Bats Out of Hell

by Guy N Smith

  Nothing could be done to help the two men in the blazing wreckage. They were already in the final stages of cremation.

  Chapter Thirteen

  "Well," Haynes said, "The spraying operation is complete. All we can do now is wait. If we don't poison 'em, maybe they'll starve without insect life to feed on."

  "God knows what the long-term result will be," Newman groaned.

  "We've a good idea what it'll be if we don't check the spread of this virus."

  "There's no pattern to the bats' behaviour now," Professor Newman went on, "There are reports from both rural and urban areas. We've flushed 'em out of cover, and they're widespread throughout the Midlands."

  "The human death toll is estimated at something in the region of ten thousand," Haynes told him. He turned away and looked out of the window. The mist was thinning across the Chase as the early morning sunshine finally broke through. "We'll probably never know the exact figures, as a lot of the corpses were burned in the fires. People won't stand for it much longer. Even the ordinary, normally complacent citizen is no longer prepared to shut himself away in his house. Food supplies are running out. Those brought in from outside are not being distributed as they should be. It's a case of the strong dominating the weak. At least this spraying idea of Rickers's has given us a breathing space. Everybody's just waiting now, but if it doesn't work . . . well, I'd rather not think about it. That'll be the end,"

  The drone of helicopters was absent from the rural scene. Seldom were vehicles heard at all now. Aircraft passed over on their flights north and south, but only government-authorized planes were allowed to land at either Elmdon or the East Midlands Airport.

  And gradually the sounds of insects in the woods and fields were dying away. The grasshopper's chirruping became slow, like a chain saw with the power switched off. Wasps crawled lazily, not even having the energy to sting when molested. Midges died by their millions in hedgerows and fields. And already bird life was beginning to suffer. The swifts and swallows should have been congregating on telegraph wires in readiness for their long flight south, but many were found lying beneath these communal perches as though electrified by the currents. Everybody knew the true cause of death.

  Only the bats seemed unharmed by the extermination of almost every form of insect life. The creatures for whom the poison had been intended showed no signs of ill effects. In fact, they became more active, and were seen in greater numbers than before.

  "They're restless, disturbed," Rickers said uneasily as he stood at the laboratory window, with Haynes and Newman. Dusk was closing in over the Chase, and already dozens of bats were to be seen, flying apparently aimlessly, frequently dashing themselves against the windows of the Biological Research Center, almost as though they recognized this place as the headquarters of the war which was being waged against them.

  "And the insecticides are apparently having no effect on them," Newman murmured. "We've killed off nearly everything else within a radius of sixty miles, but the bats appear to be unharmed. How the hell are they surviving?"

  "They're eating poisoned insect life," Haynes said, shaking his head in bewilderment, "and they're thriving on it. They don't even have to look for it. The woods and, fields are carpeted with it. And there's more than enough to keep them going until the winter."

  "Maybe that'll be the finish of them," Rickers suggested. "They'll hibernate, and then in spring there'll be no food for them and they'll starve."

  "Like hell!" Newman said. "They'll just spread to the rest of the country. And we can't poison the whole of the British Isles from John o' Groats to Land's End. Anyway, this hibernation isn't what everybody thinks it is. Bats don't sleep solidly throughout the winter. A spell of mild weather and they're as active as they are in summer."

  "But we don't know that we've failed yet," Rickers insisted. "Maybe the poison is taking longer to work on the bats. The virus could be slowing it up."

  "Or even acting as an inoculation. The virus could well be rendering it harmless. There's so much we bloody well don't know about the whole thing. All we can do is wait, but right now things don't look very hopeful."

  By September 24th it was clear to the whole world that the insecticide experiment was a failure and also that the overall situation had worsened. The numbers of bats flying at night had visibly increased. The young were now totally independent and flew with the adults like swarms of locusts over the whole countryside. Every night held its own terrors. Even the most secure barricades were proved to be inadequate, almost as though the creatures were now deliberately seeking out human victims.

