THE HYDRA

A hydra turns up in Glen Hartwell and starts killing people

         
         

         
         
         It was Sunday the thirtieth of November 2025, when the Clemantina Family drove their blue and yellow Micro Bus through the forest outside Willamby Township in the Victorian countryside.
         “So tell us again, Dad,” asked Millicent ‘Millie’ a tall raven-haired fifteen-year-old, “why are we spending the day in the forest picnicking, when he could be at home watching TV or talking to our girlfriends on our mobiles?”
         “You can talk to your girlfriends on your mobiles out in the forest,” offered their mother, Lillian ‘Lillie’, a short forty-year-old ash blonde.
         “There will be no using of mobiles out in the forest today,” corrected their father, Lorne, a tall, forty-four-year-old raven-haired man: “It’s strictly a wilderness day.”
         “Is that a new holiday, Wilderness Day?” asked Dilys ‘Dillie’, a short ash blonde.
         “No, it’s just Dad being mean to us again,” insisted Gillian ‘Gillie’, a thirteen-year old raven-haired girl.
         “There’s nothing mean about wanting to spend a Sunday out in the forest with my four special girls,” insisted Lorne.
         “You have a fourth daughter, who we don’t know about?” asked Dillie.
         “No, dill pickle, I meant your Mum.”
         “Just because my name is Dilys, is no reason to call me dill pickles.”
         “Just be grateful that our surname isn’t Pickles,” teased Gillie.
         “Ooh, yeah, imagine if my name actually was Dill Pickles!”
         “Actually, that would be quite funny,” teased Millie.
         “Yeah, just like if our surname was Ponds, then you’d be Mill Ponds,” teased Gillie.
         “Now that would be funny,” said Dillie.
         “Nah-ah!” protested Millie.
         “And if our surname was Anderson, you’d be Gillian Anderson.”
         “What’s wrong with that?” asked Gillie: “Gillian Anderson is a great actress.”
         “Oh yeah,” said Dillie, “I guess I didn’t think that one out properly.”
         “Gillian Anderson is also one mucho-babe,” said Lorne.
         “What?” demanded Lillie.
         “Not as mucho a babe, as you, though, honey,” he hastened to add.
         “Now that’s what I call sucking up,” said Millie, before doing an obscene slurping noise.
         “Millie!” cried Lillie.
         “You’re not too big to have your bum whipped,” chided Lorne.
         “Sorry, Mum! Sorry, Dad!” said Millie, thinking: What a bloody awful Sunday this is going to be! Still, we’ve got our mobile phones with us; if only Dad doesn’t catch us using them. Looking at her sisters and seeing their guilty looks, she realised that Dillie and Gillie were thinking the same thing.
         “Don’t worry, girls, you won’t be bored,” placated Lorne, “I’ve brought along some axes, so we can chop down some trees and build ourselves a log cabin.”
         “Wouldn’t that take like weeks?” asked Gillie.
         “Besides, I think these are old-growth trees,” said Millie before she could stop herself.
         Considering for a while, Lillie said, “Actually, I think she’s right, honey.”
         “Oh,” said Lorne, “then in that case we can settle for putting up the tent annex to the Micro Bus.”
         “Oh, God, no!” said Dilys, not meaning to say it out loud.
         “Actually, she meant to say, ‘Oh good now’,” lied Gillie.
         “That’s true, Dad,” insisted Dillie.
         “Well, the girls might not have quite grasped the concept of, ‘The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth’,” teased Lorne: “But at least they are loyal to each other.”
         “Well, that’s a start, I guess,” conceded Lillie as they stopped in a small clearing.
         “This looks like a good place to camp,” said Lorne parking the Micro Bus.
         “Dad, there’s no such thing as a good place to camp,” insisted Millie.
         “Girls,” complained Lillie, “you were born and raised in a country town and yet you know nothing about bush life or camping.”
         “Yes, your cousins took to it like a horse on fire,” said Lorne, mixing his metaphors.
         “That’s because Lucy and the others were born and raised in an inner suburb of Melbourne,” pointed out Gillian: “The countryside must have seemed different and exotic to them.”
         “Just as Melbourne would seem to us,” hastened to add Dillie.
         “But we were born and raised in the bush,” agreed Millie, “so the last thing that we want to do is go camping.”
         “Let alone to start chopping down old-growth trees, or setting up tents,” insisted Gillie.
         “We won’t be chopping down any old-growth trees,” said Lorne as he and Lillie climbed out of the Micro Bus.
         “And your Dad and I can set up the tent annex,” assured Lillie.
         “Why do we even need it?” asked Dillie: “There’s plenty of room in the Micro Bus for us to sleep.”
         “Your father and I might want to get frisky in the night,” said Lillie.
         “Ooh!” said the three teenage girls.
         “Wrinkly sex,” said Gillie.
         “We are not wrinklies,” protested Lillie, as the girls reluctantly climbed out of the rear of the vehicle, “I’m only forty, and your father is forty-four.”
         “Ooh, wrinkly sex!” said the three girls.
         “Looks like we’ll have to lean the three girls across a log and start a procession of bum whipping,” teased Lorne.
         “Sounds like it to me,” agreed Lillie sardonically.
         “Nah-ah!” said the three girls, carefully crossing their hands across their backsides.
         
