Bats

by William W. Johnstone

  Eight o’clock on the morning after the attack on the shoppers in the mall at Shreveport, Blair had gone to work, taking Rich and Holly with her. They liked to help with the animals, and she never knew when Phil was going to call Johnny out.

  “Please come in, gentlemen. Right after you called I made fresh coffee . . . and put out the glass cups.”

  Dr. Bajat smiled. “You are familiar with the customs of some of our South American countries, señor?”

  “I’ve been there a time or two.”

  Dr. Bajat nodded his head and his eyes twinkled. “I’m sure you have.”

  “Why didn’t you come up with all the other experts, Doctor?” Johnny asked.

  “Because I knew it would be a waste of time. Too many cooks spoil the meal, right?”

  “In many cases, yes.”

  Johnny seated the men and brought out coffee on a tray, placing it on the coffee table.

  “Clear glass cups?” Tom said.

  “Makes the coffee tastes better, Tom. Try it.” He settled back in a chair and asked, “You have a solution to our bat problem, Doctor?”

  “I don’t know, Mr. MacBride . . .”

  “Johnny, Doctor. Just Johnny.”

  “Very well. Captain Alden was kind enough to show me the map you drew. It was . . . interesting, to say the least. Do you believe these bats are doing this deliberately? Knowingly?”

  “I don’t know, Doctor. After dealing with these creatures for some months now, I gave up trying to understand them.”

  “But you think you can second-guess them.” He held up a copy of what Tom had drawn the evening before. “Like this.”

  “So far, it fits.”

  “They will strike next at ...?” He laid the map on the coffee table. “Show me.”

  Johnny leaned forward. “Here, here, and here.”

  Dr. Bajat accented that in on the map. “And that represents . . .?”

  “One ear.”

  “You’ve added that since last night,” Tom said, looking at the map.

  “Yeah. I figured I might as well be called creative as well as crazy.”

  “Neither one of us is laughing, Johnny,” Dr. Bajat said, his face serious.

  “So you buy this theory?”

  “I don’t entirely discount it. But why are they behaving like this? They can’t possibly have enough intelligence to know what they look like, much less map out their shape . . . for whatever reason.”

  Johnny shrugged. “You’re the expert. You tell me.”

  “Us,” Tom said.

  “And you think they’ll strike tonight?”

  “I don’t know why not. They haven’t missed a night since they returned.”

  Doctor Bajat studied the map for a moment. “These four towns.” He pointed them out.

  “Yes.”

  Bajat and Johnny both looked over at Tom.

  “We’re on it,” the captain of state police said. “We’ve alerted the sheriff in that parish and the chiefs of police in the towns. State police is putting extra units over there.” He sighed and Johnny knew, and felt Bajat knew also, that no matter how level-headed and experienced the troopers might be, they would be able to offer little as far as aid when the attack came. No one had yet gotten a handle on just how best to fight the goddamn fanged, winged horrors. “The residents of those towns are being warned to stay indoors and off the streets. Now, whether they’ll heed those warnings is something else again.”

  “Why in God’s name would they not?” Bajat asked.

  “The ‘It can’t happen to me’ syndrome, Doctor,” Johnny said.

  “Cemeteries around the world are full of those types of people, amigo.”

  “And gonna get fuller around here,” Tom said drily.

  * * *

  Dr. Bajat left with Captain Alden. He wanted to be in the area most likely to be struck that evening and Tom had received orders out of Baton Rouge to stick with the eminent doctor.

  “Dr. Enrique Bajat?” Blair questioned when Johnny told her that evening.

  “That’s him. ’Bout fifty-five, I’d guess. Small built. Very sharp eyes. Speaks excellent English.”

  “He speaks excellent French, German, Portuguese, and four or five other languages, as well. He is the foremost authority on bats in the world. Dr. Catton called his office when the bat problem first surfaced up here. But he declined to come. He doesn’t like to have a lot a amateurs about him.”

