' It was a long time since he had last pleaded with God or his father and it appeared that neither were prepared to listen to him. In olden times they gave you something to bite on. A swig of rum. You wouldn't get either from Dad, they took time and cost money.
He yelled and writhed as the knife blade made an incision, tried to faint but failed. He guessed what the dirty old bugger would do when he'd cut into the wound. Ugh! Sam threw up but could not shut out the slurping sound his father made as he sucked the venom out of the wound; the same noise he made when he drank his tea. Spitting, that was another of his habits, a blob of phlegm and venom.
'You'll be OK now, boy.'
Sam opened his eyes, stared at the mess of vomit dripping off the bale by his head. It reminded him of the canned potato salad that his mother sometimes bought.
'What's the matter with you now?' Annoyance, a reprimand because he had not leaped straight up and begun re-stacking those hay bales. 'You should be bloody grateful to me, boy, lucky I was here to get the poison out for you.'
'I'm in bloody agony, that's what.' God, he'd've punched the old bugger if he'd had the strength. 'I need to see the doctor, get something put on the bite, maybe an injection.'
'You'll be all right. We got too much work to do without wastin' time goin' to the doctor, and a lot o' bleedin' good 'e is anyway!'
Sam managed to stand, leaning up against the bales. Everything was topsy-turvy, spinning round. But he did not think he would faint now, Unless he looked down at his leg.
'Tell you what.' There was a sarcastic, condescending tone in his father's voice, spittle trickling down his bristly chin. 'I'll stack these bales up and you can have a nice lazy time sitting on 'em on the ride back down. Then by the time we get home you'll be feelin' well enough to off-load 'em.'
Every bone in Sam Jervis's body jarred on the slow ride down the sandpit field and out on to the road. And his leg hurt like hell. It was bleeding quite a lot; he did not dare look but he could feel the sticky warm blood seeping down into his shoe, a cloud of black flies swarming on it, settling to feed, buzzing loudly.
They were in the yard now, reversing up to the bay. Sam opened his eyes. Everything was going dark like dusk had come several hours early. The tractor's engine died and his father was bawling for him to get up and start throwing those bales off. Shaddup, you old goat. 'Come on then, stop playing up.'
I need a doctor. Where's Mum? Something I got to tell her ... oh yes, there's somebody in trouble in the sandpit. Those shouts. Got to let somebody know. He started to struggle up, 'Get slingin' them bales off. Come on, we ain't nowhere near finished yet. There's nowt bloody wrong with you now.'
Sam Jervis had been indoctrinated by his father for far too long to give an outright refusal. He was on his feet, letting go of his support, the barn in front rocking steadily from side to side and then upturning completely.
'Dad ... in the sandpit . . .' a hoarse whisper that took everything he could put into it. 'I'm bleedin' waitin', boy.'
Sam Jervis took a step forward and then everything went black. He fell, rolled off the top of those bales and hit the yard with a sickening thud.
And in the open doorway of the house Dora Jervis began to scream.
Chapter 16
THE SNAKE was back on the bonnet of the van. Keith Doyle had not been aware of its return, only saw that it was there again, coiled up and watching them intently.
He twisted round to look at his watch, noted that it was almost nine o'clock. Christ, what a bloody day. That snake had been the lucky one, it had been able to take advantage of the shade beneath the vehicle during the hottest hours, whilst he and Kirsten had roasted and suffocated inside.
Kirsten was still in an uneasy sleep, moving her head restlessly from side to side; her cracked lips had a bluish tint and were slightly swollen. Her dress, saturated with sweat, clung wetly to her shapely figure. Any other time or place it would have been a turn-on for him. Right now, though, he just felt weak and ill. But most of all he was worr
ied about her.
No way could either of them last another day. That spell of shouting for help had robbed them of their last reserves of strength, swollen their tongues and brought their thirst to a peak. They had spent hours listening, occasionally caught the faint hum of a passing car back on the road. Kirsten had commented how far away the traffic seemed and eventually it had dawned on her that if they could only just hear vehicles then anybody on the highway stood little chance of hearing them shout. There had been a look of despair in her eyes at this realisation and Keith had attempted to reassure her. He did not think that he had succeeded. Then they had heard a tractor, close but still muffled.