         Over at the Yellow House in Rochester Road, Merridale, they were seated around the breakfast table.
         “Only ten days to go,” said Terri Scott, excitedly. A beautiful ash blonde in her late thirties, Terri was the Senior Sergeant of the BeauLarkin to Willamby area, and was engaged to be married to Colin in less than two weeks.
         “Till what, the next Mars shot?” teased Sheila Bennett, a Goth chick with black-and-orange striped hair, a bodybuilder, and Terri’s second in command.
         “No, Mad Goth chick,” teased Colin Klein, a tall redheaded Englishman who had retired after thirty years as a top London crime reporter, and now worked for the Glen Hartwell Police Department as a special adviser: “Ten days till Terri and I get married alongside Eunice Grayson and George DuBois.”
         “Although there may be a Mars shot coming up soon, for all I know,” said Freddy Kingston, a tall, balding retiree.
         “Nah,” said Leo Laxman, a tall, black Jamaican who worked as a nurse at the Glen Hartwell and Daley Community Hospital: “Donald Dum-Dum is saving up all of America’s rocketry in case he decides to try to conquer Canada after all.”
         “Didn’t America try to conquer Canada in the Canadian-American war in the 1810s?” asked Natasha Lipzing, a tall, grey-haired, old lady of seventy-one.
         “Yes,” said Colin, “the Canadian-American war of 1814 to 1815, was a spin off from the 1812-1814 war. But it was only one of six or seven times that America invaded and tried to conquer Canada in the 1800s. Each time, with help from the U.K., the Canadians kicked the Americans bloody asses; to use Yankee speak.”
         “But if the Yanks invaded Canada today, would the Canadians get any help from the U.K.?” asked Deidre Morton, a short, dumpy brunette in her sixties, who was the owner of the Yellow House.
         “Unlikely,” said Colin, “in those days the U.K. was still smarting from the U.S. War of Independence 1775-82, and Canada was a loyal British Country. Nowadays most Canadians don’t seem to think of themselves as British, and Downing Street’s Motto now is, ‘See a greasy American backside ... lick it clean.”
         “That’s a quinkydink,” said Tommy Turner, a short, fat retiree with shoulder length blonde hair, “that is Canberra’s motto also.”
         “You know what they say,” teased Sheila, “feeble minds think alike.”
         “Too true,” said everyone at the table.
         “So getting back to the subject of marriage,” insisted Natasha.
         “Uh-oh,” said Terri and Colin.
         “No, no,” said the old lady, “I was just thinking, that since you two and Eunice and George are getting married in the same ceremony, maybe Sheila and Derek Armstrong could get married too, making it a triple service.”
         “Uh-oh, we should have seen this coming,” teased Terri, “Deidre and Tash spent a year matchmaking with you and me, Colin, so we should have foreseen them going after poor Derek and Sheila next.”
         “Or at least we should have warned Derek and Sheila,” added Colin.
         “Why, it sounds like a great idea to me,” agreed Deidre Morton.
         “Yes, marriage is the making of any man,” insisted Tommy, “I was married six times, and look at me.”
         “You make a strong case against marriage, Tom-Tom,” teased Freddy Kingston.
         “Actually, I did, in my usual subtle way, suggest the idea of a triple wedding to Derek,” admitted Sheila.
         “And?” asked Terri Scott.
         “He said something about four’s company, six is a crowd.”
         “Sounds like he’s not quite ready for commitment yet, Sheils,” said Leo.
         “Well, we’ll have to coerce him into it,” said Natasha.
         “Yes, he’s just turned fifty-one,” said Deidre, “and Sheila isn’t getting any younger.”
         “Strangely enough no one ever gets younger as the years pass,” teased Sheila, “except possibly in a backwards universe.”
         “Sheils, you really do watch way, way too much Doctor Who,” teased Colin.
         “Nah-ah,” said the Goth chick: “As I’ve told you before, you can watch enough Doctor Who, or not enough, but it’s impossible to watch too much.”
         “Actually, she has told us that with monotonous regularity,” said Terri.
         “But actually backwards universes do not come from Doctor Who; they come from Red Dwarf,” insisted the Goth chick.
         “Which tells me nothing, since I’ve never heard of Red Dwarf,” said Deidre.
         “It’s a cult U.K. Sci-Fi sitcom that was made from 1987 to 2020,” said Colin.
         “They keep talking about new episodes or specials that are going to be made soon,” explained Sheila, “then at the last minute, we’re always told that it’s just gossip.”
         “So back to the subject of a triple wedding,” insisted Natasha Lipzing.
         
         In the forest outside Willamby Township, the Clemantina Family had set up the tent annex on the side of their blue and yellow Micro Bus, and Lorne had set up a cook fire on which he had dangled a pot of coffee, and over which Lillie was holding a large pan full of bacon and eggs for the family’s breakfasts.
         “Yummy, scrummy bacon and eggs for brekkie soon, girls,” said Lillie.
         “Is there any toast to put the eggs on?” asked Dillie, who always liked her eggs on toast.
         “Oh, sorry, honey, I forgot,” said the blonde: “Next time I’ll bring the toaster, I’m sure we can run it from the Bus’s battery.”
         “Next time?” asked Gillie and Dillie, sounding horrified.
         “Yes, next time,” insisted Lorne: “You didn’t think that this was a one off, never to be repeated event did you.”
         “Like they say with Boxing Day and July Sales each year, despite having identical sales every year,” said Lillie.
         “Oh no!” said Dillie and Gillie.
         “Well, if there’s going to be a next time,” said Millie, “can we next time bring along the TV and run it off the Micro Bus’s battery.”
         “That would run down the battery forcing us to walk home,” pointed out Lorne.
         “So how far away is home?” asked Millie: “One kilometre or so, we can all walk that easily.”
         “Actually it’s more like five kilometres,” said Lillie.
         “How far is that?” asked Dillie.
         “Five times as far as one kilometre,” teased Millie.
         “Thank you, Marie Curie,” teased Gillie, “even we could work that out!”
         “The point I’m making, is that we would risk having to walk five Kays to get to spend the day watching TV.”
         “Watching TV is not the reason we brought you out into the forest, honey,” said Lorne.
         “Besides, if the battery went flat, how would your father and I get to work the next Monday?”
         “You could always walk,” Gillie risked saying: “Surely it’s a lot less than five Kays from where we live, to where you both work.”
         “She’s got us there, honey,” admitted Lorne: “Anyway, your mother and I are going to have a rest in the annex, before going for a swim in the Yannan which is about a kilometre away.”
         “Ooh, wrinkly sex!” said all three girls starting toward the forest.
         “We are not wrinklies!” insisted Lillie: “And where are you three going?”
         “Just into the bushes for some exercise,” Millie lied.
         “Okay, girls, don’t get lost,” called Lorne as he and Lillie headed toward the tent annex for some steamy sex.
         “We won’t,” called back the teenagers, without looking back.
         As soon as they were out of sight of the Micro Bus, the three girls took out their mobile phones and rang their girlfriends to start nattering.
         “Yeah, they’ve gone on some kind of whacky back to nature kick,” said Millie over the phone to Ester Carmichael.
         “Oh, that is so pathetic, poor you,” sympathised Ester.
         “Next time, we’re bringing the TV and draining the Bus’s battery to watch it,” said Millie more from hope than expectation.
         “That is like, so cool,” enthused Ester.
         
         When they had finished eating, Terri, Sheila, Colin, and Leo all headed outside.
         “We’ll give you a lift to the hospital, mate,” offered Terri.
         “Thanks,” said Leo, before walking over to get into the shotgun seat, next to Sheila.
         “Okay, hit ‘em up and move ‘em out,” teased Terri.
         “I think that means, that you can start the Lexus now, Sheils,” advised Colin.
         “I did wonder.”
         
         Over at Willamby, Lillie and Lorne Clemantina had finished their wrinkly sex, had had an hour’s sleep, and were now heading off toward the Yannan River, not more than a kilometre from the camp sight.
         “The girls don’t know what they’re missing,” said Lillie enjoying the crunch of the dried gum leaves and pine needles beneath her pink and white thongs.
         Breathing in deeply, Lorne said, “Smell that sweet eucalyptus and pine scent. The girls probably don’t even enjoy that.”
         “Enjoy it; the probably haven’t even noticed it,” insisted Lillie: “I think they’d prefer the pong of petrol and factory fumes in Melbourne.”
         “That’s true,” agreed Lorne as they finally reached the sandy banks of the Yannan River: “What do you make of three country girls who can’t stand the country?”
         “You got me,” said Lillie, she dropped her towel to reveal that she was wearing a daring yellow and white striped monokini.
         “Ooh, sexy!” said Lorne, dropping his towel to reveal that he was wearing baggy khaki trunks, which looked more like crumpled shorts than bathers.
         “Less sexy,” teased Lillie. Kicking off her thongs, she raced across to the river, shouting: “Cannonball!” as she leapt in holding her legs with her hands.
         “What is unsexy about these?” demanded Lorne, almost forgetting to kick the thongs off his feet before diving in after his beautiful wife, shouting: “Cannonball!” as he leapt in, making Lillian laugh.
         “I think my cannonball was sexier,” teased Lillian.
         “Nah-ah,” said Lorne, imitating the girls and making the blonde laugh.
         “So, do you want to make out in the river?” asked Lillian: “They saw that in cold water you can fuck forever, because the cold keeps the man erect, but stops him from ejaculating.”
         “What if the girls arrive and catch us making out?”
         “They won’t be able to see what’s going on under the water!”
         “I suppose not,” said Lorne ripping off his shorts to hurl up onto the bank.
         In her monokini, Lillie could not toss away the bottom half, but she managed to slip out of it, saying:
         “Anyway you should know that the girls won’t go anywhere near a river. They only like water in the shower, a hot tub, or in a concrete walled swimming pool.”
         “Yes, they’re real country girls,” teased Lorne, making his wife giggle and swim across so that they could start making out again.
         