  Fleet Street constantly reminded the public that Professor Brian Newman was the sole cause of the disaster and that every death must weigh heavily on his conscience.

  "The man responsible for the spread of this mutated virus," one London daily newspaper leader article ran, "has so far failed to come up with an antidote, and it is now reasonable to assume that none exists. An experiment to poison the bats has resulted in the destruction of virtually the whole of the insect life in the Midlands. What is Professor Newman doing about it? The man responsible for the spread of myxomatosis, the scourge which once cleared Britain of rabbits, entered a monastery in an attempt to cleanse his conscience of the suffering which he had caused to millions of coneys. Surely that is all that is left for Professor Newman, a monk's habit, and a lifetime spent praying for forgiveness. Repent, Professor Newman."

  Brian Newman's hand trembled as he put the paper down on the table.

  "Stop blaming yourself," Susan Wylie said as she entered the room and placed a cup of coffee at his elbow. "The Press always have to put somebody in the stocks. How the hell can they compare you with this myxomatosis guy? His intention was to cause deliberate suffering. Yours was an accident, a biological freak."

  Newman sat up suddenly, his fists clenched.

  "My God!" he muttered. "Why didn't I think of it before?"

  "Think of what?"

  "Where's last week's Scientific American." He began to rummage through a pile of newspapers and magazines beside where he was sitting.

  "What is it?"

  "Here it is." He pulled out the magazine he sought and began to flip quickly through the pages. "Now, let me see, I know I read it somewhere in here . . . ah, yes, this is it."

  Susan Wylie peered over his shoulder. The article in question was written by one of the leading biologists in the United States and was titled "Myxomatosis for Rats and Mice."

  "Recent experiments have proved," it read, "that a type of myxomatosis, a mutation of the virus which destroys rabbits, is lethal to rats and mice. Once this can be distributed widely it could save the United States billions of dollars annually in vermin destruction, damage to growing crops, and also help to check the spread of many diseases . . . "

  "Is it possible?" Newman breathed.

  "You mean . . . ?"

  "Yes, you've got it!" the Professor's eyes shone. "If it kills rats and mice, there's no reason why it shouldn't kill bats. It could be the answer to our prayers. I'll ring Rickers right away. Maybe we could get some of the stuff flown in."

  Rickers was not enthusiastic. Neither was he pleased about being disturbed whilst trying to catch up on some lost sleep.

  "Doesn't sound very promising to me," he grunted.

  "Neither did your insecticides idea." Newman snapped, "and that certainly didn't work. Now it's my turn."

  "Myxomatosis took months to spread."

  "Obviously it did, because rabbits live in warrens, often isolated, without coming into contact with others. The fleas had to carry the virus. This one is contagious. Quicker acting, and bats are much more sociable creatures. And even if it doesn't work on them at least we'll cut down the spread of the disease by destroying rats and mice."

  "I'll sleep on it." Rickers mumbled and replaced the receiver.

  "Well?" Susan Wylie asked.

  "He's interested." Newman told her laughing. "Pooh-poohed it, of course, because he hadn't thoug
ht of it first. Tried to find reasons why it wouldn't work. Then said he'd sleep on it. That means he's fetching Haynes out of bed right now. Probably Professor Talbot and Sir John Stirchley, too, and there might even be a transAtlantic call to New York before morning."

  "Oh, Brian!" She flung her arms around his, crying softly.

  "Now hold on," he said. "Let's not count our chickens. There are one helluva lot of obstacles to overcome before we even get round to trying to spread this thing. The government will have to agree to another virus being released, and they aren't exactly sympathetic to everything we've done so far. Like Rickers said, let's sleep on it."

  Chapter Fourteen

  The safari Land-Rover bumped its way across the heather and gorse on Cannock Chase.

  "That'll do," Newman said to the driver. "We'll release the bats in those firs over there. The rats and mice we'll take down to the Sherbrook Valley."

