Bats Out of Hell (6 page)

"All right," he conceded, nodding. "But as a precaution we'd better wear some kind of protective clothing. Rubber gloves and mesh face masks may not be totally effective, but at least they'll help. We don't need to wait for dark. We'll go up this evening, about an hour before dusk."

Brian Newman left his car at the bottom of the muddy track, and together they walked in the direction of the Wooden Stables. Susan Wylie wore jeans to protect her bare legs, and their faces were both covered by netting masks of the variety used by duck-shooters, while latex rubber gloves shielded their hands.

The sun was dipping slowly in the cloudless western sky behind them, as though reluctant to relinquish its heat to the cool of darkness.

"It hasn't rained for a month now." Susan said. "I heard on the radio that a drought has been officially declared."

"Nothing's acting naturally these days." The professor sighed. "It's as if Nature herself has had enough of everything and wants to wipe us all out and start again."

"Don't say that." Susan shivered, then added, "What a damp, derelict place this is!"

Clouds of midges hovered beneath the trees, and as they rounded a bend which brought them into view of the stables, they surprised a couple of feeding rats which darted into the sanctuary of the gloomy, derelict buildings.

"Ugh!" Susan grimaced. "Just the sort of place for the bats to hide out. They'd be well at home with all the rats and mice. By the way, d'you think rodents are capable of carrying the virus?"

"I don't know," Newman replied. He paused before the entrance, almost reluctant to go in. "But I guess we'll find out before very long. Now, follow me, and let's take a look inside."

The Wooden Stables were dark and forbidding, the sunlight filtering in through gaping holes in the roof and penetrating the shadows, and they stood just inside the doorway for a few moments whilst then- eyesight adjusted to the gloom.

The first thing they noticed was the smell, a pungent, decaying odour.

"God, what a stink!" Susan wrinkled her nose beneath her mask.

"Something's decomposing." Newman walked towards an opening in the brick partition which separated the building into two halves. The floor was a mass of saturated straw and rubble, broken slates, fallen bricks, and heaps of horse dung. His foot kicked against something, a tiny body that rolled over, half decomposed, barely recognizable. It might have been a dead mouse but for the membrane of skin attached to it, a frail wing that had somehow outlasted the carcass.

"Look," he said, pointing to the ground. "That's one of 'em. And there's another, lodged on that shelf. Let's take a more thorough look."

He produced a flashlight from his pocket, and by its light they uncovered another twenty small corpses, some more rotted than others. The professor directed the light up into the rafters but there was no sign of life, only unbroken cobwebs stretching between the beams.

"Well, they're not here now," he muttered. "And from the way these corpses have rotted I reckon they've been gone for some time. Of course, the weather's been abnormally warm for the time of year, but I'd say the bats haven't used this place for a fortnight."

"Maybe . . . maybe they've all died and . . . that's the end of it," Susan suggested, trying to sound convincing.

"I wish I could agree with you." Newman switched off his torch and they went back outside. "But I'm afraid we can only wait and see. There's twenty-five thousand acres of Cannock Chase, and they could be just anywhere on it. Maybe even further afield. We know for a fact that this virus can be passed on to human beings, even if Haynes and Rickers pooh-pooh the idea. So all we can do is work like hell in an attempt to find an antidote, and await any further outbreaks. I'm afraid, though, that before very long Rickers is going to have to eat his words."

They walked back to the car in silence. In the dusk which was now gathering a bat flitted overhead, squeaked once, and then was lost to sight amidst the tall pines.

The Close was a quiet backwater of the small city of Lichfield, where little change had taken place during the last century. The prominent feature was the cathedral, towering above the solid red brick and black-and-white timbered buildings which housed the Dean and Chapter and others connected with this holy place.

In the furthermost corner, partially screened by a ten foot grey stone wall, stood the Bishop's Palace. However, it no longer housed that worthy man, for during the last couple of decades it had been taken over by St Chad's Cathedral School, a purpose for which it was ideally suited. Along with everything else in the Close it maintained an unhurried existence, preparing its pupils for life at a public school. As with most establishments of this nature, tradition prevailed. And one such tradition was that the boys attended a morning service in the cathedral on every Saint's day.

