Bats Out of Hell

by Guy N Smith

  "Let's take a ride," he finished his beer and looked at her.

  "If you say so, but all this back-seat stuff is getting a bit boring, Brian. Christ, when there's a comfortable bed back at your place, why the hell do we have to play at contortionists in the car on a chilly night?"

  "You know damned well why."

  "Yes, I guess I do," she stood up and adjusted her dress. "But not for much longer. You either want me or you don't."

  He followed her out of the lounge bar, again making comparisons, remembering Susan's wiggle as she had walked from the laboratory a few hours earlier. Physically there was little to choose between them. It would be a hard decision when he finally had to make it.

  The car park was full as they walked along an avenue of badly positioned vehicles. Cars had never interested Brian Newman. They were simply a mechanical means of getting from one place to another in the shortest possible time. Yet tonight, for some inexplicable reason, he found himself compelled to run his eye over them. Every third one seemed to be a Mini. It was the red ones which claimed his attention. He found himself glancing at their registration numbers, his mouth dry even after three pints of beer, tension building up inside him. Suddenly he stiffened, his stomach muscles contracting. He felt sick. The letters and numbers on the front plate of the red Mini two rows away seemed to leap at him like sensational headlines in a newspaper. He read them, knew them by heart, and they hammered inside his brain in the manner of an electronic warning system.

  He saw, too, the long flowing hair of the girl who sat behind the wheel of the stationary car. Her face was in shadow, but he knew the expression on it without seeing it, a mixture of hurt and hate, a woman scorned.

  "Come on," Fiona tugged impatiently at his sleeve.

  He shrugged her off abruptly, and snapped in a voice which he hardly recognized as his own. "I'll take you home. I guess I don't feel too good tonight, after all."

  Probably the decision which Professor Brian Newman had been dreading had even now been made for him, and he had already lost the backing of Susan Wylie in the traumatic day which faced him on the morrow.

  Chapter Two

  It was just after eleven o'clock when Newman returned to the Biological Research Center. The night-porter glanced up as the tall professor walked in, then looked away, disinterested. It was quite customary for the various scientists to come and go at all times of the day and night.

  Newman unlocked the door of his own laboratory, let himself in and turned the key behind him. He did not wish to be interrupted by anyone for any reason.

  There were about a dozen bats still left alive, the oxygen machine attached to the cage ensuring that there was no way in which either virus or bacteria could escape into the atmosphere. The creatures were still zooming frantically about their enclosure, and in the silence of the room their shrill piping and buffeting seemed even louder. Newman moved closer, watching them. Whereas earlier he had been repulsed, he now experienced a morbid fascination almost to the point of being hypnotized. He had created something, death in a form that had not hitherto existed. It was all his doing.

  He, stood staring at the bats for well over an hour, his mind having lost all sense of time. He understood the attraction of an aquarium in a conventional home, constant movement, always something happening, however trivial. This was different, exciting. Death could occur at any second.

  After a time he became aware that the death-rate amongst the bats seemed to have slowed. They continued to batter themselves ceaselessly against the glass, but those which fell stunned revived after a time and resumed their futile occupation. At first Newman thought that the creatures were making attempts to attack him, but eventually it dawned upon him that this was not so, for they flew at the opposite side with equal compulsion. It was madness, he decided. Their brains were of a low order, yet the mutated virus appeared to have robbed them of everything except basic instincts. They resented imprisonment and were determined to seek freedom in the only way they knew, blind flight. Yet, even in the midst of their panic, they were colliding with one another time and time again.

  "God!" Newman spoke aloud as the answer suddenly dawned on him. "The virus has destroyed their radars. They're flying blind!"

  Some time later he opened the window and lit a cigarette. The night was mild.and humid, freak weather for early April. It was almost like summer. His thoughts turned to Susan. There was no way in which he could lie his way out of this one. She wouldn't accept excuses, and Professor Newman wasn't the type to plead. One way or another it was over, and too late he realized that he didn't want Fiona after all. There had never been anything more than physical attraction between them. She had been good, very good, but after each session his one thought had been to take her home. With Susan he was content to cuddle her until they both fell asleep. That was the difference.