         Arriving back at the camp site nearly four hours after leaving, Gillie said, “I wonder what happened to Mum and Dad?”
         “You don’t think that they’re still doing wrinkly sex in the annex?” asked a horrified looking Dillie.
         “One of us will have to go and check,” said an equally horrified looking Millie.
         “Not it!” cried Gillie and Dillie, putting their right hands up.
         “Damn, I wish I hadn’t thought of it now,” said Millie:
         Putting a hand over her eyes, with the fingers only slightly apart as she approached the khaki coloured annex. Reluctantly she pulled the flap of the annex apart, heaved a sigh of relief, and then said:
         “Nah-ah, they must have gone swimming.”
         “Should we go swimming too?” asked Dillie.
         “And risk seeing them having wrinkly sex in the water?” asked Millie: “Or worse; naked on the bank.”
         “Ooh, wrinkly sex!” said all three girls.
         “Do you think we can risk using our mobile phones in the campervan?” asked Dillie.
         “As long as one of us stands guard outside,” suggested Gillie.
         “Not it!” cried Millie and Dillie, putting their right hands up.
         “Damn, I should have seen that one coming,” said Gillie.
         She took a deck chair to sit outside the tent annex, while her sisters went inside to start nattering to their girlfriends again.
         
         After an hour or so of rutting in the water without Lorne being able to ejaculate, or go soft, Lorne and Lillie were both starting to get frustrated.
         “Let’s climb out onto the bank to finish up,” suggested Lillie.
         “Good idea, babe,” said Lorne.
         They both crawled out onto the sandy bank, where they had left their towels. Before they could start coupling again, however, they heard movement in the forest behind a large blue gum tree.
         “What a time for the girls to decide to come swimming,” complained Lorne.
         “Well, they’re gonna have to put up with seeing this wrinkly naked,” said Lillie, “’cause I’m not satisfied yet.”
         “That’s part of the reason why I married you,” teased Lorne, “you are such a tigress when it comes to sex.”
         “Rowr rowr, “ growled the blonde, waving her long fingers like claws.
         Playing along, her husband climbed onto his hands and knees to approach her from behind, stopping as the first head appeared from behind the old-growth blue gum trees.
         “Girls, couldn’t you have waited another ...?” began Lillie, stopping to stare in terror as the great green, diamond-shaped snake head appeared from behind the tree: “Sn ... sn ...snake!” she said, pointing.
         Just about to mount her doggy-style, wondering if he could sneak his penis in through her sphincter muscle, something that she had never allowed him to do, Lorne stopped and looked where she pointing.
         As he looked up a second, and then a third diamond shaped, reptilian head appeared, all on the left side of the blue gum; each head at least the size of a large dinner plate.
         “Jesus,” said Lorne instantly losing his erection, “what kind of snakes are those? I’ve seen Lowland Copperheads, Tiger Snakes, and Eastern Brown Snakes in this area, and even a few Red-bellied Black Snakes. But those are like earthworms compared to the size of those things!”
         Lillian climbed up and slowly pulled her monokini back into place, saying, “Maybe you should put your trunks back on, honey.”
         After a second’s hesitation, he slowly inched back to where his baggy trunks lay upon the sandy bank of the Yannan River.
         “Maybe we should return to the water,” suggested the tall, raven-haired man.
         “What if they’re water snakes?” asked Lillie as a fourth, fifth, and then sixth diamond-shaped snake head appeared, this time around the right-hand side of the gum tree.
         “Well, we know that they can travel on dry land, so we’d better risk them not being water snakes.”
         “Okay,” Lillian said.
         She stared in horrified amazement as the six snake heads suddenly appeared all upon the left side of the tree; all attached to different necks, but connected to one massive reptilian body, perhaps a metre thick and fifteen metres long.
         “What the Hell is that thing?” asked Lorne, frozen from terror.
         “I don’t know, but I’m risking the river!” shouted Lillian.
         Turning, she raced toward the Yannan River, unaware that her husband was too terrified to follow her.
         Seeing the woman taking flight, the Hydra exhaled a massive burst of stinky, green fumes, the way people break wind in Canadian animation.
         Lillian and Lorne started coughing, feeling their lungs burning, before the tall, raven-haired man fell to the thick carpet of pine needles and dried gum leaves ... Dead!
         The short ash blonde almost made it back to the imagined safety of the river, before her lungs exploded in her chest, making her scream aloud before falling to the sandy bank, dead.
         
         As it started to get dark, and the three teenagers started to get starving, Millie and Dillie came out of the tent annex.
         “As much as I hate saying it,” said Millie, “I think we’d better go to the river to try to find Mum and Dad, so we don’t starve to death.”
         “Ooh, wrinkly sex,” said Gillie as they started out.
         “Surely they can’t still be at it,” opined Dillie: “I mean, they’re ancient, surely they don’t have much staying power?”
         “No, but they could be lying naked on their towels sleeping off whatever wrinklies regard as sex,” suggested Millie.
         “Ooh, wrinkly nudity!” said all three girls.
         They stopped to consider this for a moment, before reluctantly starting forward again, driven on by their hunger.
         When they finally reached the Yannan River, the girls heaved a sigh of relief to see their parents lying, wearing swimsuits upon the ground; Lorne facing the forest; Lillie facing the river.
         “Mum! Dad! We’re starving!” called Gillie.
         “Wakey, wakey, eggs and baccy,” called Millie, making her sisters groan as she used one of their parents’ sayings.
         “Wow, they’re out like a blown neon,” said Dillie.
         It was only as they approached within a metre or two of their parents that they noticed the green mucus which had flowed from the mouths of their parents; along with something white which looked like tripe.
         “Oh God, have they been eating tripe out here?” asked Gillie.
         Then approaching close enough to touch him, Millie realised, “That’s not tripe, it’s one of Dad’s lungs.”
         The three girls started to scream as the truth finally hit them: their parents were both dead.
         
         Sitting around the dining table at the Yellow House, Sheila Bennett said, “I am ready for some of your exquisite cuisine, Mrs. M.”
         “Well, you’re in for a treat ...” began Deidre Morton, stopping as Terri’s mobile phone rang.
         “Oh, no!” protested Sheila, “why do people always ring just as we’re about to be thrilled by Mrs. M.’s latest culinary masterpiece.”
         “Those are some big words for you, Mad Goth chick,” teased Colin.
         “Put a sock in it, constable!”
         “Actually, I’m a special advisor, outside the rank system.”
         “Is that true?” asked Sheila.
         “Yes,” said Terri, without taking the phone from her ear. Finally she disconnected and said: “That was Millie Clemantina; the girls have found their parents dead in the forest near the Yannan River.”
         “Well, at least it’s not far away,” said Natasha Lipzing.
         “Five Kays outside Willamby,” added Terri.
         “Oopsy,” said Tommy Turner: “So if you’re gonna be away all night, I guess we can have all of your tucker!”
         “Firstly, I do not serve tucker, I serve cuisine,” corrected Deidre.
         “And secondly, you’re a greedy pig, Tom-Tom,” finished Freddy Kingston.
         “We can’t let good food go to waste.”
         “It’s roast lamb, followed by a large pineapple pie,” said Deidre: “I can reheat the main course for Terri, Sheila, and Colin, and save large slices of pie and whipped cream for them.”
         “It’s a good thing your fridge is lockable,” said Leo Laxman.
         “Are you suggesting that I’m such a glutton, that I would sneak down after dark, to steal someone else’s food?”
         “Yes!” said everyone except Tommy and Terri.
         “Shush everybody, please,” said Terri, “I’m ringing Louie Pascall to take us there in his Bell Huey.”
         “He’ll be thrilled,” said Sheila sarcastically.
         “He should be,” said Colin: “He gets paid $350 bucks per day, and if we still need him after midnight, that’s seven hundred bucks for just a few hours work.”
         “As I said, “He’ll be thrilled,” Sheila repeated: “Seriously, he will be.”
         
