Snake Typhoon! Read online

  Move over Lara Croft, there’s a new action hero in town!

  When unseasonable weather hits the sunshine city of Brisbane, a freak typhoon terrorizes the citizens. It’s not just any typhoon though, it’s a snake typhoon! And the deadliest snakes in Australia, with venomous fangs are flying straight for Kez.

  Kez is the new girl in the office and she’s desperately fighting to prove herself, but what’s a girl to do when faced with a typhoon of snakes coming straight for her helicopter?

  These flying diabolical snakes will stop at nothing to kill their victims and Kez only has one option: Figure out how to stop a snake typhoon and save the world or die trying!

  Snake Typhoon

  Billie Jones

  www.CarinaUK.com

  BILLIE JONES

  is a writer from Australia, who enjoys imagining herself wrestling killer crocodiles and swimming with great white sharks. She thinks she may have to attempt base jumping so she can write about it and Bungee is on the list too. You can find her either in front of her computer writing about her fictional adventures or at the beach searching for the next perfect wave.

  Contents

  Cover

  Blurb

  Title Page

  Author Bio

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Endpages

  Copyright

  For Roneski (AKA Mamma)

  Chapter One

  The gossip is impossible to believe, but I pack my backpack and ready myself to head to the airport. My office had been abuzz with the news of some kind of freak storm heading towards the Northern Territory and, wait for it, raining snakes. So far there was no footage, and no one really believed it, but when a call came in from someone high up in a secret government department, my boss’s mouth pinched tight like he was sucking lemons and, finally, I got the nod. I’m new to the team, in an office full of zoologists all vying for the top spot. I hope I can prove I’ve got the nous to head a mission, even one as crazy as this purportedly is. At least they’re taking it seriously enough that I’m going to fly in a chopper from Brisbane to the Red Centre. The snakes wanted to see Uluru, apparently.

  Fresh out of university, and labelled the ‘new girl’, a few months in the field and I’m still the lackey. Getting flung from one snake-containment disaster to the next, to bring the crew coffee. It’s not fair, but I don’t complain. Let’s face it, it’s only a matter of time until someone picks up a snake the wrong way, and I’ll move up the hierarchy. Between us, I hope it’s Cindii, who started a day before me, which somehow translates to her flicking her glossy too-blonde hair in my face and acting superior. I mean, she started a mere twelve hours before me. And, to be honest, anyone who spells their name with two i’s like some kind of Barbie doll shouldn’t be handling snakes and cane toads, anyway. She might break a nail, or ruin the blood-red varnish she insists on wearing. She’s like Ranger Stacey on Botox.

  I suit the job description much better. Long brown hair, always tied back in a ponytail for safety reasons, khaki shirt and shorts – regulation length, steel-capped boots, a smothering of sunscreen, and super-fit physique. Just as the manual stipulates. Cindii wears tight shorts and a teeny tiny singlet which leaves her well open to being the most likely to get bitten. She can’t run, or pivot, without hoiking the shorts from whichever crevice they creep in to, and in the heat of the moment when it’s us against snake, you simply don’t have time for shorts hoiking. You just don’t.

  Shaking the vision of Cindii from my mind, I rush to the car, giving myself a silent pep talk. Secure the area, lead civilians to a safe place, contain flying snakes, save the world.

  This time it won’t be my team that pushes their shiny faces in front of a TV camera to report that disaster has been averted. It will be me. If I stay focused, I can do this.

  And let’s face it, raining snakes? Usually, there is some simple ecological reason for something extraordinary and I’ve no doubt it’s been exaggerated. Cindii said half the inhabitants of central Australia, the human ones, wake up with a beer in their hand, which they continue to drink like water throughout the day to deal with the unrelenting heat. She says it’s probably just a heatwave with the locals wearing beer goggles, and that can only mean one thing. A group of inebriated men standing over a colony of centipedes, claiming their, er, worm is biggest. But I won’t get anywhere with an attitude like that. If a secret government department says they need my help, then they’ll damn well get my help.

