17 – 2
A serpent emerges from the well, endless lengths of slick, pale flesh sliding smoothly over stone. It lifts the thin, blunt point of its head, the seams of its maw splitting like an opened wound. On the inside of those peeled-back petals of gray are dozens of small, circular mouths filled with dozens of sharp, shining teeth. In the center, the throat; from it emerging a worm-like tongue the red-bright shade of fresh blood.
From where we sit transfixed, we watch it taste the air with that tongue. We watch it pull more and more of itself from those accursed, watery depths. The bucket comes up, water-logged and rotting, and spills its contents onto the slick coils. Bones clatter to the ground; some small, others large, and all of them marred by some kind of corrosion, covered from end-to-end in pitted scars.
The serpent's head snaps towards the sound. Its little mouths flex and pulse as its tongue lashes out to wrap around a broken piece of bone and pull it in. The opened wound of its maw closes, the peeled-back petals of gray closing like a dormant flower. They writhe in waves, from the broad base of the skull to its conical point. A nausea-churning crack is followed by another and another still. Shivers crawl across my skin. A scraping, squealing grind puts the hair of my nape on end. It doesn't last long, but hell is in every second.
A queasy silence falls. I swear: it looks right at us, fixing the thin, blunt point of its head precisely on where we sit. We daren't move. We daren't breathe. Every line of us is tense and still and waiting. Why does it always come to this? Just moments ago, there were jammy kisses and laughter. Why are there always monsters, everywhere I look?
It's not fair. It's not fucking fair!
Anger and adrenaline curl together, hot and quicksilver-cool, in my heart. When the serpent strikes, I'll be ready. I'll shove Clarke one way, dive the other, and figure out the rest after.
The window, I should think. When it breaks, there'll be shards everywhere. I'll stab the damned serpent with one until either it dies or gives up and slimes back down to whatever stagnant mire-hole it climbed out of.
There. That's a plan. Not much of one, but better than 'run for the docks and hope'.
The seams on the serpent's head split; a flower of flesh and teeth unfolds. That worm-like tongue emerges from the exposed hole of its throat, flicking the air. It does this again and again while its full-bloom head spins a slow circle, slime-slick coils shifting and sliding beneath it. There's no attack. It hasn't found us, how hasn't it found us?! We're right here! Is it blind?!
Wait, is it blind?
I force myself to look, to really, truly look, and ignore the horrified dread it rouses. The serpent curls around the well, its head rising tall over the depths it hasn't fully emerged from.
It's blind. It's fucking blind!
I turn to Clarke with an excited hiss, squeezing her arm until I get her wide-eyed attention. It can't see, I mouth. She stares at me, so with my free hand I touch the corner of my eye. No eyes!
A moment passes before she understands, a moment in which the serpent points its questing head at the river. Its tongue flicks the air; once, twice, and again. Clarke looks from it to me, doubt and trust at war in her eyes. She mouths, are you sure?
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Am I? Until now, I was. Maybe it can see, maybe its eyes are too small to spot. Though if that were true, wouldn't it have attacked already? We're right here.
No. No, it has to be blind; it's the only thing that makes sense. I nod. She pulls me in close, putting her mouth against my ear to breathe, “What do we do?”
The serpent brings its head lower to the ground, flesh-petals and tongue brushing the stone of the once-empty plaza. The full-bloom flower of it turns towards Amble's Dry Goods. What do we do? I spare a glance away to check the taproom's far wall for a door out the back. There's one: behind the bar, with a key-hole lock beneath the handle.
I turn Clarke's chin towards it, put my mouth to her ear, and ask, “Is there a key?”
She pulls back, uncertainty in her eyes, before leaning in to answer, “I think so.”
It's good enough, especially considering the alternative: try to sneak past the foul thing. Ready, I mouth? She nods. Slowly, agonizingly slowly, we rise from our seats to begin while, out in the plaza, the serpent hunts.
- - -
Thump.
I freeze, locked in place between painstaking steps. Horror runs my blood cold and tastes acid-sour on my tongue. I hiss a shuddering breath between my clenched teeth. Tension knots itself into my every muscle, tightening in anticipation of a fight. Clarke digs her nails into the back of my hand. I'm sure I'm doing the same to her. She looks at me with wide, pale eyes; then back at the sound's origin.
Thump.
The door, rattling in its frame.
I wonder: is the serpent toying with us, like the bramble-beast did? Is this a part of a cruel game, prolonged as long as possible for its own sadistic pleasure? What do we do if it is? I look and see loose curls instead of tight coils, a languid stretch between the well and the door, and have no answers.
Thump.
It's not answer I want, though, it's escape; and I've wasted enough time. I squeeze Clarke's hand to get her attention. “Almost there,” I whisper, “let's go.” Her eyes flicker from one door to the other. She takes a breath, lets it out slow, and nods.
We're rounding the bar when a sound stops us, different and worse than before. It's the wet squeak of slime-slick flesh and the grinding squeal of small teeth; it's the thick slap of a worm-like tongue and the crystalline crack of slowly breaking glass. The serpent's mouth has opened, a full-bloom flower pressing into the window, lit by a pallid sun. A spiderweb of fractures start to spread, centered on the muscled ring of its open throat.
“Zira...” Clarke's voice is hollow with dread.
“I know,” I rasp, mine tight with the same, “Where's the key?”
Fractures spread from fractures. We've seconds before the window shatters.
“Where?!”
“A shelf!” she bites back, “Under the counter!”
I shove past her, bending to search. The first shelf is rows of dusty mugs and shot glasses. I shove them aside and reach as far back as I can, sweeping my arm from left to right. No key.
The next shelf is a stock of beer bottles. I scoop them out, dumping them on the floor in a clattering avalanche. Nothing.
Third shelf: a book and a coin purse.
Last shelf: a half-loaf of wormy bread and a rotting apple.
“It's not here,” I say, turning in panic to Clarke, “It's not here!”
“What?! No! I swear, I saw–”
The window shatters, a tinkling rainfall of broken glass heralding the silent slide of the serpent's entrance. Crystalline shards crunch beneath lengths of smooth, pale flesh. It stinks of stagnant water and rot, saliva dripping from its worm-like tongue as it flicks out into the air.
Once.
Twice.
The full-bloom flower of teeth, tongue, and open throat points directly at us. There's a moment in which all stands still; where the serpent's muscles bunch beneath its flesh; where all those little mouths pulse and flex; and in that moment, I know what to do.
I throw myself into Clarke and bring us both to the floor. The serpent's strike snaps through the space we once filled and drives into the wall beyond in a thunderous crash of splintered wood and sundered stone. I lay on my side, face-to-face with Clarke, bottles of beer digging into my ribs. Above us, the thick rope of the serpent's body hangs like a bridge.
“The purse,” Clarke gasps frantically, “It's in there!”
The serpent begins to retract its head. We have a chance. There won't be another. I scramble on hand and knee to the third shelf, turn the purse upside down, and watch a small handful of coin fall out.
A small handful of coin, and a rusty iron key.