  “He considers PhD types amateurs?”

  Blair laughed. “Compared to him, yes. He’s brilliant, Johnny.”

  “They’ve reopened the old highway department buildings again. Dr. Bajat will be working out of there.”

  “I just might drop by and see him.”

  “I thought you might.”

  Johnny and Blair did not leave the house after her return from work. They had an early, for them, supper, and after the kids were in their rooms, doing homework that Blair assigned them, after consulting with their teachers, she and Johnny went into the den and turned on the radio. They waited for news.

  It was not long in coming. Just after full dark, the bats launched a four prong attack, the largest contingent of bats striking at the biggest town, which was located on the interstate, the three smaller groups assaulting the smaller towns north of I-20. But because the local authorities had been alerted, and most of the residents heeded the warnings, deaths and injuries were few as compared with the attack on the mall in Shreveport. A few people ignored the warnings and fell victim to the bat attacks.

  “Those types of people won’t be missed,” Johnny said, very much aware of Blair’s sharp look. “Those are the types who roll through or ignore stop signs, drink and drive, completely disregard the rights of others, throw garbage out of their cars and trucks, and in general take more from society than they give. Hell with them.”

  “You have no compassion at all for those people, do you, Johnny?”

  “None at all. I don’t suffer fools very well.”

  Johnny used his colored accent pen to trace the attacks on his map and showed it to Blair. She nodded her head in both agreement and astonishment.

  So far, the press had not picked up on the unusual behavior of the bats, and the state police were keeping a tight lid on the strange routes the bats were taking. But a few members of the press were beginning to study maps of North Louisiana, and tracing out the attacks. They scratched their heads and tried to figure out just what the hell was going on. So far, none had pieced together the puzzle. But all concerned knew that was just a matter of time. And when they did master the puzzle and went national with the news, all hell was going to break loose.

  “They’re outlining their territory,” Dr. Bajat reached his conclusion the day after the attack just north of I-20. “That is the only deduction I can make. It makes no sense. I have never seen bats behave in such a manner. But I firmly believe that is what they are doing.” He smiled. “Of course, I may change my mind tomorrow.”

  “Then you believe these bats are capable of knowing what they look like?” Blair asked the doctor over dinner at their home in the river parish.

  “It would . . . ah ... appear so,” the doctor admitted. “It also would appear that they have a very dark sense of humor.”

  Blair dropped her salad fork and stared at the man. “Are you serious? A bat has a sense of humor?”

  “Why else would they be doing this? I will admit something to you: this same thing happened some years ago in South America. I discovered it years later—quite by accident.”

  “Attacks this serious?” Johnny asked.

  “Oh, yes. At least and probably much worse. It happened in a mountainous area by a species of bat that shortly afterward became extinct.” He paused.

  “You thought,” Blair said.

  “You’re very quick, Blair,” Dr. Bajat said. “Yes. We thought. Now it appears we were very wrong.”

  “But it was never reported in any journal I ever read.”

  “These
were poor, very simple people living in very isolated villages. This was fifty years ago. No communications at all. It was a year before state officials began to sense something might be wrong. They sent teams in to find out what that ‘wrong’ might be.” Bajat fell silent.

  “The villages were deserted,” Johnny said. “Except for human bones picked clean. Right?”

  Bajat sighed and nodded his head. “Yes. You’re quite right. These were very small villages. Fifty living in this one, a hundred in another. Indians, mostly. Doctors did testing on the scraps of flesh that remained and reached the conclusion that rabies killed them all. Well, they weren’t entirely wrong. My God, who would ever suspect giant bats? The government teams buried the bodies, burned the villages, and promptly covered up the story. But one man didn’t buy the government’s story. My father. He was a scientist, and a very good one. He and several of his friends went exploring in that area and they found hundreds of bat skeletons ...”

  “Skeletons?” Blair questioned.

