Bats Out of Hell

by Guy N Smith

  Today he thought about bats. Everybody was thinking about bats. They were in the headlines of the midday edition of the Mail again. "BATS HEADING FOR THE CITY? IS DEATH ON THE MOVE?"

  It was a frightening thought. Joe was glad that he worked down here in this nice safe place. The overall compensations outweighed the boredom. Bats frightened him. He remembered his wedding night and the bat that had somehow found its way into the bridal chamber. His wife had nearly had hysterics and their marriage had not been consummated for a further twenty-four hours. In his day, few people had sex before marriage, particularly within the respectability of banking circles. He had waited a day longer than most.

  But the bats couldn't get down here into the Credit House. The Treasury was impregnable.

  The afternoon wore on, hot and stuffy. Lutton finished checking a tray of forty thousand pounds' worth of five-pound notes, and went and fetched another one from the chief clerk's desk.

  Mondays were always exceptionally busy. That meant a late finish, but Joe Lutton didn't mind. The overtime money would be useful.

  He had counted the first bundle of fivers and rebanded them, when Don Lucas, a young apprentice clerk, gave a shout from the other end of the room where he was working at a long trestle table.

  "Hey! What's this?"

  Heads turned. Something crouched on the floor, small and furry, tiny eyes glancing about it.

  "It's a mouse," somebody said.

  "Don't be stupid." Lucas backed away. "Mice don't have wings. It's a bat!"

  "A bat!"

  There was a momentary shocked silence. Clerks turned and stared. They couldn't believe it. But the proof was squatting there, and even as they looked it took off, flew up to the ceiling, and alighted upside down on a supporting steel girder.

  "Oh, God!" Lutton paled.

  The Chief clerk, a man only a year or two younger than Lutton, picked up the internal telephone and dialed a single number.

  "Sorry to bother you, Mr. Baxterdale." His voice was humble, apologetic, trying to hide his fear. "No, no trouble really. Only . . . only there's . . . there's a bat in the Credit House!"

  Lutton sweated. He hated the chief clerk for his cringing personality. Sorry to bother you, Mr. Baxterdale, he mimed his superior mutely to himself, there's only a bat in the Credit House and we could all be bloody well dead by this time tomorrow. Of course, we don't want to interrupt the work, and if you like we'll keep it in here. . . .

  Baum, the Credit House chief clerk replaced the receiver, cleared his throat, and looked round at the others.

  "Er . . . Mr. Baxterdale says he'll ring the Area Inspector. Nothing to worry about. Just carry on. Don't anybody take any notice of it."

  Lutton sweated profusely. This new system of locking the grilles from the outside, the keys being held in the Treasury office by two authorized holders, had disturbed him right from its implementation. Suppose there was a fire and the intersecting corridors were cut off by a wall of flames? Those in the Credit House would die. But this was a thousand times worse. Death hung perched on that beam. It only had to touch one of them, so the papers said, and that would be that.

  Lucas picked up something from the table, moving slowly. It was an old wooden cylindrical ruler that dated back to the early days of banking, as heavy and as lethal as the truncheons carried by the bullion van crews. A Treasury antique that was still in use.

  All eyes were on him. Everybody knew exactly what he was going to do, and nobody made a move to stop him. The childish streak in him had often prompted reprimand from Baxterdale. The young clerk was always flicking rubberbands at his colleagues, and then immediately assuming an air of innocence. His aim was uncanny. They hoped it would be so now.

  Lucas was poised to strike, arm back, ruler clenched firmly. Those watching held their breath. Then he struck, and it seemed impossible that he could miss.

  Wood clanged on steel, the whole length of the girder reverberating. The bat had moved at the last second with the speed of a house fly accustomed to dodging swats. It shot upwards, hit the ceiling, dropped to the floor, and then took off at an angle of forty-five degrees.

  Clerks accustomed to the tranquillity of life in the Credit House panicked. Money spilled on the floor as they sought cover behind desks, but their safety was as perilous as that of the car driver who is suddenly attacked by an irate wasp in his vehicle. The bat zoomed crazily to and fro.

