gns.snakes-第14部分

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Star。　Television　interviews；　describing　how　he　went　out　and　lay　in　wait；　lured　it　with　his　calling；　his　expertise；　his　knowledge　of　the　ways　of　the　wild。　But　you'll　have　to　take　the　dead　snake　home　to　prove　it！
　　
　　His　flesh　crept　and　pimpled；　a　shudder　ran　right　up　his　spine　and　into　his　scalp　beneath　the　deerstalker　hat。　Christ；　I　don't　have　to　touch　that　thing；　do　I？　Of　course　you　do。　I　can't。　You　must；　else　they　won't　believe　you　and　if　you　don't　take　it　now　you　might　not　find　it　again。　Foxes　might　e　in　the　night　and　eat　it。　'PANY　DIRECTOR　KILLS　RATTLER；　CLAIMS　HE　SHOT　A　SECOND'…Oh；　yeah！
　　
　　He　drew　on　his　cigarette；　glanced　around　in　the　shadows；　looking　for　a　couple　of　sticks；　wondering　if　somehow　he　could　make　a　cradle　out　of　them　and　carry　it　at　arm's　length。　Yuk！　But　you　don't　often　find　sticks　in　the　middle　of　fields　of　growing　corn。　He　didn't　have　a　piece　of　string　either　with　which　to　make　a　loop　to　drag　over　it；　pull　it　along　behind　him。　He　didn't　fancy　the　idea；　it　would　be　like　the　creature　was　pursuing　him　in　the　dark；　swishing　along　behind　him。　It　might　not　be　dead；　it　might　bite！
　　
　　You're　crazy。　Just　frightened；　everybody's　entitled　to　a　few　fears　when　it　starts　to　get　dark；　aren't　they？
　　
　　He　stood　up；　tried　to　get　his　bearings。　A　landscape　of　silhouettes　in　the　gathering　dusk；　the　village　on　his　left；　the　moors　starkly　outlined　above　them；　a　mass　of　deep　purple　that　would　merge　with　the　night　sky　before　long　and　obliterate　everything。　And　all　around　him　a　sea　of　corn；　no　distinguishing　features。　Christ　on　a　bike；　I've　got　to　get　the　fucking　thing　home　somehow！
　　
　　It's　dead；　it　can't　hurt　you。　He　steeled　himself；　called　on　every　bit　of　logic　he　could　muster　in　a　mind　filled　with　the　human　revulsion　for　reptiles；　bent　forward　and　stretched　out　a　hand；　make　sure　you　don't　touch　the　head。
　　
　　It　wasn't　slimy；　sort　of　dry　and　rough　to　the　touch；　a　limp　thing　that　might　have　been　a　perished　length　of　garden　hose。　Coils　of　it；　he　could　not　even　hazard　a　guess　at　its　length　as　he　dragged　it　out　of　the　barley；　wondered　how　long　it　would　take　him　to　reach　the　village。　As　soon　as　he　came　to　the　road　he　would　drop　his　burden；　leave　it　there　for　some　other　bugger　to　fetch。
　　
　　Gun　in　one　hand；　a　loop　of　snake　in　the　other；　he　set　off。　His　progress　was　not　easy；　the　corn　seeming　deliberately　to　obstruct　his　passage；　once　he　tripped　on　a　stone　and　almost　fell；　cursed　profusely。
　　
　　And　then；　without　warning；　the　pain　hit　him；　blinding　agony　that　began　in　the　calf　of　his　right　leg　and　travelled　up　his　body；　had　him　arching　his　back；　staggering。　Screaming。　It　was　as　though　every　vein　were　filled　with　burning　acid；　his　limbs　stretched　to　breaking　point；　a　fiery　haze　shimmering　before　his　eyes　like　an　electric　storm　lighting　up　the　night。　He　dropped　the　dead　snake。　It　fucking　well　wasn't　dead　after　all！　Oh；　Jesus　God；　it's　bitten　me！
　　
　　His　brain　could　not　grasp　the　situation。　A　lifeless　half…coiled　reptile　thudded　to　the　ground　and　in　its　place　was　a　live　vicious　serpent；　a　multi…coloured　assailant　that　thrashed　and　struck；　a　berserk　attacker　in　the　falling　darkness；　striking；　falling　back；　striking　again；　pursuing　his　shambling　movements；　hissing　its　fury。
　　