The headmaster, a young prebendary who was combining a career in teaching with a call to the service of God, watched with pride from the steps of the cathedral's north door as his pupils were marched in single file, shepherded by a couple of prefects. The choristers too in their red and white cassocks, seated in the stalls adjoining the altar, were from the school also. And this morning, to complete the St Chad's monopoly, the Reverend Francis Jackson himself would be giving the short address. He smiled to himself at the prospect, watching the last of the boys file into the stately edifice. The Bishop personally would be observing everything, seated somewhere at the rear of the long aisle, incognito in the shadows, so this morning everything had to run to perfection. Even the celebration of the birthday of a minor saint had to be a splendid occasion.

The first anthem was already beginning when the Reverend Jackson took his place. He knelt briefly, adopting an attitude of piety, eyes closed, lips moving soundlessly, then rose and opened his prayer book. He knew the words by heart, and this enabled him to focus his attention on the congregation. It seemed to consist mostly of his own pupils, with just one or two members of the public seated in the rear pews. He tried to identify the Bishop, but it was impossible at such a distance. He had to be there, though.

The anthem was followed by prayers, the first lesson, and then, as the hymn entered its last verse, the Reverend Francis Jackson embarked upon his dignified walk from his seat to the lectern. The pulpit was only used on Sundays.

The strains of the organ died away and the Reverend Jackson faced the congregation with a benign smile on his angular face.

"O Lord," he spoke louder than usual to ensure that the Bishop would hear him clearly, and affected an Oxford accent, "may the words of my mouth and the meditations of our hearts be now and always acceptable in Thy sight."

He paused for a second, his eyes narrowing. Someone, somewhere, was fidgeting. He couldn't see who it was, but he could hear it, a kind of rustling, candy wrappers perhaps, a stealthy sliver of chewing gum . . .

Even as the headmaster peered down the aisle, the soft swishing sound increased, like inarticulate whisperings. He looked upwards, and his jaw dropped in horrified astonishment. The lofty roof towered above, him, the stonework beautifully carved into figures and designs by craftsmen over the centuries, the sunlight revealing every detail in a variety of colours through the stained-glass windows. Yet this magnificence went unnoticed as the headmaster saw the tiny flying creatures fluttering crazily, diving, twisting, crashing into carvings, falling, regaining their powers of flight, soaring, diving.

"
Bats!
" Francis Jackson grunted.

The whole congregation stared at him in amazement. From where they sat they could not see the bats, and such were the acoustics of the cathedral that they were unable to hear them either. Choirboys and prefects glanced at each other. Their headmaster had snapped under the strain at last. Somebody ought to go to his aid. His arms were extended as though trying to ward off some invisible attacker, his lips mouthing exhortations of fear as though a devil had possessed his soul.

Bryce-Janson, the head boy, was on his feet, determined to rescue his headmaster before this thing went any further. He stepped forward, trying to determine a course of action, when the full force of the bat invasion came into view, spiralling down from the roof in a flight of uncontrolled fury, erratic and without any obvious use of their radar. There must have been at least two or three dozen of the creatures.

The congregation were staring in amazement. Bryce-Janson stood immobile, as though hypnotized. The Reverend Jackson was flailing his arms wildly, shouting hysterically. He had always had a fear of bats, and to him this was a nightmare. It couldn't be happening. It was all in the mind, and in front of the Bishop, too! Something sharp struck him on the forehead and he suddenly knew that it was real enough. It was then that he started to scream.

Bats zoomed up and down the aisle. Some of the boys crouched behind the pews in an attempt to dodge them; others ran blindly for the exit. An elderly woman, a regular at most services, fell to the floor in a faint.

Jackson was surrounded by several choristers who were attempting to drag him to the safety of the vestry, but he seemed to have lost all control of himself, lashing out blindly with his fists. One surplice-clad boy fell to the floor, clutching at a broken nose from which blood poured freely.

"Calm yourself, sir!" Bryce-Janson caught the headmaster from behind, pinioning his arms.