  “Yes. No live bats. Just skeletons. My father said he suspected there were originally thousands of them. But time and wind and rain and wild animals had taken care of many of the bat bodies. At that time, the government in my country was nothing more than a dictatorship. Very cruel, despotic. My father knew better than to go public with the news. He would have been, well, arrested and killed, to put it bluntly. And, since the bats were all dead, and there had been no more bat attacks, what would it serve? Some years after his death, I found some of his writings. He had destroyed most of his journals concerning the bats. All but one. It was, well, disturbing, when I finally discovered just how he had died.”

  “Bats killed your father?” Blair asked.

  “Not officially. Officially he had contracted some exotic disease while working in his laboratory at the university. After our government more or less stabilized, I had his body exhumed. The casket was filled with bags of sand. You see, all the members of my father’s expedition into the mountains had mysteriously died over the years. Everyone of them. I very quietly, working mostly at night and without government approval, exhumed their bodies. Or their coffins, to be precise. The caskets were all filled with bags of sand. I finally found a priest who, on his deathbed, told me the truth. Or as much as he knew, which wasn’t a great deal.

  “My father had confided in him; said that he was being stalked by some sort of creature. He felt sure it was the giant bats. And he felt certain they were going to kill him. I was away at school, in England. The bats killed them all one night. My father and every man who went with him into the mountains. It was a planned move. The bodies were quickly cremated. My father believed, according to the one journal that I found, that the bats were growing smarter with each generation, and that unless they were stopped, someday they would take over the world.”

  “Do you believe that?” Blair asked.

  “No. I do not. For something happens when the giant bats get out of control. Something knocks them down to only a few in number. And before you ask me what it is ... I don’t know. But,” he smiled, “I do know this: I went to the mountains after my father died and I had finished a phase of my education, and I spoke with an old, old Indian. He told me he had seen the giant bats only once in his lifetime. Only once. And he was very, very ancient. So that tells me they possibly experience a population explosion every seventy-five or hundred years.”

  “Perhaps like rabbits, disease takes them out?” Johnny said.

  But Bajat shook his head. “I don’t think so. For the old man told me stories that had been handed down for hundreds of years among the tribes in the mountains. Stories about great battles in the sky. Huge winged creatures are beaten down and killed by hordes of smaller winged creatures who simply overpower them by sheer numbers.” He shrugged his shoulders in that classic Latin manner. “Myth, superstition, or based on truth? I don’t know.” Bajat picked up the map and looked at the outline. He shook his head. “This is so much like the outline my father drew years ago it’s frightening. And awesome.”

  He laid the map down and put a sheet of white paper over it, tracing the accented lines, then laid it on the coffee table.

  “It’s more than awesome,” Blair said. “It’s eerie.”

  Thirteen

  The winged monsters struck that night, while Bajat was dining with Johnny and Blair. They completed their huge half circle north of the interstate. But this time the people were ready for them. A few were injured, but none were killed. That seemed to infuriate the bats. Witnesses reported that the bats clung to heavy screens and doors and car antennas and howled and slobbered and hissed their fury.

  “What is going to be interesting,” Johnny said. “Is when this . . . pattern, this outline, whatever you want to call it, is complete.”

  “What do you mean?” Blair asked.

  “It will be finished right back where it started. Here. In this parish. What happens to us when it’s finished? Are we going to be finished?”

  “Dr. Bajat says he is certain nature is going to intervene very soon.”

  “How?”

  “He doesn’t know, Johnny. Or he says he doesn’t. I think he knows more than he’s telling.”

  “Oh, so do I. I felt that from the outset. Why he’s holding back is what puzzles me.”

  Blair looked at the nearly completed outline of bat attacks. “Monroe/West Monroe is next.”

  “Yeah. Tonight.”

  But by six o’clock that evening, much of the twin cities resembled ghost towns. People were barricaded in their homes, the campus of Northeast University was deserted, malls had voluntarily closed. Only a few bars remained open, and despite the danger, they were doing a brisk business, with most of them having “bat parties.”

