by Guy N Smith
Jim Dunkley was just about to move away when something attracted his attention on the opposite face of the quarry. A small cave had been formed in the slate by constant washing of the rain on the surface. Part of it had come away and formed an alcove, roughly three feet square and going back into the quarry about a couple of feet. And as he looked, the whole interior seemed to move.
He stared, and only when a tiny furry creature hopped out on to the overhanging ledge did he realize what the interior of that cave contained.
"More bloody bats," he muttered. "Hundreds of 'em all crowded in together!"
He continued to watch. There was little movement. The bats were resting, sleeping by day, and when dusk fell they would flit out in search of food.
Possibly the farmer would have crept away undetected had it not been for the crumbling edge of the deep pit. As he moved he dislodged a piece of slate. It slid forward, struck some more, gathered some stones on its way, and as a result a miniature avalanche showered down on to the mass of minute, rotting corpses below.
The reaction from within the cave was instantaneous. The whole interior seemed to come to life, the bats pouring outwards as one, then spraying in all directions in the manner of irate wasps which have had their nest dug out.
Jim Dunkley was not frightened.. He was simply astounded at the sight of so many bats. He knelt there looking up at them, and as he did so something struck him sharply in the face. He grunted, and began to struggle to his feet.
Bats were everywhere. Above the trees, below them, clinging to the sides of the quarry, and still more were emerging from holes and smaller caves. They flitted around him, as insistent as the flies which had troubled him earlier. They brushed against him, struck his clothing. He threw up a hand to protect his face, wielding the shotgun in an attempt to ward them off.
Then the ground beneath his feet gave way, crumbling. He stepped back, but there was nothing beneath his feet. He was falling, floating, somersaulting . . .
Jim Dunkley plummeted headlong to the bottom of the quarry, impaling his head on a sharp unturned rock. His skull split open, showering grey matter and crimson fluid over the dead bats which lay all around. His body twitched once or twice, but he was already dead. The shotgun fell, landing softly, barrels resting against his chest, hammers at full cock.
The bats continued to fly haphazardly for five or ten minutes, seemingly oblivious to the man who lay dead in their very own graveyard, and then, tiring of their unaccustomed daytime activities, they returned to their sleeping places.
Silence returned to the Devil's Dressing Room. There was not a bat in sight, the only evidence of their existence being the smell of death which rose up out of the quarry, and the buzzing of the flies as they fed, uninterrupted.
Chapter Twelve
By late September, terror had returned to the rural areas in full force. No longer were the bats concentrated in any particular place. With the coming of dusk people barricaded themselves in their homes, listening fearfully as tiny bodies thudded against window panes or fluttered down chimneys, squeaking inside blocked fireplaces as though with anger at being thwarted of their prey. In spite of many official statements that the bats were not deliberately intent upon attacking humans, and that their seemingly aggressive attitude was brought about by damaged radar, the public were still convinced that they were the main targets of the flying death swarms. And outside the protective cordon the rest of Britain waited fearfully. It was only a matter of time before the bats extended their territory.
"As there seems to be no chance of finding an antidote," Haynes said, "then there is only one alternative." He and Rickers were in Newman's laboratory where tests were still being carried out on a number of bats, mice and rats.
"And what's that?" Professor Newman looked up.
"We must poison the bats. If necessary, to the point of extinction."
Newman laughed. "It's fine in theory. But there's no chance. With rats and mice you can put poison down for 'em; feed 'em specially prepared food, but bats live on insect life."
"Of which there is an abundance this year."
"Granted, but—"
"Then we must spray the insects and thus poison the bats."
Newman looked thoughtful. "And who thought this one up?" he asked.
"I did," Rickers admitted.
Newman glanced at Susan Wylie. She knew what he was thinking. Insecticides were dangerous to wildlife in general. They upset the balance of Nature. In the past, poisonous sprays had been responsible for a decline in the numbers of birds of prey, buzzards, kestrels, sparrowhawks, the golden eagle. Partridges, too, at one stage had almost been wiped out. It was too risky. And yet, with hundreds dying daily from the mutated virus . . .
"I guess it's worth a try," Newman said.
"It's already under way," Haynes told him somewhat smugly. "Every crop-spraying helicopter unit in the country has been commandeered. The Ministry of Agriculture are advising us on which insecticides to use so that almost every insect will be affected. No matter which varieties the bats feed on, they'll absorb the poison."
"Sure." Newman shook his head slowly. "And insect life will be almost totally wiped out in the Midlands, not to mention species of bird life and rodents."
"But it's the price we have to pay," Haynes snapped. "The rate this virus is spreading now, it's either that or us. And human life must be preserved at all costs."
"Yes," Brian Newman said. "You're right. And I began this whole thing. I've destroyed countless lives, both human and animal. And now the insects have got to pay the penalty, too."
It was nine o'clock when Brian Newman left the Biological Research Center and drove the five miles to his new home at Chasetown. Susan had left about two hours before him, and in spite of the present worries he was determined to try and relax for a few hours.
There was a checkpoint at Sankey's Corner. Two BVF soldiers had taken over from the policemen who had been on duty earlier in the day. They recognized the professor's car and waved him through.