         Just over an hour later, they arrived at the camp site five kilometres outside Willamby just as three air ambulance choppers were taking off with Millie, Gillie, and Dillie Clemantina aboard. Using his chopper’s floodlight to light up the camp site almost like day, Louie landed his red and white Bell Huey.
         Sheila hurried across to take the death scene photos with her mobile camera.
         “Be careful,” warned Tilly Lombstrom, a tall, attractive fifty-something brunette, and second in charge of the Glen Hartwell Hospital: “We think that that green glop is what killed them.”
         “Yeech,” said Sheila, staying as far away as possible to take the photos.
         “Glop, is that a technical term?” teased Colin.
         “It sure is,” said Jesus Costello, a tall solidly built fifty-something man; administrator and chief surgeon at the hospital: “We only use it when we’re trying to impress people with how like clever we be.”
         “He’s getting a little sarky in his early middle years,” teased Terri Scott.
         When Sheila finished taking the photos, Elvis Green, the local coroner, and fervid Elvis Presley fan, dressed in a yellow, plastic protective suit walked across to scoop up a litre or so of the muck into one plastic container. Opening a second container, as he scooped the white substance in, Elvis said:
         “I think this might be one of the poor bastard’s lungs.”
         “Yeech!” said Terri, Colin, and Sheila.
         “What could make him throw up a lung?” asked Sheila.
         Pointing to the seared state of the gum leaves, pine needles, and even dirt where he had scooped up the glop, Elvis said:
         “Some kind of very strong acid at a guess.”
         “Could the Acid Man be back?” asked Colin. [See my story, ’The Acid Man’.]
         “No we reduced the Acid Man to so much muck,” reminded Tilly, “by pouring strong alkaline substance over him.”
         “So what’s your best guess so far?” asked Terri.
         “I’m gonna say, something goofy has happened here,” said Jesus.
         “You doctors and your scientific jargon,” teased Sheila, making everybody laugh.
         Putting on protective helmets, that made them look like aliens from a Z-Sc-Fi flick from the 1950s, Jesus said:
         “I don’t want to risk examining the corpses here where that green glop is, so we’ll take the bodies to the hospital.”
         “Hey, Tils, that’s a great new look for you,” teased Sheila.
         “Get stuffed, Mad Goth chick.”
         “Ouch, touchy.”
         “So has anyone found any clues?” Terri asked half a dozen other cops standing around.
         “There’s what looks like a pipe trail over there,” said Donald Esk, a tall, ox of a man, with shoulder-length brown hair: “As though someone has dragged a thick pipe through the forest.”
         “Why would anyone drag a thick pipe through the forest?” asked Wendy Pearson, a forty-six-year-old honey blonde, who looked more like a fashion model than a cop.
         “The Department of Buildings and Works aren’t doing any work on the sewerage or water pipes around here, are they?” asked Suzette Cummings, a pretty, seventeen year old raven haired cadet, who had to go to Melbourne in a few weeks’ time for her final police exams.
         “Nope, we rang Eunice and George to ask them,” explained Jessie Baker, a huge, one hundred and eighty centimetre tall, redheaded man.
         “They must’ve been thrilled,” said Sheila.
         “Actually they were,” said Jessie: “I’m their best man when the four of you get married in ten days’ time.”
         “Who’s your best man?” asked Sheila.
         “Donald Esk,” said Colin.
         “And I’m the maid of honour, right?”
         “Afraid not, Sheils, my seven-year-old niece, Tasha, is our maid of honour.”
         “You can have two maids of honour.”
         “Yes, and that would look great; a short seven-year-old-blonde maid of honour, and a huge, hulking bodybuilding Goth chick with orange-and-black striped hair!”
         “If I carried her down the aisle we wouldn’t look too out of place together. She could still hold the train of your gown while I’m carrying her.”
         “The word you’re looking for is incongruous,” explained Colin:, “And yes, you would look incongruous carrying a seven-year-old girl down the aisle behind Terri on our wedding day.”
         “Darn it!”
         
         Dennis duBeck at a hundred and fifty-five centimetres tall, as its founder and leader, was a giant of a man at the LePage and Elroy Battle Re-Enactment Society. The society prided itself upon being able to re-enact almost any war. But today, Monday the 1^st of December, 2025, they were going to spend the whole day hunting down escaped Roman slaves, played by Marcus Youngblood, and thirty-six or so of his troop.
         Dressed as Roman centurions, some in papier-mâché armour, some in more realistic chain mail, and some in Sherwood Forest green for some reason; most were carrying wooden swords and shields, but a few had authentic metal weapons.
         Dennicus (Dennis), Kennicus (Kenneth Maudsley) forty, a tall, plumpish man with long wavy blonde hair, and Marshacus (Marsha Maudsley, Kenneth’s wife, a thirty-something two-metre-tall body-builder) were the three leaders of different Legions (groups of Roman soldiers) who would set out to hunt for the runaway slaves, played by the Elroy chapter of the society, led by inveterate prankster, Marcus Youngblood.
         “Marshacus call your Legion to attention!” ordered Dennis to his third in charge.
         “My Legion to attention!” called Marsha Maudsley, probably the best soldier in the re-enactment society. Then, dismayed by their slapdash shuffling, she shouted: “Stand to attention, you worthless Legionnaire-wannabees!”
         Which had the desired effect of bringing them to order!
         “Excellent, Marshacus. Now, Kennicus!”
         “My Legion to attention!” shrieked Kenneth Maudsley, terrifying his Legion into line.
         “Excellent. My Legion!” shouted Dennis.
         The most well-trained of all the re-enactment troops, his Legion snapped to attention like real soldiers.
         “Excellent, as always,” said Dennicus: “Now, quick march!”
         He raised his right arm in a ‘Heil Caesar’ gesture, and the troops started forward.
         “Let’s go hunt down some escaped slaves for Caesar!” shouted Kennicus.
         “Aaaaaaaaaaah!” Marsha shrieked her battle cry, scaring the Hell out of most of the Roman Legions.
         “Marsha, honey,” called Kenneth Maudsley.
         “Don’t worry, Kennicus,” said Dennis, “if she scares the escaped slaves even half as much as she scares us, they’ll be no trouble at all.”
         
