“No. We’re not, Holly. We have radios we can use. You two just relax. You’re safe here.” He smiled at the kids. “Believe me, you’re safe.”
They returned the smile and Johnny marveled at the trust they were placing in him. And that made him feel a little uneasy. The kids were counting on him . . . one hundred and ten percent.
He walked into the kitchen and started to fix a drink. He thought about it for a moment and put the whiskey and glass back. He might need all his senses this night, unimpaired by alcohol. He was suddenly aware of Blair watching him. He turned his head and met her eyes.
“You’re thinking tonight is going to be really bad, aren’t you?” she asked.
He nodded his head. “Yeah. The bats seem to be organized . . . although that may be just our imaginations working overtime. But it’s not just the bats the people out there have to worry about.”
“The infected people?”
“Yeah. You know about the mobile morgues?”
“Yes. And when the press finds out and broadcasts that over fifty people have been killed in the past few days, there will be no holding the gawkers and rubber-neckers out of the parish . . . or many of the citizens in.”
“Over fifty is right,” Mark said, walking into the kitchen. “Way over fifty . . . and counting. Captain Alden says for me to stay put. And I found out where the bats are.”
Johnny and Blair waited.
“On the roof. I heard them scuffling around up there while I was out in the garage. Must be hundreds of them up there. I hope you have a strong roof.”
“I do. They might be able to strip off a few shingles, but they’ll never get through that plywood. Or the plywood that’s just over our heads.”
“I may never leave here,” Mark said with a sigh.
“If there ever was an incentive to get rid of the bats,” Johnny said drily, “that was it!”
Mark did his best to look hurt. He just couldn’t quite pull it off.
Two
The city patrolman turned his head at the tap on his rolled up window and just about lost his supper when he looked into the maddened eyes, slobbery lips, and swollen face of Clyde Dingle. The passenger side window was smashed out; abnormally strong arms wound around the patrolman’s neck, and hot, stinking breath blew on his face. He began screaming when Dark Moon started eating his ear. He managed to drop the car into drive and floorboard the gas pedal. He went tire-squalling and rear-end fish-tailing down the street. Clyde was knocked free but Dark Moon clung on, hanging half in and half out of the patrol car. She crawled into the front seat and continued tearing great chunks of flesh from his face.
Half blinded from pain, running about seventy miles an hour, the patrolman lost control of the car and went smashing through the window of a department store. Dark Moon held on and kept feeding.
The patrol car tore through the store, with the panic-filled patrolman trying to see and steer and get this totally insane woman off of him. He spun the wheel and kept the pedal to the metal, cutting doughnuts inside the department store, knocking merchandise all over the place, and finally exiting out—at only slightly less the speed he’d entered—through the large hole he’d made crashing into the place.
Several news crews from a major network were in town, wrapping up interviews and one heard the screaming of tires and roaring engine. They got it all on film, or tape, whatever. They got the terrible pictures of Clyde Dingle staggering around on main street, slobbering and grunting and now bleeding from his sudden impacting with the concrete.
And they also got more than they wanted: when the city patrol car finally smashed into a pole, it sent Dark Moon crashing out the already shattered front window and through the windshield of the rental car. Dark Moon, battered and bleeding but still conscious, landed in the lap of the suddenly horrified reporter.
He let out a howl that could quite possibly be heard all the way to Monroe and exited the car, his crew right behind him. Dark Moon, dying from second’s old internal injuries, among other things, rolled off the seat and fell on the gas pedal. The car tore forward, heading straight down the main street of the town, running wide open.
Clyde was standing in the middle of the street and he became bumper bait for traffic. The car Dark Moon was dying in ran him down and knocked him through the car windshield of a state trooper who had just seconds before driven into town. Clyde landed on the front seat, dead as a hammer but in a natural sitting position, and quite unintentionally and unknowingly he put his left arm around the shoulders of the trooper and laid his dead head on the trooper’s shoulder.
Valor is one thing and stupidity is quite another. And the trooper was not stupid. He took one absolutely, positively horrified and very quick look at Clyde and all the blood and slobber, popped his seat belts, and got the hell out of his unit posthaste.
Then he remembered the bats.
“Oh, shit!” he said, standing exposed in the big fat middle of the street.
A parish deputy came to a sliding halt and the trooper jumped in.
“What the hell is going on, Dickson?” the deputy asked.
“Don’t ask me, Tommy. I just got here.” The trooper peeled out of his slobber-soaked, stinking shirt and tossed it to the floor just about the time Lieutenant Woloszyk of the state police slid to a halt beside the deputy’s car.
The lieutenant rolled down his window and said, “May I ask who that is sitting in your unit, what happened to your windshield, and why you are out of uniform, Dickson?”
While Dickson was pondering just how best to answer that question, a local had run out of his house and grabbed the wheel of the slowing reporter’s car, turning it around in the street. The citizen grabbed Dark Moon with one hand and lifted her off the gas pedal. He took one look at what remained of the woman, yelled once, and turned loose of the wheel and dropped her back to the floorboards. He ran for the safety of his house and the car started off again, this time heading back toward the main drag of town.