The High Street was deserted. Many of the houses and flats did not even show lights, their windows boarded up as though a wartime blackout was in force. Newman saw some bats flying low across the top end of Pavoirs Road. Nowhere was safe after dark now.
He drew into the small gravelled drive and switched off his headlights, glancing about him as he opened the car door. He would have to make a quick dash to the house. It was dangerous to linger.
"Professor Newman!" A voice called from the darkness as he got out of the car.
He turned. A man was standing just inside his front garden, the shadow from the tall privet hedge obscuring his features. He was a big man, his overcoat collar turned up, trilby hat pulled well down.
"Can I help you?" Newman was puzzled. "Perhaps you'd like to step inside. It isn't safe outside after dark, and— "
"What I've got to say won't take a moment, Professor." There was a note of menace in the man's voice as he stepped into the circle of yellow light cast by the nearby streetlamp. Something shiny, metallic, glinted in his hand. A revolver.
"What's this?" Newman stiffened.
"A gun," the other laughed harshly. "Army issue .45. 1916. My late father kept it as a relic, with some ammunition. I'm glad he did. Otherwise, Professor, my task of killing you might be more difficult . . . but I'd do it just the same. You bastard!"
"You're mad!" Newman breathed,
"If I am," the other said. "It's because of you. Thanks to your meddling with viruses I've lost a wife and a daughter . . . and it took 'em a long time to die. I watched 'em." His voice rose to a crescendo, "Couldn't even get 'em to a hospital. Nobody wanted to know. Yes, Professor, I sat there and watched 'em both die. They were paralyzed before they started to go mad. They frothed at the mouth and cursed me with their eyes. Yes, Professor, they went out cursing me . . . but they should've been cursing you, because you murdered 'em. . . just as I'm going to murder you now!"
Brian Newman stiffened. The man
was five yards from him, and he could see the finger curled around the trigger of the revolver. It was too far to try and rush him, and there was no chance of diving for cover. Death was only seconds away.
Then he heard the front door opening behind him, and Susan's voice. "Are you all right, Brian? Oh my God, what's happening?"
"Go back inside and close the door!" he called out over his shoulder. "I won't be a minute."
"You're damned right you won't." the man snarled. "Your time's up, Professor Newman."
"Let's talk this over."
"The time for talking is done." The gunman shuffled a step or two nearer. "After you, it's me, Professor. I've got nothing left to live for."
Newman closed his eyes. If only Susan had obeyed him and gone back inside. But he knew she wouldn't. In all probability this maniac would kill her, too. And there wasn't a thing he could do about it.
He closed his eyes. Go on, get it over with. I don't blame you, whoever you are. There's millions more feel like you do about me. That's the fault of the Press.
A deafening shot crashed out. Newman swayed on his feet, but strangely he felt no pain. He remembered reading somewhere that you never heard the shot that got you. Maybe . . . Oh God, maybe he'd shot Susan first!
Newman opened his eyes. Susan was by his side, her arms around him. She was crying. The man lay face down in the drive, the revolver a foot or so away from his outstretched fingers, blood soaking into the gravel.
Still Newman was trying to work it all out. His brain was confused. It wouldn't function properly. This guy was a nutter. Not his fault, though. He'd chickened out at the last minute. Couldn't go through with murder. Committed suicide instead.
"All right, Professor?"
For the first time Newman was aware that someone was standing just inside the open gates. A tall man dressed in a jungle hat, combat jacket, bandolier across his chest. "Don't worry, Professor. I had him covered the whole time. Had to be careful I didn't hit either of you, though."
Newman nodded to the BVF soldier, noting the thin trickle of smoke coming from the barrel of the Luger in his hand.
"Thanks." he murmured. "Thanks a million. I was lucky you happened to be around. I should've asked for a guard before. I told 'em I didn't need one."
"You've had one all along," the soldier told him, "only you didn't know it. Night and day. We can't take chances with you, Professor. Whatever the public might think, you're the one man who stands any chance of coming up with an antidote."
"I just hope I can justify your confidence." Newman pulled Susan Wylie close to him, and together they went inside and closed the door.
The weather was changing. Still the sun beat down, but now its heat was tempered by the coming of autumn. Each morning a thick mist followed the dawn, grey vapor which dispersed reluctantly towards mid-morning, and each evening brought a refreshing coolness to the parched land.
Fleets of helicopters stood at the ready throughout the Midlands, all fitted with crop-spraying attachments, the pilots waiting impatiently for the thick mist to evaporate. From the north Staffordshire moors as far south as Worcester, from the Wash to the Wrekin, the operation stretched, the largest assault on insect life in British history.
"Crazy," Tamperley of West Midlands Fertilizers muttered to his companion as they watched the rays of the sun beginning to disperse the fog. "It won't work. I could've told 'em that."
"Don't see no reason why not." Whittaker climbed up into the helicopter, and tapped the huge tank containing insecticide. "This stuff was withdrawn five years ago because it was proved to be detrimental to wildlife. Don't see why it shouldn't kill bats."