         In broad daylight, Terri, Colin, Sheila and the others had started following the tracks which they still thought had been caused by someone dragging a large pipe; however, when the tracks did an intricate turn a few of times, Terri said:
         “Something tells me that these tracks were not made by someone dragging a large pipe.”
         “What else could have caused them?” asked Colin Klein.
         “Some kind of animal perhaps?” intuited Terri.
         “But the only animal that slithers along the ground is a snake,” pointed out Suzette Cummings.
         “And God help us if a snake that size is on the loose in Willamby,” said the Goth policewoman.
         “Surely there are no snakes that size?” asked Donald Esk,
         “If there are, they’d be called serpents, not snakes,” said Colin.
         “You know how to reassure everyone, honey,” teased Terri.
         “You never know,” said Sheila, taking delight in scaring her fellow officers, “there was a case in America in the 1990s, where hearing sounds from under the floorboards of their house, the father of the house crawled under the house and found himself face to face with a twenty metre long, one metre thick diamond-back snake.”
         “What did he do?” asked Wendy Pearson: “Besides trying his best not to piss himself, while crying.”
         “He crawled back out from under the house, and called the Local Animal Control. They managed to get it out without too much hassle; in fact the snake wasn’t vicious at all.”
         “How did it get under there?” asked Terri.
         “According to Animal Control, it probably crawled under the house as a tiddler eight or ten years ago, then lived off mice, rats, locals cats, even dogs which made the mistake of going under there.”
         “Ooh, poor puddies,” said Suzette.
         “Poor puppies,” said Donald Esk.
         “The Animal Control people did say that the area had had dozens of pets vanish over the previous decade or so.”
         “Sheils, if you’re trying to gross us out, you’ve done a great job!” said Terri as they continued through the forest a little less enthusiastically now.
         “And if you’re trying to scare the Shiite out of us, you’ve also succeeded,” said Suzette.
         “Maybe we should continue this search from the air,” suggested Colin.
         “Good thinking, babe,” said Terri, taking out her mobile phone, “I’ll ring for Louie Pascall.”
         “Bonza, he’ll be chuffed to earn an extras three hundred and fifty simoleons,” said Sheila.
         “Sheila, you’ve been spending way too much time around Magnolia McCready,” suggested Colin.
         
         Midway between LePage and Elroy, Dennis duBeck’s Roman Legions had hunted for Marcus Youngblood’s escaped slaves for nearly an hour, when they stepped out into a clearing and saw them.
         “What the fuck?” asked Dennis, not usually a swearer.
         Instead of being in Roman garb, the slaves were wearing black-face and looked more like the black and white minstrels than like Roman Slaves, with white and black striped suits with frilly collars and cuffs. Seeing Dennis, Marsha, and Kenneth, Marcus went down on one knee, and in a feeble impression of Al Jolson sang:
         “Mammy
         “How I loves ya,
         “How I loves ya,
         “My dear ole mammy,
         “I’d walk a mill-ion miles
         “For one of ya smiles,
         “My ma-ah-ah-ammy!”
         “Something tells me that Marcus is not taking this re-enactment seriously,” said Marsha.
         “You mean that he’s fucking about like an idiot again,” said her husband.
         “Marcus, what the Hell is the meaning of this?” demanded Dennis.
         “Why Massa Bob, we just be poor ‘scaped slave boys and girls.”
         “Hallelujah Massa Bob!” cried all of the black-faced slaves.
         “You know damned well, that most Roman slaves were mostly white or Asian, and did not dress up like Al Jolson on a bad day!” insisted Dennis: “And do not call me Massa Bob! If you keep screwing around like this, I will put a motion before the Re-enactment Council to have you all expelled from the LePage and Elroy Battle Re-Enactment Society.”
         “You can’t do that, Big Head, I run the Elroy chapter of the society,” insisted Marcus Youngblood.
         “Then, I’ll put forward a motion for the LePage chapter to separate from your chapter, so that we do not have to put up with your clownish shenanigans anymore.”
         “Here, here!” cried Marsha, Kenneth, and most of the other Roman Legions.
         “Lighten up, Captain Tight-Arse,” teased Marcus: “It was just a joke, you need to develop a sense of humour!”
         “Here, here!” cried most of the black-face wearing slaves.
         “I have a sense of humour, but this is a total shambles!”
         “A total mockery of our re-enactment,” added Marsha.
         “We spent hours getting our battle dress exactly right,” said Kenneth.
         “And you clowns turn up dressed like the Black and White Minstrels,” added Dennis.
         “Here, here!” agreed the Roman Centurions.
         “Tight-arses,” said Marcus, “okay give us an hour and we’ll get the black face off and come back as Roman slaves.”
         “One hour only!” insisted Dennis, almost seething from rage.
         
         Outside Willamby, Terri, Sheila, Colin, and Wendy Pearson rode in Louie Pascall’s Bell Huey, trying to track the snake, or whatever it was, that had left the giant slither marks from the camp site where Lorne and Lillie Clemantina had died.
         “You get a good view from up here, don’t you Wendy?” asked Sheila.
         “Um, yes,” said Wendy a little green-faced, not good with heights, having to fight the rising bile threatening to erupt up from her throat: “Sure do.”
         “See any sign of it yet?” asked Terri, a little worried in case Wendy projectile vomited over her.
         “Nah,” said Sheila, “but the trail is continuing on, maybe all the way to Glen Hartwell.”
         “Well, maybe take it just a little faster, Louie. If we don’t find it by lunchtime, we may have to bring in Bulam-Bulam and follow the trail in cars after all.”
         “Oh, God, don’t mention lunchtime,” said Wendy, she hurriedly pulled open the left side window and vomited outside.
         Most of the vomit blew forward to spray the outside of the windscreen.
         “Hey,” complained Sheila, “we’re trying to see here!”
         “Just be grateful, Sheils, that you didn’t have your window open,” teased Louie. He pushed a button to spray water up on the outside of the windscreen to wash away most of the vomit.
         
         Marcus Youngblood’s Roman slaves did their best to remove their blackface, only to find that boot black had been a bad idea: We should have stuck to burnt cork! Marcus thought as they struggled to remove the shoe polish with turpentine and methylated spirits: All because Captain Tight-Arse has no sense of humour!
         After struggling for over twenty minutes to remove the black face, they finally gave it up as a bad job and changed from their minstrel costumes into their leather and Papier-mâché Roman slave garbs.
         They had barely finished changing, with five minutes left from their one hour given by Dennis duBeck, when they heard movement in the long grasses nearby.
         “Typical,” said Geordie MacQwerta, Marcus’s second in command, a forty-something man with long raven hair, and a broad Geordie accent from where he was born in Newcastle upon Tyne England, despite having been in Victoria since his late teens: “After giving us exactly one hour to change, Captain Tight-Arse is sneaking up on us five minutes early.”
         “What else can you expect from the LePage Chapter?” asked Marcus: “They’re all bloody cheats; as well as tight-arses with no sense of humour.”
         “I thought the Black and White Minstrel costumes were a brilliant idea of yours, Chief,” said Geordie, never one to miss an opportunity to suck up to teacher.
         “Thanks Geordie,” said Marcus, pulling his sword from its scabbard.
         “Let’s give ‘em a wee shock, Chief,” said Geordie, pulling his sword also.
         Only Marcus, Geordie and two other members of the Elroy chapter had steel swords, the rest had to do with wooden replicas.
         Marcus and Geordie sneaked up to the forest.
         “I think it’s coming from behind that old-growth blue gum,” opined Marcus.
         “Good call, Chief,” said Geordie going to the left of the blue gum, as Marcus went to the right.
         “On my call, we charge, swords waving,” said Marcus; then as the rustling became much louder: “Charge, Geordie!”
         The two men raced into the forest, swinging their steel swords wildly, and more by luck than any skill, managed to chop two heads out of six off the massive multi-headed snake standing before them. In mere seconds the two amputated heads regenerated, along with two more, increasing the reptile to an eight-headed Hydra.
         “Jesus above, what is this monster?” asked Geordie as the two men started retreating less courageously than they had advanced.
         “I think it’s the Lernaean Hydra, a multi-headed serpent monster from Greek mythology,” said Marcus: “It’s most famous for being the subject of Hercules's second labour.”
         “Can we kill it?” asked Geordie, trying to sound courageous despite his desire to run screaming away.
         “Not without a flame thrower,” said Marcus: “In legend, Hercules, needed help from his nephew Iolaus to cauterize the neck wounds with fire to prevent the heads regrowing after being amputated.”
         “In the meantime, Chief, what do we do?”
         “To quote Monty Python, ‘Chicken Out’!” shouted Marcus, dropping his sword in terror as he turned and raced back into the clearing shouting: “Run for your fucken lives!”
         “Great idea, Chief!” shouted Geordie somehow managing to hold onto his sword as he raced out into the clearing, with the sound of the Hydra slithering along behind them. Without stopping, he shouted, “Run like buggery!”
         “What’s up?” asked Angus MacQwerta, Geordie’s cousin. Then seeing the eight-headed serpent racing toward them, he agreed, “Run like sloppy buggery everyone!”
         “What’s up?” asked a young, busty blonde ‘slave’ stopping as the Hydra exhaled it’s deadly green fumes upon her and thirty or so other members: “Oh, God, I can’t brea ...!” she cried before coughing up one of her lungs.
         Her last rational thought before dying shrieking from agony was: But I’m only thirty-two?
         All around the dying blonde were men and women shrieking and gagging upon the toxic green fumes, many coughing up one or both lungs. The lucky ones died quickly, the unlucky ones, like the blonde, died shrieking in excruciating pain and terror, not knowing why they were dying, even as they were dying.
         