  The driver, a small man in overalls who spent most of his time nodding assent to any orders he was given, brought the vehicle to a standstill. Newman climbed down and, taking a small wicker container resembling a pigeon basket from the rear, he walked with it towards the nearest line of trees. From inside the basket came frenzied squeaks and fluttering. The bats were impatient for their freedom.

  Professor Newman opened the lid, and immediately six bats hurtled up into the air, flew round in a circle, and then disappeared amongst the branches of the towering pines. He closed the basket and walked slowly back towards the Land-Rover. Twenty consignments of similarly treated bats were today being released at various strategic points around the Midlands. Most of the injected rodents had been set free in the towns. Just one more lot, he told himself, and that was it.

  They had played their last card. He prayed that it was an ace.

  Ken Tyler was abroad shortly after daylight, moving silently through the swirling mist, gun beneath his arm. The fog did not worry him. He knew every inch of this land.

  There were unlikely to be any bats about until the mist thinned. As with most creatures, mist confused their sense of direction, even the mad ones. Fog meant safety for him, the chance to get some work done.

  He followed the course of the Castle Ring moat, his boots squelching in the soft grass, eyes scanning the ground ahead. Then he stopped suddenly. Only an experienced eye would have spotted the rectangular outline of a small, artificially made tunnel, two three-foot lengths of wood with a roof, camouflaged by clods of earth. Inside this he had set a humane vermin trap only days earlier, one of a network around the Ring, the only means by which the ground vermin could be controlled.

  He laid his gun on the ground and, kneeling down, peered into the entrance. The daylight at the opposite end was partly obscured. Something was caught in the trap. He gripped the chain and tugged, feeling the trap and whatever it had caught being dragged towards him.

  A grunt of satisfaction escaped his lips, turning to one of revulsion almost at once as he caught sight of his catch. A rat. He often trapped rats up here on Castle. Ring, but not like this one. Its head was swollen almost to the size of its body. The eyes were puffed up, hidden beneath two huge growths which sprouted out of the sockets themselves, pink and bloated. The mouth was open, rigor mortis having retained the expression of viciousness which the rodent had worn in life.

  Tyler used a stick to part the jaws of the trap, kicking the corpse to one side and noting its pink underside, covered with more cancerous growths which had not reached maturity before death had claimed the host.

  "Bloody mixy in rats?" He shook his head, and began the task of resetting the trap in the tunnel.

  Ken Tyler had seventeen traps set on Castle Ring. On average four or five caught victims daily. Two or three were usually sprung without killing. This morning, twelve had killed. All the creatures were rats, and every one was in the final stages of this terrible disease.

  The gamekeeper was puzzled. It was as though the vermin had entered the dark tunnels searching for a place in which to end their lives, their usual alertness for traps having been nullified. He made his way towards the woods. There was a small pool hidden amidst a dense reed-bed. Sometimes there were mallard on it, and often a brace of these found their way into the Tyler's larder without his employer being aware of it.

  Stealthily he crept up on the pond. The mist was thicker here, screening his approach. He stiffened, half-crouching, easing forward the safety catch on his gun. There was definitely something on the water this morning, unrecognizable shapes in the fog.

  He peered intently. There was something unnatural about the whole scene. It was lifeless. Not a splash or a ripple on the surface.

  He stepped forward, his boots splashing in the shallows, anticipating an alarmed quacking and frenzied wing beats as ducks took to the air. But nothing happened. There was no sound other than his own movements in the clammy stillness.

  Then he felt the bile rise in his throat as he recognized the shapes. Rats. Floating, bellies uppermost, legs rigid. And those same cancerous growths all over them.

  "Jesus!" He backed away on to firm land.

  Tyler was trembling as he entered the wood. Something unnatural was happening all around him this morning. Not that this hadn't been so for weeks on end now, but this was far worse. More horrible. A new kind of death.

  The ground beneath the trees was devoid of undergrowth. Only odd fronds of bracken sprouted at intervals, for seldom did the sunlight penetrate the evergreen foliage of the tar pines. Nothing else grew here.

