Snakes

Here is an earlier story I wrote for an Silver Night's Eve Fiction Competition

Snakes

The alley was lit by flickering neon, filtering down from above. A figure, several of his features swathed in a blue glow, stepped from the shadows. The figure seemed to peer down the alleyway, then behind him, and then down the alleyway again. His hands were hidden from view inside the pockets of a grey coat. In the distance, there was the crash of broken glass, and the steady rumble of traffic.

Then, he took another step forward, and crouched behind a cluster of boxes. His eyes flicked up to the Quafe billboard, only partly visible, and seemed to stare for a moment. Blue-grey smoke or mist drifted past, covering the sign, and he looked away, taking in the door several metres away. Standing, he moved to the door, taking his hands from his pockets, in one of them, a gun.

He bent to the door, pressing the side of his head to it. Straightening, he took a step back and rapped on the door. He levelled his pistol at the door.

“Who is it?”

The man’s knuckles were white on the gun. “De Zwart.”

There was a fumbling sound behind the door. A latch was drawn. The door swung open.

A crack filled the alleyway as the gun fired. The man strode into the open doorway, stepping over the ruined head and lifeless body which had slumped to the ground.

The room was suffused with yellow light of a cheap live news feed screen. Several glass containers bubbled away on a counter. A slender man, green snake tattoo on the nape of his neck, was searching a drawer with his back exposed.

“Don’t.” De Zwart pointed his gun. “That snake makes a convenient target.”

There was a wordless cry of frustration.

“Sit down.” The gun gestured towards an old armchair. Some of the yellow stuffing was exposed.

Snake-Tattoo turned. His head was shaved and his eyes were hollow and dark-rimmed. Keeping his eyes on the gun, he edged to the chair and sat.

De Zwart slouched against a bench, fished in his pocket and produced a hand-rolled cigarette, which he lit. He took a short drag and exhaled almost immediately. The pistol remained half-trained on the armchair and its occupant.

“You ever see a snake?” He spoke around the cigarette, blowing a puff of smoke and gesturing with the pistol.

“Sure.” Snake-Tattoo scratched his neck. “In the Zoo in Lautremont.”

“I heard about those.” De Zwart took the cigarette out of mouth, holding it loosely. “What were they like?”

“Did you come here to ask me about snakes?”

The gun twitched. “Answer the question.”

Snake-Tattoo’s eyes dropped to the pool of blood now forming on the plastic floor. “Yeah, they were great, all right?”

“They must have been better than great,” said De Zwart, his eyes intent on Snake-Tattoo. “They must have been amazing. I mean, for you to have one tattooed on you.”

“Sure.” Snake-Tattoo coughed and rubbed his face.

De Zwart looked at the live feed on the far wall. Galactic news scrolled across the screen in yellow letters. “Is there no sound?”

“Um.” Snake-Tattoo looked at the screen. “It’s on mute.”

“Federation recaptures Intaki,” read De Zwart. “Isn’t that grand?”

Snake-Tattoo shrugged. De Zwart looked back at him. “You don’t think so?”

“What difference does it make to us, down here? Intaki could disappear forever and it wouldn’t make a difference. You’d still have a gun in my face.”

De Zwart took a drag from his cigarette. “True,” he pointed his gun at the news screen. “But surely you’re a Gallente patriot, yes?”

Another shrug.

The cigarette was dropped. A booted foot crushed it into the floor. “You know why I’m here?”

Snake-Tattoo nodded.

De Zwart moved to the chemical apparatus. He wafted some of it over to his nose and immediately coughed. “Nasty stuff. How much you get for that?”

“How much for how much?”

De Zwart made an impatient sound. “I dunno. Per pill or whatever. How much?”

“Depends on demand. Up to 30, 40 isk.”

A low whistle. “Good money, if you can get it.”

There were a few moments of silence. De Zwart looked at the glass bottles and tubes. There was a brown smear on the bench. A stain, or a burn. De Zwart ran a hand along it. Snake-Tattoo shifted in the armchair. “Are you going to kill me?”

“Depends.” De Zwart picked up an empty glass tube, coiled like a snake. He hefted it. “Don’t need this one?”

“It’s broken.” Snake-Tattoo was terse. A bead of sweat ran down the side of his face, catching the dim yellow light. “What does it depend on?”

“On you, of course,” De Zwart replaced the coiled glass tube. “See, I’m not interested in you, not really. I want the next ones, right up the chain. The people you work for. The head of the snake, as it were.”

The other man shook his head. “The heads are off-world. You can’t get to them.”

“No doubt, but I’m sure you have someone you report to, someone you give a cut to. Someone local.”

Snake-Tattoo looked at the gun. “Um.”

De Zwart chuckled. “Of course you do. You’re small time. No offence, of course. You still manage to do plenty of damage.”

“I’m sorry, man.”

There was a sharp intake of breath. “Don’t bother. Don’t.”

“But...”

“I said...” De Zwart surged forward, gun pointed. “Don’t. Just give me the name.”

Snake-Tattoo raised his hands in front of him. “The remote,” he said, pointing.

De Zwart tossed him a grey plastic remote. The name and address came up on the feed screen seconds later.

Pocketing his book, De Zwart stood. “You know what the worst thing about being a snake?”

The man shook his head, gripping the remote.

“You have too much poison for your size, so people fear you. They destroy you on sight, if they can. Stomp on your head. You are too dangerous to live.”

Snake-Tattoo half-started up from the arm-chair. “You said you wouldn’t kill me.”

De Zwart firmed his grip on the gun, shaking his head. “This is Dodixie. Do you really expect people to keep their word here?”

He squeezed the trigger.