         Dennis, Kenneth, Marsha, and the LePage Chapter’s Roman Legions were waiting less than a kilometre away, while Dennis kept checking his watch.
         “Do you think they can stop playing silly buggers long enough to take part in the re-enactment?” asked Marsha, who enjoyed the war games, and hated it when Marcus’s Elroy Chapter did not take things seriously.
         “I hope so,” said Dennis, not sounding confident.
         “Even if they do, Chief, you should report them to the Re-enactment Council for their unprofessional behaviour early,” said Kenneth Maudsley.
         “Absolutely,” agreed Marsha: “We could be happily slaughtering the runaway slaves by now, if Marcus had a clue what professionalism means.”
         “Don’t worry I’ll make certain that the council learns all about today’s shenanigans.”
         “Excellent,” said Marsha and Kenneth as one.
         Looking away from his wristwatch, Dennis said, “All right, their hour is up.”
         “Let’s hope that they have learnt their lesson, Chief,” said Marsha.
         A moment later, Marcus Youngblood, Geordie and Angus MacQwerta and half a dozen other members of the Elroy Chapter ran screaming in terror out of the forest.
         “Aaaaaaaaaaah!” Marsha shrieked at them, thinking that they were starting the re-enactment at last.
         Instead, the nine or ten men and women dropped their weapons in terror and raced off in another direction.
         “What the Hell are they playing at now?” asked Dennis.
         “Buggerising around like usual,” opined Kenneth.
         “Aaaaaaaaaaah!” shrieked Marsha, charging after the fleeing ‘slaves’.
         “Should we run after her, Chief?” asked Kenneth.
         “Yes, if only to prevent her from killing any of Marcus’s amateurs.”
         So saying the two men and thirty or so of their Legionnaires started after Marsha and the fleeing slaves, and were soon closing upon Marcus Youngblood and his people, but not as rapidly as Marsha Maudsley who was still roaring in rage and excitement.
         “We’ll never catch her in time,” posited Kenneth.
         “Well, it’s their own fault for making us wait,” said Dennis: “They know that Marsha gets excitable when forced to wait.”
         “And she does love a good skirmish,” said Kenneth, chuckling as his wife drew closer to the fleeing slaves shrieking her war cry almost continuously.
         “I think poor Marcus and his troop will be wetting themselves before Marsha even catches up with them,” said Dennis, making the Roman Legions all chuckle at Marcus’s expense.
         “I really do love that huge woman,” said Kenneth.
         Finally, panting furiously Kenneth, Dennis, and the others caught up to the Elroy Chapter, who had abandoned their weapons and were cowering, some crying while Marsha stood over them, shrieking:
         “Aaaaaaaaaaah!”
         “We surrender already,” said Geordie: “Don’t let her kill us.”
         “Well done, Centurion Marshacus,” said Dennis.
         “Calm down, honey, you’re making Marcus wet himself,” teased Kenneth.
         “Aaaaaaaaaaah!” shrieked the tall, Amazonian brunette.
         “So what is this all about Marconius?” demanded Dennis.
         “And where are the rest of your slaves?” asked Kenneth.
         “Aaaaaaaaaaah!” bellowed Marsha.
         “Could you at least take her away from us?” pleaded Marcus.
         “I love her, but no way am I going to try shifting her when she gets excited like this,” offered Kenneth.
         “Very wise,” said Dennis, “better her terrifying them, than terrifying us!”
         “Aaaaaaaaaaah!” shrieked Marsha.
         “So where are the rest of your troop?” demanded Dennis.
         “All dead,” said Marcus.
         “Dead?” repeated Kenneth.
         “Killed by a Hydra.”
         “A Hydrabrax?” misheard Dennis: “Even if they were real, what would an Egyptian Hydrabrax be doing between LePage and Elroy?”
         “Not a Hydrabrax,” corrected Geordie: “The Lernaean Hydra!”
         “I thought Hercules killed the Lernaean Hydra?” asked Kenneth.
         “Apparently not,” said Marcus: “Anyway, it had six heads, until Geordie and I each cut of one of its heads.”
         “And four new ones grew in their places,” finished Dennis.
         “So, thanks to you bungling idiots, we now have an eight-headed Hydra on the loose in the area?” said Kenneth.
         “Aaaaaaaaaaah!” cried Marsha, but with less intensity as she finally started to calm down.
         Sighing from frustration, Dennis said, “He’s right, don’t you idiots know that to defeat the Lernaean Hydra, Hercules, needed help from his nephew Iolaus to cauterize the neck wounds with fire to prevent the heads regrowing after being amputated?”
         “Yes,” but we didn’t know it was a Hydra when we leapt out at it,” explained Marcus: “We thought it was your shower sneaking up on us five minutes early.”
         “How dare you!” complained Dennis: “Firstly my Legions are not a shower, they are highly disciplined professionals!”
         “Unlike your Elroy shower,” added Kenneth.
         “And secondly, we do not break our word! I said that you had an hour, so you should have known that whatever you heard it was not my Legions.”
         “Absolutely,” agreed Kenneth, and the now much calmer Marsha.
         “Well, I suppose we had better go and investigate,” suggested Dennis.
         “Don’t go out there,” advised Marcus, “the Hydra could still be there breathing out its deadly green fumes.”
         “That’s right,” remembered Dennis, “in legend the Lernaean Hydra possessed a deadly venomous breath and blood, as well as the ability to regenerate two new heads for every one severed.”
         “Then what do you think?” asked Marsha, now completely calmed down.
         “Maybe we should ring Terri Scott?” suggested Kenneth.
         
