I staggered up, anchored my feet in the muck, and waited, the machete poised above my head… waited for the tail section to writhe past me again. My god… the thing was huge. As thick as a log, so I used both hands and swung as if chopping wood. The snake’s back was a diamond pattern of yellow and black scales. When cleaved by steel, the skin split like a sausage, but the blade snagged for a sickening instant in bone. I pulled the blade free and swung again and again, missing a couple of times, but often the machete bit deep. My frenzy was such that it blinded me to the python’s head. Only at the last instant did the snake’s open jaws rocket into peripheral vision-not in time to stop the thing from burying its fangs just above my left elbow.
I went down beneath a relentless, seeking weight. The mesh bug jacket I wore became a tourniquet around my wrist. The snake spun; its teeth became a fulcrum. Desperately, I pulled the jacket over my head and wiggled my body free-all but my left arm. The snake’s head was tangled in the mesh. No… its teeth. The python had released me for some reason but could not free itself. We were locked in a gruesome tug-of-war that I was doomed to lose until Roberta, thank god, reappeared. She grabbed my belt, screaming, “Give it to me… give me the machete-I’ll kill that son of a bitch.”
She would have done it, too, but the mesh snapped at that instant. We both sprawled sideways into the water, then stumbled and staggered, in a panic, helping each other toward safety. We didn’t look back until we’d reached the plane.
The python was swimming away but on a confused course. My mind was slow to understand what had happened. The animal’s head was tangled in a ball of mesh-a jacket that had been impregnated with mosquito repellant. Chunks of its tail were attached only by skin because of the wounds I’d inflicted.
I pulled anchor; Roberta had to hop back in the water to spin the plane around so we could take off. Not until the doors were closed did we think about injuries. Wheezing, “Oh my god… Oh my god,” she stripped off her shirt and shorts, but her focus was on her abdomen, which was streaked with mud and yellow leaves. “Do you see any marks… teeth marks? Find something I can use as a towel. Oh Jesus, I can’t believe this is happening.”
I grabbed a bottle of water and an extra shirt from the back. While saying the reassuring things people do, I gently cleaned her belly until we could see there were no visible injuries.
“Scooch around,” I said, and checked her back, too. No cuts, or even scrapes, but there was a red, serrated welt across her shoulders as if she’d been slapped with a belt.
“Do you hurt anywhere else? What about your ribs?”
Roberta asked, “How about my lower back, near the kidneys? All I remember is not being able to breathe, that I would drown. My shoulders-it was like being crushed in a vise. But the water, that’s what saved me. The snake couldn’t seem to find the rest of me because my legs were underwater. I kept kicking.”
“No cuts,” I said, then asked again about her ribs.
“I don’t know, I didn’t hear anything crack. That slimy sonuvabitch! It bit you, Hannah, I saw it. Let’s have a look at your arm.”
A first-aid kit came out while I rolled up my left sleeve, for I was bleeding. We were both in shock. Neither could be sure what had happened. Roberta guessed the snake had struck her shoulder pack when she had lifted it as a shield-the same pack containing the camping shovel I’d ordered her to abandon.
“You should see a doctor anyway,” I said. By then, she had her clothes on and had started the plane.
“A psychiatrist, more like it,” she replied, “if we ever come back to this fucking place-without shotguns, at the very least. Oh my god, Hannah…”
“Now what?”
“Right there! Look at the size of that bastard.” She ruddered the plane around to give me a view out the starboard window.
A second python had appeared, swimming in pursuit of the wounded snake. This reptile was longer and heavier, with a head the size of a Doberman. I fumbled with my phone and managed a single, blurry photo while Roberta applied throttle, saying, “Screw it. We’re getting the hell out of here.”
Adrenaline can be a stimulant or a depressant. When we were airborne, there was no wild chatter, no nervous laughter. We each settled into ourselves, isolated by residual fear. Through the window, I watched the shadow of our rental plane cross miles of saw grass. It wasn’t until we were ten minutes from landing that I said, “You’ve got to promise me you’ll see a doctor.”
When wearing headphones, speaking into the stem of a voice-activated microphone, there is always a delay.
“You, too,” she said. “There’s no telling what kind of germs were in that thing’s mouth. At least let me do a better job of dressing it. We’ll need sterile gauze and medical antiseptic.”
I said, “Most doctors keep that stuff handy, so how about this? Call when you get a signal and I’ll drive you straight to the closest clinic. With a story like ours, doctors would wait in line. You can have your pick of obstetricians.”
Roberta realized I knew about her condition. “You’re a smart one. Was it because I was worried about bug spray?”
“That and your mood swings,” I said, hoping to lighten the mood. “Thank god, I was with a pregnant woman. No one else would be crazy enough to charge into that mess and ask for the loan of my machete.”
That got a smile, at least. “I just found out-my first trimester. I must’ve snapped.”
“Snapped?” I said. “You went batshit crazy.”
Suddenly, we were both laughing as if we really were crazy.
“Damn right I did,” Roberta said. “Never, ever squeeze a constipated woman with sore boobs-although, who knows, maybe it helped. I haven’t felt a cramp or the need to pee since the damn thing nearly crushed me to death. I’m afraid to check my panties.”
I roared at that, while she added, “I have a sonogram on Monday, but, yeah, you’re right-we both need to get checked out.”
Her smile faded. My friend waited through some air traffic garble, staring straight ahead, serious again. “I froze back there. That’s what really happened and I’m embarrassed. The thing wanted to kill me. Crush the life out of me and swallow me-my baby, too. That… that filthy sonuvabitch, and it would have if it hadn’t been for you. Hannah”-she glanced over-“there’s something I want to talk about when we get on the ground.”
We were conversing on an intercom system, so privacy wasn’t the problem.
“Swear all you want to, I don’t care. After what we just went through?”
“It’s about my husband.” she said. “And the Spanish oranges. I want to be involved, but I can’t go back there. Ever, ever, ever. He’d go nuts. Python Island, the place should be called.”
“Constrictor Bay,” I suggested. “No… Choking Creek. That’s what it is, a narrow river, because of the way mangroves crowd in, and the mood of the place, that sulfur smell. Didn’t you find it hard to breathe?”
The look she gave me replied No shit. “You can’t go back, either. Not alone, you can’t. So let’s figure out an alternative. You said you know other places where feral citrus grows?”
“Islands that used to be farmed,” I said, “all within an easy ride from my dock. But I wouldn’t call them remote-not compared to where we just came from.”
“Thank god. I’m thinking maybe sour rootstock from the last century would do. All I need are samples, lots of samples, and plenty of good photos, plus some other information. I can teach you how-if you’re willing.”
“Split up the workload,” I said. “Good idea. You shouldn’t be bouncing around in a boat anyway.”