Dickson said, “Well, you see, Lieutenant, it was like this. I ...”
“Are you sure you’re not related to Mark Hayden?” Woloszyk interrupted. “I remember him pulling something like this about five years ago. He ...” The lieutenant looked into his rear view mirror at the car coming up fast behind him, coming dead at him. “Oh, shit!” he hollered, just as the reporter’s car plowed into him.
Luckily for the lieutenant, he had floorboarded his unit just at the moment of impact, and that probably saved him from a terrible case of whiplash. He fought the wheel and got his unit under control just as his headlights picked up Frankie and Becky Wirth, Rex Kenny, and Lila, staggering and lurching and slobbering and grunting up the main street, holding their arms out in front of them, coming straight at him.
Woloszyk backed up, back to where Tommy and Dickson were parked. The rear fenders of his unit were caved in, rubbing against the tires, making a terrible racket. The trooper and deputy had not yet seen the quartet lurching their way.
“Are you all right, Lieutenant?” Dickson called.
“Am I all right? Hell, no! I’m not all right. Look down there!” he said, pointing. “My God, some of those damn reporters have come up behind them, filming.”
The quartet turned around and spotted the reporter and his crew.
“Oh, shit!” the reporter said. It was to be a very commonly and very often used expletive that evening.
Frankie and Becky, and Rex and Lila, began lurching toward the reporter and crew. “Help!” they hollered.
“Shit!” Tommy said.
The quartet spread out, covering the wide street as they stalked new game.
“Are you goddamn cops going to do something about this?” the reporter hollered. “Or just sit there with your stupid faces hanging out?”
Lieutenant Woloszyk got into the back seat of the parish unit. “Drive, Tommy,” he ordered.
“Where?” Tommy asked.
“Up there, damnit! To help those idiots.” He stared. “Isn
’t that the reporter who never has anything good to say about cops?”
“That’s the one, Lieutenant,” Dickson replied.
“Drive up there,” Woloszyk said with a sigh. “Blow your horn and get those . . . whatever they are turned around facing us.”
“And then what?” Tommy asked, moving out.
“We neutralize the situation.”
“We mean we shoot those people?”
“Yes.”
“Jesus, Lieutenant!” Dickson blurted. “Those goddamn reporters will cream us. They’ll film it and then start weeping and pissing and moaning about the brutality, or some such crap as that.”
“Nobody told you this job would be easy. Let’s go.”
The reporter and his crew had been frantically trying each store door they came to. They were all locked for the evening.
Tommy, Dickson, and Woloszyk, all carrying shotguns, got out of the car about a hundred feet from the rabies-maddened group. “Tommy, watch for bats,” Woloszyk said.
“Well, it’s about goddamn time you people showed up!” the reporter hollered.
“What do you want us to do, Mr. Carrington?” Woloszyk called.
Frankie and his group had turned to face the short line of lawmen.
“Those people are dangerous!” Carrington yelled, pointing to Frankie and the others, standing swaying and slobbering and grunting.
“They sure are.”
“They have rabies.”
“Sure looks that way.”
“Well . . . get them out of the street. You’re here to provide safety and protection for citizens, aren’t you?”
“For the population as a whole, yes.”
Carrington’s crew realized instantly what the lieutenant of state police was up to and they grinned and began filming, as did half a dozen other camera crews who had gathered on the main street of the small town. Most of the film and sound people were smiling or trying to hide their smiles. The network reporters were frowning.
“Do something, goddamnit!” Carrington yelled.
“You people get into your vehicles,” Woloszyk called to the other reporters. “There are dangerous, rabies-carrying bats all over the place.”
“And those people there as well,” a reporter yelled, pointing to the rabies-infected quartet.
“That’s right,” Woloszyk acknowledged.
“Where is your capture net?” another reporter shouted. “You’ve got to take those poor unfortunates alive.”
“That son of a bitch!” Dickson muttered, and he was not a man who very often used profanity.
“Told you,” Tommy whispered.
“We’ll just back off and radio in for large nets and extra personnel,” Woloszyk called.
“Wait a fuckin’ minute!” Carrington screamed, as Frankie and Becky started moving toward him. “We’re boxed in over here. You’ve got to help us.”
“How?” Woloszyk called.
“How?” Carrington shouted. “Well, goddamnit, shoot them!”
“But they’re unarmed,” Woloszyk called. “You’re on record as being opposed to police using deadly force against unarmed suspects.”
“This is different!” Carrington’s voice was more like a scream as Frankie and Becky were drawing closer and closer.
“How?” Woloszyk asked.
“Because my ass is on the line!” Carrington screamed, as Rex and Lila joined the brother and sister in advancing toward Carrington. Carrington had no place to run.
“Shut it down and destroy that film,” one network reporter told her crew. “That goddamn cop is milking this situation for all it’s worth. He’s making Carrington look like a fool.”
“It wasn’t really that difficult to do,” a cameraman muttered. That got him a hot look from Carol, but she said nothing.
“All the camera crews are shutting down, Lieutenant,” Dickson muttered.
“I see it. Use your pistols and at my orders, knock the legs from under those poor unfortunates out there.”
“The reporters or the crazies?” Dickson asked with a straight face.