         In Louie Pascall’s red and white Bell Huey, the four cops were still following the Hydra’s trail.
         “Looks like they’re turning toward LePage or Elroy,” advised Louie.
         “Uh-oh,” said Sheila.
         “Uh-oh, what?” asked Terri.
         “The LePage and Elroy Battle Re-Enactment Society are playing some kind of battle re-enactment out that way today.”
         “Uh-oh,” agreed Louie.
         “Why can’t those idiots settle for playing Chinese Checkers.” opined Terri.
         “Or at the very least Tri-Ominos,” suggested Colin, as his fiancé’s mobile phone rang.
         “Who wants to bet it’s the re-enactment loonies?” asked the Goth chick.
         “That’s a good bet,” said Louie.
         “Yep it’s the re-enactment loonies,” said Terri, covering her phone with one hand, before going on to talk to Dennis duBeck. After disconnecting again, she said: “I think he said a Hydrabrax had slaughtered most of the Elroy team.”
         “A Hydrabrax,” said Sheila, “isn’t that an ancient Egyptian myth?”
         “The last I heard it was,” agreed Colin, as they sped toward the death zone, tracking Dennis and the others by the GPS on their phones.
         When they arrived at the site there was already seven air ambulance helicopters, as well as all six of Glen Hartwell’s wheeled ambulances. As the cops stepped out of the Bell Huey, the air ambulance paramedics handed them pale blue protection suits:
         “From what Marcus Youngblood said, you’ll need these.”
         As they hurriedly climbed into the daggy-looking suits, Tilly Lombstrom teased, “Hey that’s a brand new look for you Mad Goth girl ... I like it!”
         “Well, I guess I had that coming,” conceded Sheila as they finally set out on foot to find the death site.
         “So this is a Hydrabrax that we’re looking for?” queried Colin.
         “No,” corrected Marcus, “the Lernaean Hydra, from the second labour of Hercules.”
         “Didn’t he need help to defeat that?” asked Colin.
         “Yes,” agreed Dennis, “each time you cut off one of its heads two new ones grow in its place. So Hercules needed help from his nephew, Iolaus, to cauterize the neck wounds with fire to prevent the heads regrowing.”
         “I think we can do better than that,” said Terri: “We can borrow some flame throwers from George DuBois at the Department of Buildings and Works.”
         “Yatzy!” cried Sheila: “I loved using the flame throwers last time!” [See my story, ‘The Ice-Man Cometh’.]
         “Settle down Mad Goth chick,” teased Colin.
         “Yes, or we’ll let Alice Walker have your flame thrower,” teased Terri.
         “Ah, you wouldn’t do that to me, Tare, would you?”
         “Well,” said the ash blonde, leaving the sentence hanging.
         It took nearly ten minutes for Terri and the others to reach the death site, where thirty-plus people lay dead in their own greenish vomit.
         “Yeech,” said Sheila, “that green muck is everywhere again.”
         “It’s actually their vomit, combined with some highly potent and acidic gas,” explained Tilly.
         “Thankfully the Yanks don’t know about it, or else they’d be using it to bomb Canada and Greenland in a bid to conquer them,” said Jesus Costello.
         “And the white, tripe like substance?” asked Terri.
         “The victims’s lungs,” explained Elvis Green.
         “Let me repeat, ‘Yeech’!” said Sheila Bennett.
         It would be hours before they had transported the thirty-three corpses to the Glen Hartwell and Daley Community Hospital morgue for dissection. Fortunately it was still light, thanks to daylight saving, when Terri, Colin, Sheila, and Alice Walker set out for the Department of Building and Works depot in Riordan Street, Harpertown.
         Seeing that it was nearly six PM, Sheila asked, “Will they still be open so late?”
         “If not, I’m sure Eunice and George won’t mind us flying over the fence to break into the storage room to help ourselves to some flame throwers,” said Terri.
         “I’m glad I don’t have your nerve in my tooth, Chief,” said Alice, a tall, attractive forty-seven-year-old brunette; an amateur weight-lifter, and widow.
         “She’s right, babe,” said Colin.
         “Actually, it did sound better in my head than when I said it aloud.”
         When they arrived at the depot; however, Eunice and George were still there, although clearly packing up for the night.
         “What can we do for you, Terri, at this hour?” asked George, looking at his watch to stress how late it was.
         “We need to borrow your flame throwers to take on the latest monster ravishing Glen Hartwell.”
         “Tezza, there will always be new monsters terrorising Glen Hartwell,” said Eunice, a tall Amazonian brunette in her early fifties: “You should be planning your wedding dress etc., for when the four of us get hitched in a double ceremony in just nine days.”
         “Mrs. M. And Tasha are taking care of that side of things.”
         “Yes, they’re doing my gown too,” admitted Eunice.
         “Great,” said Sheila, “So how about fitting us out with your flame throwers?”
         “Technically, they’re supposed to be to prevent bush fires,” advised George.
         “Something tells me he thinks we’re gonna start more bush fires than we put out,” teased Colin.
         “So what’s your latest monster,” asked Eunice: “A giant, killer koala, a rabid unicorn, a winged hippopotamus?”
         “Girl, you’re getting quite sarky these days, you used to be shy and demure,” said Terri, before going on to tell them what they were up against.
         “Okay, I guess we can lend you the equipment,” said George, “although I can’t remember Eunice ever being shy and demure. Her feisty nature and huge tits were the things that first attracted me to her.”
         Between laughter, Eunice added, “Just remember that today is the first day of what they predict will be a scorcher of a summer.”
         Following Eunice and George across to the supply department, Colin said, “Yes, they definitely think we’re gonna start more bush fires than we put out.”
         Half an hour later they had the flame throwers, one for each of the four cops, plus two extras as emergency and were heading back toward the re-enactment society massacre site, in the hope of being able to put the flame throwers to use.
         “What are the odds that we could stop in at Mrs. M.’s for tea first?” asked Sheila: “She’s having roast turkey a L’Orange and pecan pie for dessert.”
         “Yum yum,” said Alice and Louie together.
         “Okay,” said Terrie: “I’m sure she’ll have enough for two more, but straight after tea we start tracking the Hydrabrax.”
         “Lernaean Hydra,” corrected Colin: “A Hydrabrax is a sort of camel monster which spits acid from three of its heads.”
         “Yeech,” said Sheila and Wendy as one.
         “And it spits fire from its other three heads.”
         “Double Yeech,” said Sheila Bennett as they approached the Yellow House in Rochester Road, Merridale.”
         As they landed Terri warned, “In case you’ve never been inside the Yellow House before; do not ask Deidre Morton why the house is painted yellow inside and out.”
         “And why all the furnishings are yellow,” added Colin.
         “According to Mrs. M., they’re not yellow, they’re lemon,” finished Sheila.
         “Isn’t lemon just a shade of yellow?” asked Alice as they climbed into the street where the Bell Huey had landed.
         “Never say that in front of Mrs. M.!” Sheila, Terri, and Colin warned.
         It was nearly an hour later before the five people exited the Yellow House, all feeling a little overfull from Deidre Morton’s excellent cuisine, and more than generous servings.
         “Wow, that was some fine grub,” said Louie as they re-entered the Huey.
         “Never call it grub ... or tucker, in front of Deidre,” warned Colin as they lifted off again: “Mrs’ M. only prepares haute cuisine.”
         “Never grub or tucker,” finished Terri.
         “Still, it was great grub,” teased Sheila as they lifted off again.
         “You’re lucky Mrs. M. isn’t here,” warned Colin.
         They spent the rest of the night following the Hydra’s trail, without getting any sign of the creature itself.
         “There’s nothing in the Hydrabrax legend about it being able to become invisible, is there?” asked Terri.
         “Lernaean Hydra!” said Colin, Sheila, Alice, and Louie.
         “Sheesh, don’t bite my head off!”
         “And no, there’s nothing in the legend of the Lernaean Hydra, or the Hydrabrax, of them being able to become invisible,” added Colin.
         Around dawn, Sheila asked, “Is it about time we brought Bulam-Bulam in to track it for us?”
         “Not yet,” said Terri: “It would mean either letting Alice off to make room for Bulam-Bulam....”
         “Or following the Hydra at ground level, which would put us all into danger exponentially,” finished Colin.
         “The only part of that I understood was, ‘put us all into danger’,” said Sheila Bennett.
         “He means we’re staying in the air, where it’s safer,” translated Alice.
         “Oh,” said Sheila: “Surely we must be catching up with it by now?”
         “You’d think so,” said Louie: “However, if it’s supernatural, it might be able to keep up full speed indefinitely.”
         “And if it’s just some kind of weird freak of nature?”
         “Then it should have slowed down ages ago, and will need some time to rest,” so we should hopefully be catching up with it.
         “Bloody beauty,” said Sheila.
         “It’s best not to say anything, when she breaks into Queenslander,” teased Alice Walker.
         “We know,” said Terri, Colin, and Louie.
         