  I gun the engine and pull out of my driveway. My rusty old car whines as I pop her from first to third. I don’t have time for second gear, it’s a waste of energy. And the car can cope with the extra revs. Smoke billows behind; I really must remember to get the old girl serviced. Even though my job seems glamorous – nice uniform, travel and the added bonus of snake-wrangling – it’s not really all that well-renumerated. I’d get more at a fast-food outlet. But you can’t put a price on passion, and I am passionate about my job.

  Especially working so close to Jay. I nearly run a red light thinking of him. It’s just…Jay. Sigh. I always sigh when I think of him. One of those great big bosom-heaving sighs like the girls in Downtown Abbey. Jay doesn’t even know I’m alive. It’s the bloody hierarchy again, and Cindii with the two i’s always gets in first. She falls over her non-regulation thigh-high boots to get him cups of decaf and herbal teas. Leans over his desk with her buxom breasts popping out all over the place while she throws glances my way. I don’t even get a look in at his carefully coiffed hair, which he constantly flicks with his manicured hands.

  She’s like Good-time Barbie, with her cleavage spilling out all over the place, her inappropriateness making an uncomfortable heat spread through my body.

  And Jay, well, he’s more like Safari Ken. With his regulation-length shorts and his khaki shirt, which he leaves unbuttoned one hole under the required minimum (I do like a man who lives on the edge), not to mention the thick beige socks he scrunches down into his limestone-coloured desert boots. He has fine golden hair on his arms, but his legs are strangely hair-free. Must help in the field, I guess. Probably trying to avoid chafing or something else hairy-leg related. I picture myself running my hands down his smooth tanned skin, then push the vision away. I’m invisible to him. Always stuck in Cindii’s curvaceous shadow, cuddling a King Brown I’ve rescued from a day-care centre, or purring to a vibrant green tree frog who’s lost his way.

  Anyway, back to the task at hand. I’m roaring towards the heliport; time is of the essence. I’m not scared of flying in choppers, but most of my crew are, which I know is the main reason I landed the gig. I’ve even thought about getting my pilot’s licence so in future I can fly myself, but that would take some careful budgeting on my salary.

  Pulling into the small car park, I flash my badge to the guard at the gate. He nods and pushes a big button, allowing me access to the hangar. I feel a little bit special that I get to park my dinged up car near the limos and prestige cars that line the Tarmac. I ignore the frowns of the stylishly dressed women waiting silently with their designer holdalls sitting at their feet. I’m guessing they’re designer labels, by the way they give my battered mountaineering backpack the once over and stand closer to their glittery, golden mini suitcases. Cindii is a fan of those fancy bags, I know, because I’m constantly blinded by the gleam that shines off the metal labels when I’m walking behind her, watching her swing her hips like a catwalk model. It’s quite a safety hazard.

  In the distance, a bright-yellow chopper sits on the Tarmac, like a huge dragonfly. I hoist my backpack over my shoulder and head towards the helicopter. Time for me to switch on. T
he pilot gives me a half-hearted wave as I jump aboard. He’s tanned to a leathery brown and has huge biceps fighting the fabric of his flimsy T-shirt; good to know I’ve got some muscle behind me if we get into trouble up in the air.

  I hold out my hand. “I’m Kez, nice to meet you.”

  He ignores my proffered hand and looks over my shoulder.

  I turn too, and see nothing but the gleam from the damn designer bags.

  “Lost something?” I ask.

  “Where is everyone else?” he says, frowning.

  “Everyone else?”

  His jaw clenches. “Yes, your team?”

  “My team are on other missions. Why? I’m here for recon, and then I’ll call in if I need support.”

  He rubs two fingers over his moustache hair. He looks like a Magnum, P.I. wannabe. “Do you even know what you’re up against?”

  Here we go, I get this a lot. Because I’m female. Obviously in the eyes of some men I can’t wrestle newts, or take down blue-tongue lizards, because I’m a moderately attractive woman, and extremely athletic to boot.

  Hands on hips and using my most authoritative voice, I say, “Look, I’m on a time limit here. Can we get going?”

  He sits down and massages his moustache again. Really, we don’t have time for this.