  He trod on a bat before he noticed others lying beneath the trees, his heavy-soled boots squashing it to pulp, splitting open the growth which incorporated most of its body, thick yellowish pus mingling with the blood as it squelched out.

  "Ugh!" He scraped his boot on the carpet of pine needles in an endeavour to wipe off the sticky mess. It smelled, and he backed away from it: a sickly, penetrating odour like a mixture of vomit and excreta. There were bats lying dead all around him, as though a whole roost of them had been stricken in the night. And every one of the tiny creatures was disfigured by those same growths.

  Tyler was sweating. Carefully he made his way to the other end of the wood, stepping over and around the bats, taking care not to tread on any more. He paused once, thinking that he saw a grotesque wingless bat, bloated with death, amongst some others. Then he saw it was a field mouse. He wondered why it had not died in its hole, and decided that perhaps, unlike some of the rats in his tunneltraps, it had surfaced in quest of air and light.

  He started as something flapped silently from a branch above his head and quickly disappeared into the fog. An owl. Another species which would suffer in the long run if it was deprived of these rodents which were its natural prey.

  Professor Brian Newman and Susan Wylie returned from the Biological Research Center just in time for the televised news at ten o'clock. A reporter was talking in one of the main Birmingham thoroughfares, with blackened skeletons of buildings all around him, people huddled into small groups, and some traffic filtering by at intervals. Gangs of workmen wearing protective headgear were engaged in clearing-up operations,

  "The weeks of terror have finally come to an end;" the reporter was saying, "and at last people are emerging from their homes, wondering if it really happened or whether it was all one hellish nightmare. But here is the proof of reality." He indicated the wrecked city around him. "Burnt out shops and office blocks, many collapsing and burying bodies beneath them. During today alone, sixteen corpses, beyond recognition, have been recovered from the ruins of New Street Station. The fighting is over, and the restrictions which have been in force throughout the Midlands were lifted today. Members of the British Volunteer Force are assisting in site clearance, and many civilians have joined in to help also. But the gladdening news is that the bats from hell, the disease-carrying creatures which have been responsible for the thousands killed and a state of near-anarchy in and around the city of Birmingham, are no more. And for that we have to thank Professor Brian New
man, whose idea it was to import the latest weapon in warfare against rodents from the United States. This is a virus not unlike myxomatosis in rabbits, but much deadlier. Within a week of its initial release tens of thousands of bats, mice and rats have died in the Midlands, and we have just had reports of similar rat deaths as far a field as Manchester and Newcastle-on-Tyne. Whilst the killer disease travelled no further than a radius of fifty miles around Birmingham, this rodent plague appears to be spreading. We can only ask ourselves, what will Britain be like without the vermin against which we have been waging war for centuries? Even Professor Newman cannot forecast the long-term effects. Gerald Watson, News at Ten, Birmingham."

  Brian Newman leaned forward and switched off the television.

  "Well," Susan commented, "you're no longer the villain of the piece. They're hailing you as a saviour."

  "And within a year the damage will have been restored, and the bats will be only a memory," Newman muttered, "but there are those who will never forget, those who lost loved ones. I can do nothing to ease their grief."

  "I'll go and make some supper." Susan stood up and moved towards the kitchen. "At least we needn't be afraid to go outside after dark now."

  Brian Newman picked up the evening paper and had hardly opened it up when a piercing scream came from the kitchen.

  "Susan!" he yelled, scrambling to his feet, but before he reached the door Susan Wylie came rushing in, her face deathly white.

  "Oh, God!"she sobbed.

  "Whatever is it?" he demanded pulling her to him.

  "Nothing, really." She made an attempt to pull herself together, "it was . . . only a . . . a mouse. When I opened the cupboard it rolled out on to me. Phew! After all the mice, rats and bats I've held these past weeks whilst you injected them, and then we get one in the kitchen and I nearly have hysterics. It's sort of . . . different in the lab, isn't it?"