　　Peter　Eversham　still　had　the　gun；　an　unfired　cartridge　in　the　left　barrel。　He　tried　to　bring　it　round　to　bear　on　the　snaking　shadow　but　it　was　too　close。　Between　his　flailing　feet；　wicked　fangs　darting　upwards。　His　abdomen　seemed　to　contract　then　expand；　airborne　with　the　force　of　the　pain；　pulling　that　trigger　in　a　last　gesture　of　defiance。
　　
　　He　heard　the　report　somewhere　beyond　the　roaring　in　his　agonised　brain；　the　noise　receding；　rolling　away　into　the　distance。　Falling。
　　
　　He　braced　himself　as　the　ground　came　up　to　meet　him；　frothing　through　clenched　teeth；　wide…eyed　and　sightless。　Rolling。　Now　prone；　aware　of　a　constant　movement；　a　sharp　needle　that　injected　him　repeatedly　until　his　nerves　were　numbed　and　he　felt　no　more。　Trying　to　piece　everything　together　but　the　fragmented　logic　eluded　him。　A　dead　snake；　so　how　could　it　have　bitten　him？　It　was　dead　all　right；　he'd　seen　it；　felt　it。　It　didn't　make　sense。　Cynthia　。。。　she　wasn't　around　anywhere；　was　she？　Or　Doyle；　the　gardener？　If　Doyle　was　around　then　why　was　the　garden　in　such　a　fucking　mess；　all　overgrown　like　this？
　　
　　Then　not　thinking；　lying　there　stupefied；　oblivious　to　his　pain　and　his　injuries；　sprawled　across　the　shot…blasted　corpse　of　a　coral　snake　whilst　its　mate　was　trying　to　reach　it。
　　
　　The　live　snake's　anger　had　subsided；　its　killing　fury　gone　as　quickly　as　it　had　e。　Now　its　agitation　was　caused　by　grief；　a　disbelief　that　its　mate　was　dead；　unable　to　understand。　Rubbing　itself　on　the　mutilated　body；　desperately　trying　to　revive　it。　Failing。
　　
　　Peter　Eversham's　head　fell　back　and　the　cigarette　which　had　adhered　to　his　lower　lip　was　dislodged；　rolling　and　bouncing　away　in　a　shower　of　sparks；　ing　to　rest　against　a　barley　stalk；　fizzing；　the　green　growth　smouldering；　giving　off　a　pungent　wisp　of　smoke　that　had　the　bereaved　coral　snake　backing　off　in　alarm。
　　
　　The　sparks　were　fanned　by　the　faint　night　breeze；　burst　into　a　little　yellow　flame　that　almost　failed；　grew　again　and　licked　out　at　the　next　piece　of　undergrowth。　Catching　again。　Spreading；　the　dead　man's　clothes　singed；　ignited；　gave　off　a　stench　of　roasting　human　flesh。　Death　and　instant　cremation。
　　
　　The　surviving　snake　fled　terror…stricken　before　the　advancing　flames；　its　mate　forgotten；　the　strongest　instinct　of　the　wild　taking　over；　one　that　had　been　passed　on　to　it　by　its　mother　in　a　far…off　land　across　the　Atlantic。　Survival。
　　
　　Only　after　that　would　its　thoughts　return　to　revenge。
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　　Chapter　9
　　
　　JOHN　PRICE　had　remained　in　the　bungalow　after　they　had　taken　Aunt　Elsie's　body　away　simply　because　he　had　nowhere　else　to　go。　A　little　voice　inside　his　head　whispered；　'It's　your　bungalow　now；　John。　You　know　very　well　she's　left　it　to　you　in　her　will。　Quite　a　nice　little　nest…egg　for　you。'　Shut　up；　I'm　not　interested。
　　
　　Oh　God；　what　a　damnable　thing　to　happen。　And　he　couldn't　even　hate　the　escaped　snakes　for　it　because　it　was　nothing　to　do　with　them；　would　have　happened　anyway。　Elsie　Harrison　had　left　the　back　door　ajar；　an　inquisitive　grass　snake　had　found　its　way　in；　and　as　a　result　she　had　suffered　a　heart　attack。　What　bloody　rotten　luck！
　　
　　He　knew　he　would　stay　on　in　Stainforth；　maybe　for　quite　some　time　because　now　he　had　a　home　here　even　if　he　did　not　have　work。　For　the　moment　he　had　a　job；　oh　yes；　help　us　find　these　snakes　before　anybody　else　gets　killed。　Now　a　western　diamondback　rattler　had　been　shot　in　the　village　and　that　was　going　to　scare　an　awful　lot　of　people。　Up　on　the　moors；　even　on　the　grassy　slopes；　was　another　world；　near　enough　to　be　interesting　but　when　a　rattler　turned　up　in　the　village　itself　then　folks　really　began　to　mess　their　pants。