  The chief clerk shouted in alarm, striking futile blows as the creature flew at him, seemed to become caught in the threads of his shirt and then freed itself. Lutton saw it heading in his direction. It passed him with a yard to spare, somersaulted, turned in midflight, and on its return journey glanced off the back of his neck. He fell to his knees.

  It headed directly toward the steel grilles. There was a brief sigh of relief from the clerical staff. The bars were four inches apart. Plenty of room for it to pass through. It caught one of its wings as it did so, and tumbled to the concrete floor on the other side, stunned.

  "Jesus!" someone breathed.

  They heard footsteps and voices echoing down the corridor. Baxterdale was coming with the key holders to release them from this vault of death.

  "It's there, sir!" Don Lucas called out shrilly, pointing to the inert bat as Baxterdale reached the grille door.

  "What?" Baxterdale stopped abruptly, the two men at his heels bumping into him. "Where?"

  "There!"

  As Baxterdale, a plump, bald-headed man, finally saw the bat, it stirred, shuffled forward, and took off again—back through the bars and into the Credit House.

  Screams and confusion came from within the enclosed area. There was no logic in the creature's behaviour. It flew madly back and forth, this time seeming impervious to the obstacles which it struck, hitting the bars again but not passing between them.

  "Let us out! For Christ's sake let us out!" someone yelled.

  But Baxterdale and his companions were retreating back up the corridor, glancing over their shoulders as they ran.

  "Bloody well unlock the doors!"

  Baxterdale reached his office, and his flabby hand was trembling as he picked up the receiver and dialed the Area Inspector's number. The line was engaged. He dropped the telephone back on to its cradle.

  "Hadn't . . . hadn't we ought to go back down there?" one of the keyholders asked.

  "No." the Treasury Chief shook his head. "You know the instructions issued to the public regarding these bats as well as I do. The stairway door is closed. The bat can't get beyond the lower-basement level. As soon as we can get hold of the Area Inspector he'll report it to the police."

  "Can't . . . can't we ring the police?" the second key holder gulped.

  "The Bank's rules," Baxterdale reminded him, glowering. "The police are never to be involved without consulting the Area Inspector first. You know that."

  Baxterdale tried the number again. It was still engaged. Somewhere, far away and muffled, they could hear the screams of the trapped clerks.

  It was the rush hour. People were hurrying, bustling, jostling each other, standing on packed buses while traffic waited at a standstill for longer periods than it moved. The newspaper vendors had all sold out in the city center by five o'clock and were packing up their stands and kiosks. The evening edition of the Mail was a total sell out, just as the midday one had been. There was no fresh news of the bats, but the previous accounts, rewritten with a diversity of opinions, were still commanding front page space.

  The sirens of ambulances and police cars, and their flashing blue lights, were a commonplace sight. Seldom did the worker on his way home spare either a second glance. However, this evening there seemed to be an atmosphere of extra urgency about the two white cars and the ambulance which forced their way through the lanes of jammed traffic, a motorcycle patrol doing its best to clear the way ahead for them.

  "Must be another bomb scare," a passenger on an outer-circle bus commented for the benefit of his fellow travellers. "That'll make thre
e this week."

  Within minutes crowds were gathering on the pavement by the ramp entrance which led down into the bowels of the Treasury. The grille was already raised in anticipation, two uniformed messengers and Baxterdale waiting by it in a state of acute agitation.

  The ambulance was backed up, and stood in readiness with its engine running. Three constables emerged from the cars, carrying with them some kind of white plastic protective clothing.

  "Looks like bleedin' riot-gear," a youth remarked to his companion on the opposite side of the road. "What the 'ell's goin' on down there?"

  The grille gate was lowered behind the policemen.

  "Your Area Inspector phoned us," a young inspector snapped as they followed Baxterdale down a white corridor, which eventually led to the office. "Just one bat, you say."

  "Yes." Baxterdale straightened his tie and puffed out his chest, "Down in our lower checking area."