  “I’ll take you, but if I see anything resembling a typhoon, I’m turning back,” he says in a very surly way.

  The weather is unseasonably wintery for summer, I admit. But I think someone’s a tad on the delusional side. I know full well we don’t get typhoons in Australia, and feel confident that if he keeps fingering his moustache so lovingly he might fall asleep and I’ll get a chance to fly a chopper without the hassle of having to pay for the privilege. With an almighty grunt I pull the door down and lock it into place.

  The chopper rotor blades start, the drum beat whooshing sound excites me as we make our way into the drizzly silver sky. Drops of rain suicide on the windscreen with a splat, and the throb of the engine sounds almost like a backing riff of a theme song, something to galvanise me for the battle ahead.

  I stoop low in the small cabin and rush to the passenger seat. “Right, it’s go time.”

  Chapter Two

  The pilot nods, and we ascend quickly through thick clouds which scatter like smoke from the force of the blades. Below me, the airport shrinks as we rise, trucks and cars buzzing along like a trail of ants. The metropolitan area looks like a map, the colours melding as one into a great big brown and green canvas with tiny white dots: houses and industrial buildings the only sign of civilisation. To my right, the deep-blue of the Tasman Sea looks like a ruffled blanket.

  Dragging my gaze back, I scan the control panel, wondering what all the buttons are for. There’s something seriously sexy about helicopters. Goosebumps break out over my body, but it takes a moment for me to realise it’s because it’s suddenly arctic inside the small space, and not the thought of chopper sex that’s viscerally affecting me. I’m just about to ask the pilot if he feels it too, when he yells, “Oh my God!” His eyes have widened so far they look like golf balls, as he lifts a shaky finger and points to something in the distance. “They were right!” he cries before I’m able to focus on what he’s seeing. I curse my short-sightedness as I fumble in my backpack for my glasses.

  “Don’t panic,” I say in a steady voice, following step one of the guidebook: How to soothe people in times of crisis.

  Glasses found, I plonk them on and turn towards the pilot, who is trembling uncontrollably. I need his expertise, so my first priority is his health. His face is a shade whiter than ivory and his neck has broken out in angry red spots, which he itches with a maniacal gleam in his eye. He stops scratching once he draws blood and hugs his knees to his chest and rocks back and forth, muttering, “We’re going to die!”

  I try to dampen my excitement that I’m about to get my chance to fly the helicopter, remembering that I’m on duty. I search my memory for what the manual would say to do in this situation. First, I press the big white button that says AUTO PILOT and turn it, glumly. It’s sort of not fair a button gets to man the chopper before me, but I am a professional and work comes first.

  Surveying the pilot, I diagnose that he’s in shock. I fling open the hatch that has a big red cross on it and look around for something to quell his nerves. Nothing is marked as such, so I take a punt and pick up the red vial. The first thing we were taught in first aid training was Red Stops Dead. I attach the syringe and then push the pilot over. Difficult because he’s as stiff as a taxidermist’s pet tiger, and there’s no room in the cockpit. I raise my arms above my head, holding the syringe, and keep my thumb on the plunger. I aim for his heart, and count.

  “One, two…three!” I say, piercing his thick skin with the shiny needle, pushing the crimson liquid straight into what I hope is his bloodstream. He lets out a spine-chilling scream, and I expel a breath I don’t realise I’ve been holding.

  He convulses, and froths at the mouth just as the manual describes, the stress and fear bubbles up and out, which will enable him to focus when he comes to. With him taken care of, I feel able to take over from The Button and fly the chopper myself. I sit in the pilot’s seat and put my belt on. Safety first, check. I push a few knobs and focus on the view outside, only to see the most alarming sight. A powerful flurry of wind and rain is whipping up in a frenzy right toward me. I lean forward and wrinkle my nose. It can’t be, it really can’t be... My heart hammers in my chest as I see them.

