Banks had already tried explaining the situation, twice now, but the colonel wasn’t showing any sign of wavering, and Banks knew better than to push too hard, for his superior’s temper was legendary. But he had to make one last try.
“I’ve told you, it’s risky. This is another weird one, Colonel,” he said. “There’s some big bloody snakes up on yon hill.”
“And you’ve got big bloody guns, and more firepower coming. Do your damned job, Captain, or I’ll find somebody who will.”
Hynd took one look at Banks’ face when he returned to the kitchen and, without speaking, handed him another beer and a cigarette. Banks finished both, pointedly ignoring Buller, before telling the squad of the orders he’d got from the colonel.
“And you told him about the weird shite?” Hynd asked.
“Aye. All of it. But the gold trumps all of that. Your man here talked to his daddy, his daddy talked to a politician, the politician poked the colonel, and now we get to do babysitting duties while a bunch of other fuckers get rich.”
“Same as it ever was. This wanker’s really got that kind of clout?” Wiggins said.
“This wanker really has,” Buller replied, and smirked again. “So get used to it. You’re working for me for the duration. You’re all drinking my beer anyway; this only makes it official.”
Wiggins spoke to Banks.
“Can I no’ give him a wee slap, Cap? Enough to shut him up for a while?”
“You’d have to get in the queue for that one, Wiggo,” Banks replied. “But orders is orders, so we’re going up shit creek again, as soon as the choppers get here and we get Giraldo to a doctor.”
Buller looked up and smirked again.
“Four hours? He’s got half that, at the most.”
“You’d better hope you’re wrong,” Banks replied. “Because if the man dies before the doctor gets here, I’ll let Wiggo give you that slap.”
Banks was pleased to see signs of doubt in Buller’s eyes as he turned away.
What he really wanted was another beer, and another smoke. He was dismayed to notice that the old habit was back as if it had never been gone. He forced the craving down for now and instead sent McCally and Wiggins out on another tour of the dredger before going to the bedroom to check on Giraldo.
Much to his surprise, the man was awake. The guide smiled up thinly from a face that was otherwise a mask of pain.
“I thank you for the bed, my friend,” he said. “It is easier on my old bones than the cot.”
“Don’t speak. There’s a chopper on its way. Hold on.”
The guide smiled again, a great sadness in his eyes.
“I always wished to ride in one of those. But I am afraid it might be the last journey I ever take, and I might be too dead to appreciate it.”
He reached out and a sweat-laden, burning-hot hand gripped Banks at the left wrist.
“I can feel the snake, my friend. It slithers and creeps through me, looking for its way out of the dark. Promise me you will do the right thing, if it gets out? I have spent enough time on this river as a man; I do not wish to live in it as a snake.”
“That’s the venom talking,” Banks said. “Fight it.”
Giraldo coughed, thick black phlegm oozing at his lips.
“We both know better, my friend,” he said. “I see it in your eyes, in your heart. Promise me. One last favor for a dying man. Actually, I ask for two. Find my boy. Tell him I died thinking of him.”
Banks didn’t bother with any platitudes. He knew a dying man when he saw one; he’d seen far too many not to know. Instead, he patted his rifle, then gripped the guide’s hot hand in his own.
“You have my word, my friend, on both matters.”
The squad spent the next hours on patrols sweeping the perimeter, keeping an eye on Giraldo, and smoking an endless succession of cigarettes over a similarly endless flow of coffee in the kitchen and mess area. Banks kept the squad off the beer. Buller, after taunting them with a cold one, went quiet when Wiggins pointed his weapon at the man’s chest.
“Do that again, lad. Go on, I dare you. You might be rich, and about to get richer, but a bullet doesn’t give a fuck about your money.”
After that, the company man sat in silence, and after a time fell into a restless sleep upright in his chair, still cradling a beer in his arms. Banks started to hope that they would see out the time until the chopper’s arrived in peace, but all such hope was dashed when Wiggins and McCally left to do a sweep. It was less than a minute later when he heard Wiggins shout out.
“Heads up, lads. We’ve got incoming.”
- 15 -
Gunfire echoed around the facility seconds after the shout. Buller woke with a start, spilling beer down his front. He jerked as if hit as another volley of shots rang out.
“Lock yourself in your office,” Banks said sharply. “And don’t come out until I say it’s safe.”
The company man scuttled away. Banks and Hynd left him to it and headed out toward the source of the shots. Wiggins and McCally stood on the open decking that stretched toward where they had docked the boat. They fired into a slithering, squirming mass of giant snakes that teemed over the vessel, tearing it apart in splintering cracks and flying pieces of wood.
McCally and Wiggins’ efforts didn’t seem to be slowing the attack down although their shots raised wounds that gushed black and thick in the dark, and the air filled with the same acrid oil and vinegar oil that was all too recognizable.
By the time Banks and Hynd joined the other two men, there was little left of the boat but floating debris. The shooting had at least accomplished something. Two dead snakes floated away downstream with the wreckage. Banks and Hynd had enough time to push their earplugs in, in anticipation of the firefight to come. The remainder of the snakes came out of the water, a score or more of them, as one headed straight for the squad.
“Get those mother fucking snakes off my mother fucking deck!” Wiggins shouted.
They all fired at once, three quick rounds per man, picking out the closest of the attackers and pumping enough holes in it to slow it down. It opened a mouth that looked like a cave, two six-inch long fangs catching and reflecting the light from the living quarters at their back. Banks put two bullets down the thing’s throat and it fell in a heap. It oozed more of the black viscous fluid, and the sour tang in the air got stronger. Two more of the creatures slid forward to take the dead one’s place, each of them at least 15 feet long and like the ones Banks had seen at the pyramid, as thick as a man’s thigh at the widest point.
“Head shots only, lads,” Banks shouted. “Don’t waste ammo.”
The two approaching snakes went down quickly enough with clean shots, but the others behind weren’t in the mood to come in singles or pairs, and surged forward, a dozen or more all coming on fast at once. Banks put three bullets down the yawning throat of another, then had to take a step back to avoid a searching, slithering purple tongue as one of the beasts reached almost to his feet.
“Back up, lads, double time,” he shouted. “Back to the door. Let’s get them in a funnel.”
He held position as long as he could to let the others retreat, pumping three-shot bursts as fast as he dared, having to dance and jump to avoid striking heads and fangs. The noise almost deafened him, and the stench of acid and oil tickled at his throat, threatening to bring on a gag reflex.
He’d kept count well enough to know when his mag was about to run empty and, not waiting to see if the squad had made the doorway, emptied his weapon into the head of the nearest snake, and turned for the door.