"Let go of me, stupid boy!"

The strength of the man was superior to that of the boy, and Bryce-Janson was sent spinning, tripping and sprawling headlong on the altar steps. A bat flew at him, dropped to the floor with the impact, and then took off again.

"Calm yourselves, everyone!" A tall, white-haired man was attempting to restore order in the aisle. Under normal circumstances the Bishop's voice would have commanded instant obedience, but now he was pushed rudely aside. The door was open and boys were fighting one another to get out.

Francis Jackson lay on the stone floor, panting, his face deathly white. Something alighted on his outstretched fingers, and with a shriek of terror he snatched his hand away. The bat swooped upwards, glanced off a stone pillar and then embarked upon a zig-zag course towards the roof.

All but a dozen or so boys were outside in the open air by this time. The Bishop had gone to the assistance of his prebendary, kneeling beside the semi-conscious Jackson and muttering soothingly in his ear. Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the aerial attack ceased. One or two of the bats were to be seen high up in the roof, clinging to the stonework, but the majority had vanished as though answering some strange call to return whence they had come. The clamour of voices died away, and a few of those boys who had fled began tiptoeing back into the cathedral, shameful expressions on their faces, each one of them hoping that their own individual show of cowardice had gone unnoticed in the mass melee.

"We had better help the headmaster back to the school," the Bishop said to Bryce-Janson. "I think he is only suffering from shock, but we'd better let Matron have a look at him."

The red-headed boy with the broken nose was clutching a saturated crimson handkerchief to his injury. Nobody seemed particularly interested in him, and he began to cry.

Within ten minutes the cathedral was empty except for the Bishop and the Head Verger. The latter, a short, plump man, fidgeted uncomfortably under the steely gaze of the other.

The Bishop glanced upwards, but there was not a bat to be seen, "Bryant where did all these bats come from?"

"I've no idea, Bishop," the verger muttered. "We've not had a bat in the cathedral for years, not since one dropped down on to the altar during the carol service a few Christmases ago. Mind you, there's usually one or two flying around outside at night."

"But this was absolute madness! So many of them, and in the daytime, too."

"It could be that the contractors working on the main spire disturbed a nest of them, Bishop."

"Yes, yes, that's a point," The holy man seemed relieved at the prospect of a logical explanation. "Of course. Well, perhaps you would have a word with the contractors. If there are bats in any quantity in the spire, then I think we ought to contact a firm of pest controllers. We can't have this happening again. Those poor boys were frightened out of their wits, not to mention the headmaster. See to it, will you, Bryant?"

"I will, Bishop." The Head Verger turned away, and once out of sight of the Bishop he paused to mop his damp forehead with his handkerchief. He was thankful that he had been in the toilet when it had all happened. If there was anything he hated and feared more than rats and mice, it was bats.

The Reverend Jackson began to feel ill early in the evening of the third day following the chaos which the bats had caused in the cathedral. He was aware that he was running a temperature, and every movement seemed an effort, almost as though he was a spectator from afar witnessing his own actions. He put it down to shock. The whole episode had been very unnerving for him, although he had tried not to show it outwardly. It would be bad for his morale, and that of the school, for the pupils to become aware that their headmaster was afraid of a few harmless bats. He shook his head and tried to ignore the aching and feverishness. An early night might shake it off. He was grateful that he was a bachelor and did not have to go to great lengths to deceive a doting wife. All he had to do was to remain in the background until he felt well again.

His dreams began to trouble him the moment he laid his head on the pillow; nightmarish figments of the subconscious that bordered on realism. Bats. Hundreds, thousands of them. All sizes. Some so small that they were scarcely larger than fleas, alighting on his body, crawling, biting, impossible to dislodge. He writhed and groaned in his sweat-soaked bed, striking at himself, slapping his face and thighs. Eventually they left him, but his respite was brief. Next came the giant ones, as big as Alsatian dogs, hanging on the walls by their claws, perching on the end of the bed and just staring. They watched him like vultures waiting for death, gloating over the easy pickings that would be theirs.