It was no good shouting whilst the farmer—presuming it was a farmer—had his engine running, and so they waited. Eventually there was silence and they had yelled until they were hoarse, until they had spent themselves mentally and vocally. Some time later, it seemed hours, they heard the tractor start up again and drive away. It did not come back.
That was when Kirsten broke down and sobbed again, cried herself to sleep in Keith's arms.
The day wore on and towards evening the atmosphere cooled somewhat. Keith experienced nausea and thirst, a terrible combination that resulted in a desire to vomit, only he did not have anything left to throw up. Neither of them had used the bucket since midday and he knew they were beginning to dehydrate.
He had been tempted to open the door a few inches and take another look beneath the van; perhaps the snake had tired of waiting, had slunk off somewhere. Surely it, too, had to sleep sometime. But even if it was not in sight he would not know exactly where it was; it was cunning enough to try to trick them, lull them into thinking that it had gone away and then, when they emerged, ambush them from the thick cover which grew luxuriantly all along the track leading to safety. There wasn't much point in seeing if it was still beneath the vehicle. It could be anywhere within a few yards of them.
He knew they could not last another day in here. Certainly Kirsten could not. Whatever the outcome he would have to try and go for help. He calculated mentally his weaponry in the back; a spade, a fork, a hoe, a sickle. Possibly the latter was the most suitable. He had honed the blade to a razor sharpness only two or three days ago. It was capable of cutting that monster out there in two, provided it did not get him first.
If nobody had found them by morning he would make the attempt. Just thinking about it sent little shivers up and down his spine, his imagination giving him a frightening preview of what might happen.
No sign of the bastard, getting out slowly, carefully, trying to stop that door from creaking. A quick look round. Now! Running the gauntlet of undergrowth that tore at his legs, tried to bring him down, low branches whipping his face. Always the fear that the next tuft of long grass might suddenly unfurl a coloured serpent, a devil that moved too fast for the eye to follow. Not this one, then maybe the next, nearly crazy with fear. Exhausted, his reflexes slowed down, worried about what would happen to Kirsten if he did not make it.
He wondered again what species it was and how deadly was its bite. Even if it inflicted its venom into his body surely death would not be instantaneous, he would be able to make it to the village and raise the alarm before . . .
There was no way of knowing what might happen until he actually made the attempt. He closed his eyes and felt his body starting to relax. Sleep if you can, you're going to need all the energy you can muster.
And now the snake was back on the bonnet again.
He looked at it, studied its colourful markings, those red, black and white rings. Through the thick glass of a cage in a reptile house you would find yourself marvelling at its colourings; through the windscreen of an overheated van which you had not been outside of for the last 24 hours your appreciation was somewhat diminished. You just wished the fucking thing did not exist, or else that it was dead. You wanted all snakes extinct.
He marvelled at its motionless posture; there was not so much as a blink from those cold penetrating eyes but you knew that it watched your every movement. Hypnotic in an awesome way. Go on, make a run for it, I'll give you a five-yard start. No way. Not yet.
'It's still around then.' He was amazed at the relaxed tone of Kirsten's voice. Worried, too, because this heat might cause you to react in a number of ways. Hallucinations, disorientation, anything that might put you at risk. You didn't even trust yourself.
'At least we can see it, we know where it is,' he replied.
'Try the starter again,' she said.
'It's just a waste of time. After this length of time the battery will be completely dead.'
'Well, we've nothing to lose. Go on, Keith, give it a go.'
'All right.' He fumbled for the key. 'But don't get raising any hopes because it won't . . .'
The starter-motor shuddered, turned, suddenly had life back in it. And fired!
"Keith, it's going to go? Kirsten yelled. She pulled herself upright, the fatigue, the exhaustion, suddenly falling from her. 'We can leave?