  “Holy fucking shitballs.” Sweat breaks out over my body, and I feel an urgent need to pee. I’m stuck in limbo between extreme fear and hysterical laughter. This cannot be happening. Millions of slithery, scaly, russet-brown bodies squirm and writhe in a seething, gorging mass, their tongues lashing outward like darts. Their whip-like tails sound like rattlesnakes and, as they rollick towards me, I see flashes of their yellow bellies. They’re fucking taipans. One of the deadliest snakes in Australia, and they’re heading towards me in what, a typhoon?

  Holy fucking shitballs.

  It’s a snake typhoon!

  I whack the heel of my palm onto every knob I can, grab the joystick and desperately plunge it upwards as I try to direct the helicopter away from the mass of deadly snakes. They must be telepathic, because they speed up and sense where I’m going before I do. One mammoth, ominous grey cloud covers the sky, and we’re thrust into semi-darkness. Thick sheets of rain lash the chopper sideways, gusts of water so loud they sound like the devil himself.

  “How the fuck are they flying like that?” the pilot screams, foam and froth still oozing from his slack mouth. I can’t help noticing his hands are cupped like he’s got frostbite. The temperature has dropped dramatically. I look down and see the ocean floor rising to meet us. Wait a minute! Why is the sea so far inland? Waves crash into buildings and the force of the typhoon wrenches the chopper downwards. “We’re going to smash into a building!” Panic takes over; we’re so close I can see the people’s terrified gazes through the glass.

  Yanking the joystick for all I’m worth, the chopper slowly rises, the engine grunts, and an alarm on the dash screeches a warning. What? Oil pressure? There’s no time to think! With gale-force winds buffeting the yellow metal bird, I realize I have to radio my team. It’s clear this is no longer a one-woman job. I try to ignore the churning in my stomach about the thought of leading a mission as important as this. Maybe it’s a test, and I just have to show them I’m capable.

  Torrential hail blankets us, and visibility reduces to nothing. At least I can’t see the taipans. Holy fuck, I can’t see them! I nod towards the pilot and yell, “You’re going to have to fly us outta here quick as you can. I need to contact my team.” I square my shoulders and try to ignore the erratic beat of my heart. The only thing I can do is get us to safety. My mind is sizzling with ideas but, first, I need to report back. Now. I hope to God that my boss doesn’t regret sending me.

  “Keep her steady!” I say, manoeuvrin
g out of his seat, but the pilot stares straight ahead, catatonic and useless. I spot some cigarettes in his shirt pocket and reach over to take one. I light it, ignoring the “No Smoking” signs, and the fact I don’t smoke. This is an emergency. Holding the cigarette in my teeth, I push the pilot forcefully down into the chair, his bones crumpling into submission. I place his cupped hands on the controls, and pray he’ll switch on. Then I grab his shoulders and try and shake the sense back into him. Nothing. Maybe I gave him too much anti-shock? Tears fall down my cheeks and, angrily, I wipe them with the back of my hand. There’s no time for a sob-fest. With one hand on the volume control, I use the other to place the headset over my ears, and try to connect with the control tower.

  “Emergency! We have a Code Black, does anyone copy? Over.” All I hear is the crackle and static, and my own voice, disconcertingly repeating back. I smash my palm into the dash, there’s no fucking signal! I try to keep the desperation from my voice, “Extreme state of emergency, I repeat we have a Code Black. Over.” Or is it Code Red? Or is that just hospitals? I damn the pilot who sits slobbering next to me while tears fall from his glassy red rimmed eyes. An overwhelming feeling of grief takes over. I don’t want to die like this! I’m either going to get bitten to death or plummet to my grave in a fuel-soaked fiery ball of steel! I picture my skin melting and feel nauseous… I was not trained to die on my first mission. I scream into the microphone, “MAYDAY, MAYDAY!” But still all I get is a crackling, static-y version of my own voice.

  I throw down the headset as large thwacks ring out overhead. There’s still no visibility, and cold fear rips through me. When I hear glass splinter, the fear is replaced by a surge of adrenaline. If I can manage to fly out of the storm, I can get us to the secret government department before the snakes get there, and then I can make a plan of attack. The snakes are the storm, the storm are the snakes! I just need to fly outta the storm before the engine burns out.