  "Basement evacuated?"

  "No. Everybody's still down there with it."

  "What!" the inspector"s expression was one of incredulity, "You mean there are people down there with it?"

  "The instructions, are to try and lock any bats in an enclosed area—"

  "Yeah, but not people with 'em! Come on, there's no time to waste."

  They hurried on down until they came to the corridor adjacent to the Credit House. The imprisoned clerks were no longer shouting and rushing about in a state of terror. Instead they were sitting white-faced at their desks, silent, trembling.

  The two key holders unlocked the grille, and the policemen, pulling on gauze masks, elbow-length gloves and plastic coats, stepped inside.

  "Now, where's this bat?" Baxterdale attempted to retrieve some of his authority.

  "It's gone, sir," the chief clerk stammered.

  "Gone?"

  "Yes."

  "Where? Where on earth could it have gone to?"

  "I don't know, sir. One minute it was flying about like a mad thing. The next there was no sign of it. It must've . . . it must've got out up the ventilation shaft."

  The policemen looked at one another. The inspector shook his head and turned to the group of huddled clerks.

  "How many of you actually came into contact with the bat?"

  Seven hands were raised nervously in a fearful admission.

  "I see." The policeman nodded and tried to make light of it. "Well, I think we'd better take you down to the General for a checkup. Just a formality. We brought an ambulance with us just in case."

  The seven clerks looked at one another, abject fear and hopelessness in their expressions. They'd read the papers, the details of the virus.

  Once an infected bat touched you, that was it. Finis. There was no antidote. Nothing on God's Earth could save you.

  Once the ambulances and police cars had pulled away from the Treasury life reverted to normal in the streets. Workers caught their trains and buses, and the incident was forgotten.

  The city enjoyed a brief lull between the departure of those returning to their homes and the arrival of those coming in to enjoy the nightlife, the cinemas and theatres and nightclubs. For a couple of hours the traffic was light and the buses half empty.

  There were only a few people about when Baxterdale left the Treasury, a sinking feeling in his stomach and a worried frown on his florid face. The Area Inspector's voice still rang in his ears. "You bloody fool!" he had raged, "If you can't make a decision in an emergency like that you don't deserve to be in charge of the place. If anybody dies I'm holding you personally responsible, and I'll see to it that you finish your banking career counting notes in the Credit House!"

  It was only as he walked up Corporation Street that Baxterdale found the courage to admit to himself the real reason why he had locked the clerks in the Credit House with the bat. Had he attempted to release them, that crazed creature might have flown at him. The captain of the ship had battened down the hatches and deserted the sinking vessel with the crew locked in the hold.

  He walked slowly, thoughtfully. Of course, they might not die. There was every chance that the bat had not been carrying the virus, that its erratic flight had been caused by panic. It was his only consolation.

  His car was parked in Shadwell Street, a lengthy daily walk to and from the Treasury, but that was compensated by easy access to the Expressway. From there it was about forty minutes by car to his home at Shenstone.

  Something caused him to glance upwards as he crossed Colmore Row and made his way across the front of the derelict Snow Hill station. At dusk hundreds of starlings could be seen in and around the buildings, chattering noisily as they went up to roost. Scavengers, but the city accepted them in the same way that it put up with the feral pigeons which fouled the buildings and cost the ratepayers a fortune annually in cleaning bills.

  But today something was wrong. The starlings did not come back to roost until dusk, and that was almost three hours away. He looked again; The eaves were crowded, some of the occupants flying, settling, flying again. And there was something decidedly odd about the way they flew. Starlings maintained a straight course, in short, jerky flights. These were soaring and diving faster than the eye could follow, crashing crazily into the stonework. Swifts? Swallows? Baxterdale did not know much about ornithology, and he was not particularly interested. He almost turned away, and then, suddenly, he understood.

  Bats!