'Hold on, we're not out of the wood yet.' He pumped the throttle, got the revs and kept them, anticipated the engine fading any second. It didn't, it was running sweetly for one that had nearly 90,000 miles on the clock, the chassis vibrating, rattling the tools in the back. It was a dream, a cruel nightmare, one of those where you found yourself unable to run any further just as you took flight from some unmentionable horror or else you lost your way and never found it again. Maybe it was himself who was having hallucinations, not his companion,
'What are you waiting for?' She had her voice back, yelled at him. 'We can go.'
I'm waiting because I don't believe it. The snake moved, seemed to shift its entire body into a tighter coil, pressed itself up against the windscreen. As though it knew the van was about to move and was settling itself into a secure position so that it would not be dislodged when they bumped their way back down the track.
'Here we go!' he shouted back at her at the top of his voice. 'Full speed ahead for Stainforth.'
Keith crashed the lever into bottom gear, felt the van move forward, bumping over rough ground. There was room enough to swing it around in a circle and drive straight out, much easier than trying to reverse all the way back through the overhanging trees and undergrowth.
'Two minutes, probably less, and we'll be out on the road.'
This euphoria was an unforgettable experience. Suddenly everything had come right, they did not have any more worries. If the snake stayed on for the whole way then that was fine, the police or the army would soon deal with it.
They bumped their way over more stones and deep ruts, Keith now going into a left-hand circle, hard over on full lock, 180 degrees, and now they were facing in the opposite direction. Gathering speed so that he had to change up to second gear, the exit from this place of terror looming up in front of them. He would take it at speed, go like hell all the way.
And that was when the engine suddenly coughed, lost its momentum, hiccupped again. And petered out.
'Oh no? Kirsten cried, and buried her face in her hands as the van slowed, rolled to a halt.
They sat there, saying nothing because there was nothing to say, staring at the red ignition warning light on the dashboard, hating it, blaming it. Keith reached for the key, switched it off.
'What . . . happened?' Kirsten asked at length. 'We're out of petrol.' An admission of guilt was in his tone, a resignation to their plight. An apology. And the snake on the bonnet seemed to grin at them through the glass. 'I was nearly empty yesterday. I should have filled up but ... I didn't. I'm sorry, Kirsten.'
'Then the battery wasn't fiat after all.' 'I guess not. Probably a dicky lead or some dirt under the terminals.' What the fuck does it matter what it was? We're back to square one, in almost exactly the same place except that we're facing in the opposite direction.
'If the battery's working again now then ... then perhaps the horn will work. We can blow it, attract attention.'
The horn did work. A piping sq
ueak rather than the expected klaxon blast. The sound came back at them off the quarry walls, hurtful to the ears, remonstrated with them for breaking the silence. Keith stopped after half a dozen goes; it was futile, no louder than their shouting some hours ago.
He did not look at Kirsten. I'm sorry, darling, I wish the engine had never started up, at least then we knew what we were up against. I gave you hope and immediately destroyed it.
'We're going to die, aren't we?' she said at length, her voice steady, not crying, staring out of the side window.
'I don't know.' He could not lie to her. 'Not if I can help it. Look, I'm going to try and make a break for it . . .'
'No! Not with that monstrosity perched out there waiting . . .'
'Not immediately,' he smiled. 'Probably in the morning when it gets light. There's a sickle in the back, the blade's like a razor. It would cut that snake in two at one stroke.'
'Unless it bit you first.' She clutched his arm, afraid that he might suddenly decide to make a run for freedom now.
'That's a chance I'll have to take. Better that than both of us dying in here. And, anyway, even if I do get bitten I probably won't die. It isn't a python, it can't crush me, I'll make it to the village, send help back to rescue you. You can bet your life that Doctor Brennan has at this moment got every available type of snakebite serum handy in his surgery.' Of course, there were certain snake poisons that had no known antidote. He didn't tell Kirsten that, just hoped that the creature on the bonnet was not one of those.
'I want to come with you,' she said.
'Don't be bloody silly, there's no point in us both getting bitten.'
'I suppose you're right,' she sighed. 'But if I'm asleep wake me up before you go.'
'I promise.' He leaned across, kissed her.
'Oh, and there's something else,' she murmured, 'not that I suppose it makes any difference now.'
'What's that?'
