The reticulated python of Asia was the world's largest snake. For a flashing instant some part of Peter Boase's mind contemplated the irony that his last thought would be a totally irrelevant piece of data like that, culled from a random Wikipedia search years ago.
Then he was rolling on the floor with four turns of the thigh-thick, thirty-foot body around him. It threw a loop of its tail around a leg of the bed for leverage and the needle teeth bit into his captive shoulder. Air wheezed out of his lungs as the terrible pressure squeezed inward.
His scrabbling right hand came down on the knife, gashing his fingers. He gripped it and flailed at the snake's diamond-patterned body, cutting himself again, and then slashed at its head. But the tip penetrated the taut skin, and the long head came up with a hiss. It whipped aside and the nose struck the base of his thumb like a jackhammer; the hand spasmed open and the weapon went flying a second time. That gave him a single instant to gasp in a breath before the pressure resumed.
Cold reptile blood spattered his face. He wheezed again, and waited for the cracking of ribs and death.
Crackcrackcrackcrack.
Peter thought the stutter of harsh elastic snaps was the end, his own bones giving way like green sticks; then the intolerable constriction eased. He lay struggling to draw in air with his diaphram half-paralyzed. The python blurred as it thrust itself at the wall…
He blinked. It had gone through the wall, as if it were diving into a horizontal pool of water. Then it was gone. Hands gripped him under the arms and threw him into a chair; two dark-clad figures sandwiched him, backs towards him and pistols leveled outward in professional two-handed grips. Their sweat stank of fear.
"You get him, Jack?" the third man asked, his voice the rasping drawl of rural Texas.
Like them he was in nondescript dark outdoor clothing; his long, bony face was battered and weathered, and gray streaked his cropped brown hair. He threw several packs on the bed as he spoke.
"Clipped him," one of the men said in reply. "Tail, I think. He didn't have time to Wreak on the guns. And using a snake's brain probably slows your wits."
"He will Wreak first if he comes back," a woman's voice said.
"He'll be hurting," the one called Jack replied.
The older man nodded. "Even so. Blades. Guha, you do the walls. Careful about the floor join, there's no crawl space but…"
"I know, big boss," the woman said.
Her voice was singsong, the accent of someone who grew up speaking Hindi along with English, possibly added for emphasis.
They holstered the guns beneath their jackets and took out long curved knives; they looked like they were wearing some sort of body armor under their clothes as well. The woman went to the packs, shrugged one onto her back, and unclipped something that looked like a spray-paint attachment. That turned out to be exactly what it was. She started on the door and worked her way steadily and swiftly around the walls; there was a sharp creosotelike odor in the air, and everything turned a dull silver-gray beneath the nozzle.
Silver, he thought, and croaked it aloud.
"Yup," the older man said. "Harvey Ledbetter, Mr. Boase. My friends here are Jack Farmer and Anjali Guha."
The Indian woman…or more probably Indian-American, from the way she moved…finished her task. The whole inside of the little room was covered in the silver paint now, and the sharp chemical stink filled the air; the three strangers seemed to relax fractionally.
"We're safe?" he said hoarsely.
Guha handed him a glass of water; he drank it while she checked him over with impersonal skill. He winced and bit back a moan a couple of times. He'd been hurt worse whitewater rafting once, and another time while he was rock climbing, but not lately. Plus he was in generally lousy shape, weak and vulnerable.
"No broken bones, no serious sprains or tears," she said. "I will fix this bite."
He stifled another yelp when she ripped back the T-shirt over the red stain and applied antiseptic and a bandage from a kit in one of the knapsacks.
"This…this isn't enough to readdict me, is it?"
Harvey looked at him with what he thought was considering respect.
"You went cold turkey? No wonder you look like shit. You don't have to worry about that. Reestablishing the dependency would take a lot more." A grin. "And since Shadowspawn ain't infectious, like in the stories, you don't need to worry 'bout the next full moon either."
Peter let out a long breath. Right now, he was more afraid of the addiction than death; that would be preferable to going through withdrawal again.
"So we're safe?" he asked again.
"Safe? Yeah, you might say so. Unless our snaky friend has an