  The papers had said they might head for urban areas. He quickened his step, hurrying down the underpass. The radio had said, "report all sightings of bats". To hell with that! Bats had caused him enough trouble for one day. Let somebody else do the shouting,

  Baxterdale was breathless by the time he reached his car. His fat fingers fumbled with the door key, and it dropped from his grasp and bounced under the car.

  "Sod it!" he swore, and dropped to his hands and knees.

  It was then that he saw the rat. It was crouching motionless under the car, and it was a big brown creature, its red eyes regarding him balefully. Baxterdale drew back his hand. The key was nearer to the rat than it was to himself, and the rodent made no move to flee. It was not frightened of him.

  Of course, it wasn't surprising to see a rat in the car park. He'd come across them before. The canal was only a matter of fifty yards away. That's where it had come from.

  "Shoo!" he muttered. "Scram!"

  The rat did not move. Baxterdale pursed his lips and a little shiver of revulsion ran up his spine. He had to have that key. And the sooner he was away from Birmingham the better. Tomorrow he would go sick. He'd made up his mind. He'd never done it before, but there was a limit to that which any man could stand.

  He began to stretch out his hand nervously. The key lay about a foot away from the rat. Easy does, it, then a quick snatch . . . He moved quickly, grabbing for the fallen object, but even as his hand closed over it the rodent leaped forward.

  Baxterdale yelled as sharp teeth dug into his palm, claws raking his knuckles. The creature was clinging to him, biting, scratching. He struck at it with his other hand, once, twice. Its grip slackened, and with a sob of relief he saw it fall, hit the ground, roll over, and dart towards a dense bed of nettles and weeds which bordered some adjacent waste ground.

  Baxterdale retrieved his key, unlocked the door and then examined the wound on his hand. The bite was a deep one, bleeding freely. It was painful, too, There might be poison in it. He'd read somewhere once that people bitten by snakes sucked the venom out and often saved their lives by so doing.

  His eyes shut, his thick lips closed over the bite, he sucked, sensed an unpleasant taste on his palate, and vomited on to the ground. For some moments he stood there retching, and then, with deliberate effort be climbed into his car, bound The wound with his handkerchief and drove off.

  Baxterdale was feeling ill by the time he reached Spaghetti Junction and filtered on to the A38. His vision was impaired for some strange reason, as though he was driving through a red fog, with visibility down to only twenty yards o
r so and gradually reducing. His back ached, the pain increasing and travelling upwards until it reached his neck. He could not turn his head at all, and even the effort required to manipulate the controls was considerable. Logic told him to pull off the road and attempt to attract attention. Instinct urged him to try and make it home, a wounded fox crawling back to its lair to die.

  He passed through Sutton Coldfield, and had it not been quiet, with virtually no traffic about, his frequent swerves would doubtlessly have involved him in a head-on collision.

  Then, at last, every nerve seemed to freeze in his body. His brain was confused. He did not know where he was, or where he was heading. An island loomed up ahead of him. His foot was jammed securely on the accelerator, and there was no way in which he could free it even had he realized the danger. Rigid hands clutched the wheel. Eyes stared sightlessly ahead.

  The car, a Viva, hit the roundabout and overturned, sliding on its roof with a screech of tortured metal, and finished upside down on the forecourt of the Midland Bank branch at Four Oaks.

  The wheels spun. People gathered, staring, curious, horrified. Baxterdale watched them from his inverted position, unharmed by the accident, but slowly dying from the paralytic plague. He stayed there for almost an hour, and only when a fire engine could be spared from the scene of burning devastation in Sutton Park was the Treasury Chief cut free and rushed to hospital.

  Chapter Nine

  Haynes' expression was grave. His bloodshot eyes were proof that he had not slept for days. Once again a meeting was being held in his small office, but this time, apart from Rickers, Newman and Susan Wylie, there were two leading bacteriologists from London, and a well-built, grey-haired Ministry of Defence official.

  Sir John Stirchley was tall and thin, wore rimless glasses that seemed to have the effect of making his eyes larger than they really were, and this, combined with bushy eyebrows and a military-type moustache gave him an appearance of severity. His work was acknowledged by biologists throughout the world.