  “They’re going to have a party, all right,” Tom Alden said to his troopers, gathered at their HQ. “A bloody one.” He pointed a finger at his people. “Now, you hear this. None of you are going to risk your lives attempting to save a bunch of goddamn ignorant wine-headed bar-hoppers or the silly-assed members of that frat house at Northeast who are having parties tonight. They’ve all had ample warnings that what they’re doing is very, very dangerous and foolish. They chose to ignore the warnings. To hell with them. And that is an order.”

  He gestured at Enrique. “You’ve all met Dr. Bajat. He’ll be riding with me tonight, observing the behavior of the bats and filming. All right. Head’s up and hit the streets.”

  Scouts from the main body of bats had already silently winged over the city and checked it out. They had chosen their targets and reported back.

  “Drive over to the campus,” Bajat requested. “Park across from one of those fraternity houses whose members are exhibiting their total lack of common sense this evening. I want to film the carnage.”

  “If they attack there,” Tom said.

  “They’ll attack. They’ve already picked their targets. They did that at dusk. I wish to see for myself just how foolish these people are.”

  “They’re frat boys and sorority girls.”

  “Many houses have members who are fine young men and women.”

  “Most are like that,” Tom agreed. “But not these houses. These are dip-shits.”

  Bajat smiled. “Interesting description, Captain. I must remember it. What is that sound?”

  “It’s something that’s loosely called music. It’s coming from right over there. That’s the bigger of the two frat houses.” Tom pulled over to the curb and parked.

  “The fools have the windows and doors open,” Bajat observed. “And some are outside, dressed as bats.”

  “Be sure your door is locked,” Tom cautioned.

  It was full dark and except for the noise coming from the frat house, very quiet.

  “Damnit!” Tom cussed as he reached for the mic. He turned on his outside speaker. “You kids over there! Get back inside and close the windows and doors.”

  His order was greeted by hoots and catcalls and several extended middle fingers.


  “This is Captain Alden of the state police,” his voice boomed through the night. “You’re in great danger.”

  More hoots and laughter and middle fingers.

  Tom hooked the mic and turned off the speaker. “You are my witness that I tried.”

  “It will be no loss to society in general,” Bajat replied.

  Tom cut his eyes. “Are you sure you’re not related to Johnny MacBride?”

  “I’m a realist, Captain. Like Mr. MacBride I know that human life is the cheapest commodity on the face of the earth. Worldwide we spend billions of dollars a year keeping people alive. Unfortunately, most of those we keep alive are the nonproductive ones. They just . . . exist. From one handout to the other. One tragedy to the other. The deaths of those cretinous-acting individuals over there will be no enormous loss to society. I doubt seriously there are any Nobel candidates in that bunch.”

  “You two have to be cousins or something,” Tom muttered.

  A crew from a local TV station pulled up. They were filming the foolishness from the protection of a van.

  “Anytime now,” Bajat said. “I cannot understand why the dean of this university, or president, as the case may be, did not order a curfew this night.”

  “He did. The way I understand it, this house is on suspension anyway. Hell”—he pointed to the idiots—“they don’t care. These dip-shits just ignored the curfew order.”

  “I hope they enjoy this frivolity. For most of them it’s going to be their last party.”

  “There they are, Doctor,” Tom said softly, as his eyes picked up the deadly silent movement of the huge bats as they circled overhead. “God, I hate those bastards!”

  “They are only doing what nature programmed them to do, Captain.”

  “I still hate them.”

  “It’s amazing,” Bajat said, clicking on his camera. “Bats don’t behave in such a manner. These bats are actually stalking their prey. Much like the Indians in some old Western movie; circling, moving in for the kill. It’s incredible.”

  Bajat’s camera was equipped with special light gathering lenses and the light from the frat house was more than enough for him to film the impending carnage.