"I'll believe it when I see it." Tamperley lit a cigarette. "Reckon we'll be on the move in about twenty minutes."
It was 11.30 A.M. before they took off, the countryside around them now becoming bathed in bright sunshine. Some of the trees below were already showing signs of brown in their foliage. Drought or not, autumn would dominate the rural scene from now onwards.
Whittaker recognized Chasetown sprawling below them and the dark green and purple of Cannock Chase over to their left. Something golden glinted in the sunlight, the ball on the main spire of Lichfield Cathedral. They dropped lower.
Traffic was sparse. An isolated community, even on a small island, had nowhere to go. Smoke hung in the air in places. Heath and forest fires still burned, but they had been abandoned long ago. Town fires were given priority.
Tamperley turned to his colleague. "That's the place," he said, pointing in the direction of a tall television transmitter, rising like a lighthouse out of a dark green ocean. "The fields between those two woods."
Whittaker nodded and began connecting up various attachments. They could see other helicopters already at work, skimming fields and woods, turning, going back, three or four covering a large expanse of arable ground. Organization. He had to hand it to the authorities, in spite of what Tamperley said. They were doing everything possible. If it resulted in failure then they'd done their best. Nobody could blame them, only that professor who had allowed the bats to escape. It was all his fault.
"O.K.," Tamperley called. They were flying at a height of twenty feet, skimming hedgerows, rising to negotiate a couple of spinneys. "Let 'er go."
"Never sprayed woods before," Whittaker muttered to himself. A lifelong member of the Royal Society for the Protection of Birds, he realized the dangers to birdlife from toxic sprays. Yet the bats had to be destroyed; otherwise it meant the end of everything.
Back and forth they went, methodically, barely missing a square yard on a 20-acre field, Tamperley knew his job.
They finished the field and turned their attention to the spinneys, gaining additional height because of some of the taller trees. Wood pigeons were flying aimlessly. They had been deprived of their morning feed on some lush clover by the helicopters and now there was no peace even in their day roosts.
"Hey, what's that?" Tamperley yelled above the roar of the engine.
Whitaker looked down in the direction the pilot pointed and saw a small wood with dense undergrowth.
"What . . ." he began, and then he saw it, a black cloud spiralling upwards, a flock of living creatures, formationless, spreading out as they gained height. Has first thought was that they were starlings. Their mode of flight was different, though; faster and more erratic. Their aerobatics would have been the envy of any pilot.
"It's them!" he yelled. "The bats!"
"Some of 'em," Tamperley shouted back. "That spinney must be one of their roosting places. Well, we might as well give 'em the works. I'm going down on 'em. Let 'em have it!"
Whittaker increased the flow of insecticide as they dipped. The spray was thick and yellow, reminding him of urine. It hit the bats, the sheer force of the liquid sending several of them spinning to the ground. The remainder wheeled and jinked, above and below the helicopter, some dashing themselves against the sides of the machine and falling earthwards, lifeless.
The helicopter was stationary, hovering, the full force of the nozzles directed immediately beneath it. Bats were everywhere, hurling themselves at the glass of the cockpit as though they sensed whence this liquid death came.
There was a brief moment during which the two men thought that victory was theirs, a total slaughter. In fact, Tamperley was already preparing to move on when the cockpit was darkened by shadows, tiny flickering shapes that merged into near-total darkness, obscuring the sunlight.
"Hell"s bells!" Whittaker croaked. "Just look at 'em!"
Bats clung to every available inch of toughened glass, somehow securing a hold on the smooth surface, upside down, hundreds of malevolent faces staring at the two men with an insane hatred beyond comprehension.
"Jesus! " Tamperley jerked on the lever. "Let's get back to base!"
The helicopter responded, moved forward, and then shuddered to a standstill as though a brake had been applied. One final roar from the engine, and then it died away, stuttering into silence. The two
men could hear the shrill piping of their attackers.
"They've clogged the vanes!" Tamperley screamed.
Whittaker watched in horror as the pilot tried desperately to restart the engine, but they were already embarking upon a direct downward course, hurtling towards the spinney below, the cockpit a coffin, borne by the bats down to a quarry grave.
With a screech of tearing metal and splintering wood the undercarriage was ripped away by the topmost branches of a tall Corsican pine, the trunk spearing into the cockpit. The machine hung precariously for a couple of seconds, its fall checked. Then the tree snapped lower down, and the helicopter plunged on the last stage of its journey of death, jagged rocks rushing up to meet it, bats whirring above as though in triumph at their victory, then scattering in every direction as they witnessed the final destruction.
Another helicopter which had seen the bizarre scene from half-a-mile away hastened towards the spinney, the grim-faced pilot noting the clouds of bats which dispersed in all directions.
"Looked like Tamperley," he yelled to the man at his side.
"If it was, then he's bought it for sure. Go easy, Joe. I never seen nothin' like it! We don't want to get caught up in a cloud o' bleedin' bats."
But Joe was already veering away. There wasn't a bat in sight. Just a column of black smoke rising up out of the quarry in the wood as flames began to lick greedily at the lower branches, leaping from one to another with the speed of a frightened squirrel.