　　
　　John　made　himself　a　cup　of　coffee；　knew　he　had　a　lot　of　thinking　to　do。　Somehow　he　and　the　rest　of　the　police　and　army　searchers　had　got　it　all　wrong。　They　had　settled　for　the　obvious；　the　most　wild　and　desolate　place。　OK；　the　rattler　could　just　be　one　that　had　stayed　behind…or　two；　because　there　was　a　pair　of　them　according　to　the　inventory。　So　there　was　certainly　another　one　not　too　far　away。　He　found　himself　glancing　around　the　kitchen；　you're　getting　jumpy；　John　Price。
　　
　　He　had　just　sipped　his　coffee　when　he　heard　the　first　fire　engine　go　by；　a　few　seconds　later　another　followed　in　its　wake。　More　traffic；　a　police　car。
　　
　　John　Price　opened　the　door　and　that　was　when　he　smelled　the　smoke；　life…stifling　fumes；　choking；　burning　vegetation。　The　sky　was　aglow；　a　deep　smoky　red；　activity　everywhere。　His　eyes　smarted；　it　was　surely　a　heath　or　woodland　fire　and　this　was　the　last　thing　they　needed　in　Stainforth　with　killer　snakes　on　the　loose。　So　much　for　tomorrow's　carefully　laid　plans；　anything　could　happen　now。
　　
　　He　closed　the　door；　went　outside。　Wherever　the　fire　was　the　smoke　could　well　drive　the　reptiles　out　from　their　hiding　places；　disperse　them　in　all　directions。
　　
　　And　infuriate　them。
　　
　　Being　a　single　parent　in　a　village　like　Stainforth　was　both　a　source　of　embarrassment　and　bitterness　as　Barbara　Brown　knew　only　too　well。　Tall　and　lanky；　she　was　'not　bad…looking'　as　most　of　the　youths　in　Stainforth　agreed；　but　she　wasn't　the　sort　of　girl　you　could　get　worked　up　over。　Some　boasted　of　having　'had　her'　after　youth　club；　others　kept　quiet　about　it。　'Respectable'　parents　worried　about　their　sons　associating　with　her；　to　some　she　was　just　a　joke；　'the　village　boot'　as　they　referred　to　her。
　　
　　But　in　reality　Barbara　was　no　local　whore；　merely　an　unfortunate　and　misunderstood　girl　who　craved　affection　and　could　not　find　it。　She　had　been　desperate　for　a　steady　boyfriend　from　the　time　she　reached　fifteen　and　she　had　grossly　misunderstood　the　attentions　of　the　teenage　boys　at　youth　club；　she　genuinely　thought　that　when　one　of　them　slipped　his　arm　through　hers　and　led　her　up　behind　the　ramshackle　Nissen　hut　that　had　served　as　a　youth　club　since　the　war　ended；　it　was　because　he　felt　for　her；　loved　her。　It　took　her　a　long　time　to　cotton　on　to　the　fact　that　all　the　rough　element　of　the　local　male　population　were　interested　in　was　their　own　pleasure。　And　that　was　how　it　was　for　three　years；　hopes　built　and　dashed；　and　no　chance　of　a　permanent　relationship。
　　
　　Barbara's　father　had　walked　out　on　her　mother　when　Barbara　was　eleven；　he　had　an　affair　with　a　woman　in　the　next　town；　and　he　left　home　to　go　and　five　with　her。　Betty　Brown　did　not　seem　to　care　as　long　as　she　had　enough　money　to　buy　forty　fags　a　day；　every　evening　she　went　down　to　the　pub　and　usually　got…air　the　free　booze　she　wanted　there。　Barbara　remembered　the　time　her　mother　brought　a　boyfriend　home。　Bill　was　several　years　older　than　her　and　unemployed；　and　he　used　to　stop　overnight　on　occasions；　sharing　Betty's　bed。　Eventually　he　moved　in　permanently。
　　
　　The　young　girl　felt　that　she　was　in　the　way；　the　hints　that　a　lot　of　girls　leave　home　and　set　up　in　a　flat　on　their　own　hurt　her。　She　would