Page 28 of Brimstone Hollow

Kkksssshhhhhhhh.

“Brother Ezra and I usually do this together,” he says softly, looking down at the snake.

“Do…whatexactly?” I ask, my feet rooted to the carpet.

Will adjusts his hand on the snake’s head and its jaws open, revealing pale, wet fangs.

Kkksssshhhhhhhh.

The rattle shivers violently, but Will moves with quiet deliberation, bringing the snake’s head and open mouth toward a heavy-bottomed glass beaker with what looks like a blue balloon stretched over the rim. He raises the snake’s head just enough and then—with a pop of speed and sound—the snake’s fangs sink into the thin membrane of the balloon.

An almost-neon-yellow liquid slides across the underside of the balloon and down the inside of the glass. As I watch, a cold trickle of sweat slips between my shoulder blades and drips down my spine.

“You’re milking it,” I say, with the realization.

Will nods, tilts his head to look at the level of venom in the beaker or the attitude of the snake. He lets out a slow breath through pursed lips and then pulls the snake’s head away from the beaker. The fangs release from the membrane with a barely audiblesnap.

I watch as he slowly stands and slips the snake into the large wooden box that rests on the table. Apparently content to return to its lair, the snake slithers freely into the box without a rattle and Will closes the lid behind it.

“Could I ask you a few more questions, while I’m here?” I say and notice the muscle in Will’s jaw flexing. He starts to shake his head, but, before he can tell me no, I add, “I promise it’ll just take a few minutes.”

“I guess,” he says with an apathetic shrug. The movement reminds me that, despite all this sudden grown-up responsibility, he’s still so young. Probably just out of college. Basically still a kid.

“What do you want to know?” he asks.

“First of all, why are you in here milking snakes?”

Will’s demeanor softens slightly—as if he’d been expecting a harder question—and he says, “Brother Ezra started doing it years ago. I used tohelp him. It’s a valuable community service. There’s a lab that the venom goes to.”

“A lab?”

“They use the venom to synthesize the antidote for snakebites.”

“Seriously?”

Will nods and then his face breaks into a bashful smile. He pulls a cotton hanky from his back pocket and pats his face.

“They also pay us well for the venom,” he says. “And the church needs the money.”

“Aren’t you afraid?” I ask. “Especially after what happened to Ezra?”

Will sighs heavily and then says, “Of course I’m afraid. But we always do the milking on Mondays and Fridays. I… I couldn’t make it on Friday because I was helping with the food drive. Brother Ezra told me not to worry about it, that we’d just get to it today and then… I guess he must’ve gone ahead by himself that afternoon and…” He stops, grimacing as if in pain, then says, “I just didn’t want to let him down. This work is important and it meant a lot to him.”

“I thought you said Ezra was the only one who handled the snakes,” I say.

“In services, yes. In these conditions, early in the morning, quiet… it’s not as dangerous. What Ezra did, handling them with bare hands in the middle of a loud tent revival… no, that was only for him.”

I take a few steps forward and then lean against the entryway that separates the living room from the kitchen. Will goes to the fridge and opens it up.

“You want something to drink?” he asks. Apparently, his Southern-boy home training is more powerful than his desire to get rid of me. “We’ve got lemonade. One of the women from the congregation makes it.”

I almost say no, but when he takes out the plastic pitcher and pours himself a tall glass, I change my mind. I notice that today all of the windows are open and immediately realize why. There’s a lingering scent of death and necrosis in here. Rotten flesh. Will is clearly airing the place out.

“You know,” I say. “I think I’ll take that lemonade, after all.”

He takes another glass from the cabinet, fills it, and hands it to me. We both drink. The lemonade is ice cold and so full of sugar you could probably stand a wooden spoon up in the pitcher. Will refills what he’s already drunk of his lemonade and then replaces the pitcher and sits down at the kitchen table. I take the other chair, gripping the heavy table with one hand as I scoot the equally heavy chair forward.

“If the snakes are milked, does that mean they aren’t dangerous?” I ask, suddenly wondering whether this might be the key to something. Maybe Ezra really was murdered. Maybe the snakes fit into it somehow, but it’s not as clear-cut as him just getting bit.