“I swear you have to be related to Hayden. First cousins, or something.”
“Lieutenant, we can’t get a clear shot because of all those reporters.”
Other troopers and deputies had rolled up, standing outside their cars with shotguns, scanning the dark skies for bats. “Call in for heavy fish nets,” Woloszyk told a trooper.
“Fish nets, Lieutenant?”
“You heard me. Just do it.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You people get out of the way!” Woloszyk shouted. “We can’t get a clear shot.”
“As soon as they cock their pistols, start filming,” Carol told her crew.
The camera fell to the sidewalk with a crash. “Dropped my camera,” the operator said. “Sorry about that.”
“I’ll have your job for that,” Carol said.
“I doubt it.”
“I’ll take the young man on the far left,” Woloszyk said, leveling his pistol. “Dickson, you take the woman next to him. Tommy, you knock a knee out from under the man. Smith, get up here on the line and take the woman on the far right.”
The lawmen assumed a shooting position. “Start honking your horns,” Woloszyk called over his shoulder. “Make them turn around and face us.”
The night air was filled with a dozen honking horns. The rabies-maddened quartet slowly turned around.
“Fire!” Woloszyk said.
The quartet hit the street, each with a shattered knee.
“How awful!” Carol said. “Such brutality.”
“Oh, fuck you, Carol!” a reporter from another network said. “What damn choice did those men have?”
The crazed men and women thrashing around on the street tried to rise, to attack, but all they could do was crawl around and make horrible noises.
“Those nets ought to be here in about two or three minutes, Lieutenant,” a trooper called. “A commercial fisherman is bringing them over from the river.”
“You police weren’t prepared for this situation!” Carol yelled. “That shooting could have been prevented.”
A deputy cussed and cocked his pistol.
“Put it away,” Woloszyk spoke softly. “She’s not entirely wrong.”
“I wasn’t really gonna shoot her, Lieutenant,” the deputy said. “It was just a thought.”
“One we all shared,” Woloszyk muttered, and Dickson looked at him and smiled.
The city patrolman, with parts of his face missing, staggered onto the scene, nearly blind from the blood running into his eyes.
“Did anybody call for ambulances?” Woloszyk asked.
“Yes, sir,” a trooper said, just as Wilson collapsed onto the concrete.
“Good Christ almighty! Something’s been eating on his face,” a deputy said, then turned away and tried to keep his supper down.
The infected quartet were crawling toward Carrington, grunting and slobbering and leaking blood all over the street.
“Get out of there!” Woloszyk shouted to the man and his crew. “Move, damnit! All of you find a car and get in it. All you people, move!”
“Don’t tell me what to do!” Carol yelled back at him. “We have a constitutional right to be here.”
“Let the bitch stay,” a female city cop said. “If we get lucky, the bats will take care of her.”
“That is a very unkind thing to say, Jenkins,” a parish deputy said. “However, I wholeheartedly agree with you.”
To say that many cops both dislike and distrust the press would be a classic understatement. Sometimes with very good reasons.
The wailing of sirens began, and grew louder. Car radios began squawking as dispatchers from all over the parish and the troop called in, demanding to know what was going on. Citizens were now crowding on their front porches and lawns, rubber-necking. The less intelligent inhabitants of the town had gotten in their cars and driven over to the scene, illuminated by the headlights of a
dozen police cars.
“Did you ever seen anything like this in all your borned days, Sally?” a man asked his wife.
“That’s Lila Bodine!” another citizen yelled.
Lila grunted and slobbered.
“Them’s Frank Wirth’s kids!” yet another local yelled. “I think. God, they look terrible.”
“Did you have to shoot them?” a teenager called. “That’s police brutality!”
“Damn right, it is!” Carol shouted. “I want to talk to you, young man. Come over here.”
“All you people go back to your homes!” Lieutenant Woloszyk shouted as the crowds thickened. “This is a very dangerous area. You must clear this area immediately. Please. For your sake, get out of here.”
Few obeyed the orders.
Trooper Dickson was the first to notice the warning signs. There was not a single dog barking anywhere. Not a single dog could be seen anywhere. No birds were calling out, no cats prowling and yowling.
Dickson moved to Woloszyk’s side. “I think the bats are gathering, Lieutenant,” he whispered. “Look around you and listen. No dogs, no cats, no birds, no nothing.”
“I won’t take a chance on you being wrong. Get a bullhorn. Give the orders to clear this area. I ...”
Before he could finish the sentence, the bats came, silently and deadly, hundreds of them, and struck hard.
Three
One trooper went down, his throat torn out. The troopers, deputies, and city patrolpersons jumped into their vehicles, quickly rolling up windows and slamming doors.
The young man who was filled with self-importance and righteous indignation over what he perceived as police brutality, had his world darkened forever as a bat swooped silently down, wrapped its wings around his head and began eating his face. The hideous cries were muffled.
Carol almost made it. But not quite. A bat landed on her head, got all tangled up in her hair, and began savagely biting her face. She went shrieking down the street, tripped over a bumper from the city patrolman’s car and landed hard on the concrete. Several other bats joined in the feasting.
Bats Page 15
