"Christopher Pike - Weekend" - читать интересную книгу автора (Pike Christopher)

"Ask him if he knows where we can get our flat fixed."

But the old man was already speaking, shaking his head sadly. "Veneno. Culebra. Veneno. Culebra."

"I don't suppose those were directions to a Shell Station."

Sol was wary, puzzled. "He's going on about poison and snakes."

"I wonder why."

He probably shouldn't have asked. An unmistakable rattle started in the dry bush ten feet at his back.
Park looked - and looked again - and found a snake slithering right for his foot. He knew he couldn't
outrun a grizzly, but he'd never read about rattlesnakes. It didn't matter, anyway. His trusty,
well-educated reflexes had him frozen on the spot. It took a hard shove from Sol to get him out of the
fang's crosshairs. The snake swam in between them, divide and bite, its pointed head and tongue
snapping at both of them. The old man was forgotten.

"What should we do?" Park cried.

"Don't panic."

"I'm already panicked!"

"Don't let it bite you."

Park backed up several paces, moving to his left to place the van between him and the serpent.
Unfortunately, the snake seemed to like the smell of him better. It slid beneath the rim of the flat tyre with
its mouth open and hungry. Park knew intellectually that he should turn and run, but his upper-class,
manicured body would not cooperate.It thought that the momentit turnedits back,it would get a huge
chunk out of the back ofits calf. And maybeit was right. The snake seemed to keep its distance - six feet
- as long as he didn't move.

"Are you trying to stare it down?" Sol asked, picking up a hefty rock and creeping closer. The snake,
bent on Caucasian meat, was leaving its flank unprotected, or so it seemed.

"Where's your knife?"

"You can't kill a snake like this with a knife." With both hands, Sol raised the rock over his head. Still,
their assailant paid him no heed.
"Why aren't you carrying a gun when we need one?"

Sol whipped down his stone with a force sufficient to crack the miserable road. But the snake had only
been baiting him. This was Mexico; it wanted a Mexican. It was not in the rock's path, but rather,
incredibly, was closing its teeth on the hem of Sol's faded blue jeans. Sol made the best possible move,
which was to trounce its mid-section with his free leg. This caused the snake to lose its grip, and Sol
scampered back, but he did so hastily and stumbled on an ill-placed rock. He ended up flat on his back.
Rearing up its slimy head and hissing with glee, the snake charged. Sol's heavy calloused feet wouldn't be
armour enough. Park felt sick. Too late his friend was reaching for his knife when the snake made an
unstoppable lunge at his exposed right ankle.