gns.snakes-第15节

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tell　the　difference　anyway；　probably　had　never　seen　or　heard　the　good　old　English　bunny　in　its　life。
　　
　　Peter　heard　a　helicopter　ing　down　off　the　moor；　crouched　low　and　ducked　his　head。　Deafening；　the　wind　from　the　vanes　wafting　the　corn；　flying　at　no　more　than　twenty　feet。　The　machine　passed　just　to　his　left　and　he　raised　his　eyes　to　follow　its　departure。　It　swung　round；　headed　back　towards　the　village。　What　a　bloody　waste　of　time；　he　thought。　If　they　can't　spot　me　in　the　barley　how　the　hell　can　they　expect　to　see　the　snakes？
　　
　　Boredom　added　to　the　disfort　of　his　crouched　position。　He　found　himself　studying　the　engraving　on　his　gun；　marvelled　at　the　intricacies；　the　workmanship　that　made　English　guns　the　best　in　the　world。　In　the　right　hands；　with　the　right　cartridge；　this　gun　would　kill　anything。　Snakes　were　no　exception；　he　had　proved　that　already。　And　he　would　prove　it　a　second　time。
　　
　　He　had　a　feeling　that　he　was　not　going　to　see　the　snakes　tonight。　Another　few　minutes　and　he　would　pack　it　in；　head　for　home。　One　more　cigarette　and　I'll　go。　He　sucked　his　hand　once　more；　now　that　was　the　best　rabbit　call　he　had　done　all　night；　enough　to　make　。　。　。
　　
　　A　swishing　of　wings　above　his　head　made　him　start　and　he　was　just　in　time　to　see　a　diving　sparrow　hawk　check；　jink　and　change　direction。　Hard　luck；　you　bugger；　Eversham　smiled　to　himself；　I　must　be　good　to　fool　you。　You　thought　you　heard　your　supper　squealing　but　you　had　one　helluva　shock。　The　moral　of　that　story　is　don't　take　anything　for　granted。
　　
　　The　tall　corn　was　beginning　to　cast　its　shadows　across　the　small　clearing；　thousands　of　nodding；　swaying　heads　that　were　to　be　given　a　brief　few　hours'　rest　from　the　labours　of　ripening；　a　sun…soaked　crop　that　could　be　part　of　Man's　winter　food　store；　grain　for　malting；　seed　for　poultry。　A　source　of　life。
　　
　　And　death！
　　
　　Peter　Eversham　started；　almost　dropped　his　gun。　There　was　a　snake　directly　opposite　him；　its　body　partly　concealed　by　the　barley　forest。　Red；　black　and　yellow　with　white　rings；　gaudy　with　all　Nature's　warning　colours　blended　into　its　scaly　skin。　A　black　snout；　eyes　that　watched　unblinking；　fearlessly；　full　of　hate。
　　
　　He　had　not　heard　its　approach；　not　so　much　as　the　disturbance　of　a　barley　stalk；　a　hunter　that　had　slithered　silently　in　answer　to　that　false　cry　of　pain；　perhaps　had　not　even　been　fooled　by　it；　had　e　in　search　of　Man；
　　
　　A　length　of　ash　fell　from　the　cigarette　between　Peter　Eversham's　lips；　powdered　on　his　shirt。　Sweaty　hands　gripped　the　gun。　Bring　it　up　slowly；　don't　make　a　sudden　movement；　don't　let　it　even　guess　what　you're　going　to　do。　He　wondered　what　species　the　snake　was；　how　fast　it　was　capable　of　moving。　Right　now　it　didn't　look　to　be　in　any　hurry；　probably　thought　it　had　him　for　the　taking　anyway。
　　
　　He　was　trembling　so　much　that　he　could　scarcely　draw　a　bead　on　the　reptile；　the　twin　barrels　quivering；　moving　from　side　to　side。　And　still　the　snake　did　not　move。
　　
　　The　gun　bucked；　the　heel　of　the　stock　hammering　against　his　shoulder　because　he　held　it　too　loosely。　A　vivid　flash　lit　up　the　tiny　clearing；　forked　lightning　that　propelled　leaden　death；　a　report　that　shattered　the　stillness；　went　rolling　across　the　landscape　towards　Stainforth；　its　echoes　rumbling　and　dying　when　they　reached　the　distant　moorland。
　　
　　The　snake　slumped　forward；　a　coil　of　bloodied　rope　that　did　not　so　much　as　twitch；　pulped；　unrecognisable。　Harmless。
　　
　　The　gun　was　still　at　Peter　Eversham's　shoulder。　He　was　aware　of　the　pain　where　it　had　kicked　him　but　he　ignored　it；　just　stared　in　disbelief。　The　patience　of　the　hunter　had　paid　off；　just　when　you　thought　nothing　was　going　to　show　up　your　prey　emerged。　You　could　never　be　certain　of　anything；　that　was　the　spice　of　hunting；　what　drove　you　on　just　when　you　had　almost　given　up。
　　
　　'PANY　DIRECTOR　KILLS　TWO　OF　THE　ESCAPED　SNAKES'…he　saw　tomorrow's　newspaper　headlines　in　his　imagination；　a　wad　of　papers　on　the　desk　in　his　office。　The　Sun；　Mail；　Express；　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