  He wondered if Susan was back at his bungalow right now. In all probability she was packing her bags and loading them into the Mini. The chances of her turning up at the Center of the following day were remote.

  He glanced in the direction of the telephone, but discarded the idea at once. It wouldn't work. A phone call would not stop Susan from leaving.

  Newman felt physically and mentally drained. His thoughts returned to the bats, and the knowledge that he could not risk any interference from Professor Rickers and his students the next day. He had hoped that the creatures would die quickly, but now it looked unlikely. In that case, there was only one solution. He would have to destroy them. They could easily be gassed. The only problem was that the lethal gas was stored in a separate part of the building, under lock and key, and could only be obtained with Haynes' permission, which certainly would not be forthcoming.

  He tried to think of alternative means. Perhaps if he filled the glass case with water and drowned the occupants . . .

  Newman lay down on the sparse couch and stretched himself out. His entire body was crying out for sleep, yet he knew that there was no chance of slumber. His brain was too confused, going over recent events, trying to work out solutions, thinking of Susan, of Fiona, of Haynes and Rickers, and the students. Somehow he did not like the idea of switching off the light and being alone in the darkness with those squeaking, thudding bats. His thinking was becoming illogical, he told himself. They could not possibly get out, but until every one of them was dead there would be no peace in that laboratory.

  He lay there just looking up at the plain white ceiling. For the first time in his life he felt totally helpless. Events would control his own actions from now on.

  Sometime after the first grey light of dawn had crept in through the uncurtained windows he dropped into a fitful doze. It seemed only seconds since his eyelids had closed before he heard a key being turned in the lock. He sat up with a start. It could only be one of a small group of people who had access to laboratory keys. Haynes, Rickers . . . Susan!

  "Good morning, Professor Newman," she walked in, closing the door behind her.

  Brian Newman was too startled to reply. He simply stared at her in amazement. She was immaculate in every aspect, and there was no evidence of her having spent a troubled night. She barely glanced in his direction, taking off her coat, and then immediately set about her routine duties, sterilising implements, checking charts, and all the time ignoring him totally.

  Newman sat up and swung his legs to the floor. His suit was crumpled, his hair awry, and there was a growth of stubble on his chin. He rubbed his bleary eyes, and sighed loudly.

  "I could use some coffee," he spoke softly, a tremor in his voice.

  "We have coffee at ten," Susan Wylie replied formally. "However, there is coffee, sugar and dried milk in the cupboard if you wish to make yourself a drink."

  He stood up, swaying slightly. His head ached abominably. He looked quickly in the direction of the bat cage. There were still a dozen or so of the creatures flying crazily to and fro, bumping, falling, fluttering up again. No more had died during the night, and that didn't add up.
Either the virus was dead, they were immune to it, or else the incubation period in these last few was longer.

  "About last night . . . " he began, clearing his throat.

  "I slept well, thank you," she replied icily without glancing up. "Now, if you will excuse me, Professor, there are certain items which I must go and collect from the stores. . . ."

  "Now listen to me!" he snapped, his level of anger rising fast. Women had cursed him hundreds of times over the years, pleaded with him, cried, but none had ever treated him with indifference.

  She ignored him and turned in the direction of the door.

  "I said listen to me!" his hand shot out, grasping her by the shoulder and turning her round to face him. "There are one or two things we've got to get ironed out."

  "I have no idea what you're talking about, professor." Only her eyes gave away her innermost feelings, bitterness that an outward show of indifference could not cloak.

  "You know damned well what I'm talking about!" he rasped. "About last night at the Shoal Hill Tavern."

  "Oh, so you went drinking, did you?"

  "And that wasn't all," his voice was raised. "I was with a bird. And I was going to screw her only you stopped me! You put me off my stroke!"

  "Me?"

  "Yes, you. Out on a snooping trip. Well, I don't blame you, but I can't stand liars."