         Over in the forest behind his sheep station outside Bromby, Alexi Marquez was out shooting snakes, which had been worrying his sheep over the last few days, sometimes suckling their milk.
         Come on you reptilian bastards! Alexi thought. He had been hunting them for two days now and had only managed to kill four snakes: There must be plenty more, they’ve virtually supped the ewes dry.
         He was considering stopping for lunch, when he heard loud slithering from behind some gum trees.
         Bloody beauty, sounds like a whopper! Alexi thought, cocking his repeating rifle ready for action.
         He hurriedly stepped around a huge red gum tree and found himself looking up at a vast green, scaly ‘wall’ beyond his comprehension. It was only as the eight-headed Hydra hissed at the farmer, that he thought to look up and saw the huge eight-headed serpent.
         “Mother of God!” he said, crossing himself with his left hand.
         As the Hydra prepared to exhale its deadly fumes at him, Alexi retreated and fell over backwards, so the first blast of toxic green fumes sprayed safely over his head.
         Thinking that he was about to meet his maker, Alexi started crawling backwards, too scared to try to stand up, too terrified to even think of using his repeating rifle, which he had dropped as he fell over.
         Smirking a very human shit-eater grin, the Hydra advanced, ready to exhale its deadly green mist again ... Suddenly stopping as snake and sheep farmer both heard the whir-whir-whir of rotors as a helicopter approached from still over a kilometre away.
         The Hydra span round and tried exhaling its fumes up to the chopper, without any success, now forgetting Alexi Marquez.
         Alexi crawled away for half a kilometre, before finding the courage to climb back to his feet to finally run back to his farm, not stopping until he was inside the farmhouse, slamming the door behind him.
         “The Devil on your tail?” asked Vanellope, his wife, a forty-five year old, short, chubby brunette.
         “No the serpent from the Garden of Eden,” said Alexi crossing himself again.
         “What’s going on?” asked Taffeta, their sixteen-year-old daughter, with their mother’s brown hair, but her father’s great height.
         “I’ve just been chased by the serpent from the Garden of Eden,” said Alexi crossing himself continuously now.
         Staring at her mother, Taffeta asked, “What brought on this sudden religious revival?”
         “I’ve seen the serpent from the Garden of Eden, and it had eight heads!”
         Sneaking across to whisper to her mother, Taffeta asked, “So are we gonna have to send Dad to the funny farm?”
         “Get down on your knees, and pray, child!” ordered Alexi.
         Grabbing Vanellope and Taffeta by the hands, he dragged his wife and daughter down to the lino-coated floor and began screaming, “Our Father, who art in Heaven....”
         “Almost certainly,” whispered back the short, chubby brunette.
         
         “Over there!” cried Sheila Bennett, pointing to where the Hydra was still trying to shoot its deadly fumes up at them, without success.
         “Taking her down,” said Louie.
         “Good idea,” said Terri, we need to be able to put our anti-contamination suits on while we’re still a safe distance from the Hydrabrax.”
         “Lernaean Hydra!” cried Sheila, Colin, Alice, and Louie.
         “Sheesh, give a girl a break.”
         After they had finished changing, Alice said, “Hey that’s a great new look for you, Sheils, you should keep it up.”
         Sounding unamused, the Goth chick said, “Tilly Lombstrom already got me with that one.”
         “Good old Tils,” said Alice, as they started off slowly, after checking that their flame throwers were fully loaded and working.
         “No, silly Tilly,” sulked Sheila.
         “Gee, who got up her bum?” asked Alice, making everyone except the Goth chick laugh.
         
         Frustrated at its inability to fire its lethal fumes high enough to blanket the helicopter, the Hydra smiled a broad shit-eater grin when the device landed and four people emerged. It watched them in interest, and puzzlement as the two men and two women put decontamination suits on over their clothing, before putting the flame thrower packs onto their backs. It hesitated, and then started toward them, its eight heads held high in the air as it slithered across the long Native Australian Grasses and dried pine needles and gum leaves.
         “Come to Sheila, you hideous bastard!” taunted the Goth chick.
         “I’m fairly certain that it doesn’t know what you’re saying,” advised Colin.
         “No, but it can tell by my tone that I’m goading it!”
         “Good point,” said Terri, and they all started shouting insults at the giant eight-headed snake as they walked slowly toward it.
         
         Racing full pelt, the Hydra exhaled a great blast of its lethal green fumes toward the four people, smirking as they were hidden from view beneath the fumes. However, after a few seconds, the police officers casually walked out from the green cloud, making the giant serpent take pause.
         
         “Sorry, dickhead, we’re immune to your lethal, stinky breath,” taunted Sheila.
         “She really does know how to put the boot in,” teased Alice Walker.
         Seeing the Hydra turn slightly, as though considering racing away, Terri shouted, “Now everybody, let’s make toast out of this overgrown lizard wannabe.”
         “Wow, I see now where Sheila gets it from,” said Alice, as the four police officers opened fire upon the Hydra with their flame throwers.
         As two heads were burnt away from the panicked reptile, four new ones started to regrow, but then they also burnt away, leaving the reptile with only six heads.
         “Aim for its lower body,” called Colin: “So it can’t slither away before we kill it.”
         Doing as instructed, all four police officers aimed their flames at the serpent’s lower body and upright belly, soon starting it reeking as the reptile was rapidly burnt away by the twelve hundred degrees Celsius of the flame throwers.
         “Die, you reptilian shithead!” taunted the Goth chick.
         “Wow, she is really good at this taunting stuff!” said Terri Scott as they continued to immerse the creature in deadly flames.
         It took perhaps forty minutes to fully cremate the Hydra, from tail to all of its heads; but finally the reptilian monster was reduced to a massive pile of ashes.
         “So what do we do with the ashes?” asked Alice Walker.
         “Just leave them here, I guess,” said Terri, “I doubt that they can do any harm.”
         “Unless they can regenerate the Hydra, the way Dracula was regenerated from his ashes in one of the Christopher Lee movies,” suggested Sheila.
         “Sheils, you know that you watch way too many old horror films,” chided Terri, before calling to Louie to bring across a Jerry can of petrol to fully incinerate the ashes.
         “Nah-ah!” said the Goth chick, making them all laugh.

         THE END

         © Copyright 2026 Philip Roberts

                   Melbourne, Victoria, Australia