  "Neither can I, Professor. And just lately you've been telling quite a few yourself." Her self-control began to snap, and she added savagely, "You think you're God's gift to women, don't you, Brian Newman? Well, let me tell you this. All you're trying to do is prove something to yourself, though God knows what. Maybe 'conquer and move on' is your motto. Well, I'm not standing for it. You thought you could drive me off, didn't you? That I'd pack and run? Well, I'm not leaving the Center. I'm not giving up a good job because of you. I'll move out of your bungalow so you can have her in the bed all to yourself, but I'm staying right here in this very lab as far as work goes. I'm not going to give you the satisfaction of seeing me go to Haynes and ask for a transfer to Rickers's lab. The pair of you would love that, in your own warped ways, but I'm staying put, bats and all. But lay one finger on me again, try to get familiar with me, and I'll be lodging an official complaint that will really put paid to your career. You've got me with you all the time in an official capacity, and nothing more, whether you like it or not!"

  "You bitch!" His left hand went back, and before he could stop himself he had struck her across the face with a resounding slap.

  She staggered back, tears filling her eyes, gasping with pain. He stood aghast, mouth opening to voice an apology.

  "I'm . . ."

  Suddenly everything seemed to explode inside her, and she was hurling herself at him, beating at his body with clenched fists, tearing, scratching, biting, kicking. He staggered back, Susan Wylie clinging on to him, screaming insults at him,

  "Damn you!" he yelled. "I'll teach you a lesson you won't forget. I'll . . ." His words trailed off as his back met with something solid but movable. The table. He felt the nearside legs being lifted clear of the floor, objects sliding, crashing, splintering, fragments of glass tinkling. In desperation he pushed her away from him, and even as he turned he saw guinea-pigs and other rodents scampering about, frightened, bewildered by their unexpected freedom,

  "Oh, God!" he gasped.

  Something flew past his face, a rush of air from tiny wings fanning him. Another. And another.

  "The bats!" he cried, his face turning a deathly white. "The bats have escaped!"

  Susan Wylie backed away. It was true. The cage of death was lying in splinters, the bats which had died from the mutated virus spilled beneath it. Yet it was the living ones which brought a cry of terror to her lips. They were flying crazily about the room, cannoning into walls, getting up again, jinking, swerving. One hit a row of test-tubes and sent them showering to the floor.

  "Under the table!" Brian Newman grabbed her around the waist, dragging her down beneath the long table with him. "Keep still! They're not after us. It's just that their radars are damaged and they've no sense of direction."

  The high-pitched squeaking was much louder now that the tiny creatures were free of their cage. Newman and Susan heard them striking against the windows. Sooner or later they must find the open one.

  More breaking glass.

  "The window's gone. The big one!" Brian Newman gasped. "The pane must have been cracked or faulty. They'd never break it otherwise."

  The incoming fresh air seemed to attract the bats. Whereas their disturbed radars had previously forced them to fly aimlessly, panic-stricken, now they scented freedom. In a matter of seconds they had gone, speeding across the Chase like jet-propelled butterflies, lost to the view of the two people who stared after them through the shattered window of the laboratory.

  "Well, they're gone," Brian Newman slipped an arm around Susan, and this time she made no attempt to squirm from his grasp. "I'm sorry," she said weakly.

  "It wasn't your fault. I shouldn't have hit you."

  "What are we going to do now?"

  Newman looked around the lab, noting the slivers of broken glass on the floor, the smashed cages, mice and guinea-pigs scuttling fearfully to and fro.

  "Well, I guess we'll have to tell Haynes the whole truth now," he said, "and we can only pray that the virus died in those victims, and that the bats which escaped are neither infected nor carriers. Otherwise . . . " He shook his head slowly, and his expression was grave. If the virus had been carried from the Biological Research Center, then the possible consequences did not bear thinking about.

  Voices in the corridor outside interrupted them. Someone was banging on the door.

  "What's happening in there? Are you all right, Newman?" It was Haynes' voice.

  Brian Newman strode to the door and unlocked it. Haynes, Professor Rickers—a tall, balding man with rimless spectacles—and the night-porter, who had been just on the point of going off duty, crowded into the small laboratory.

  "What the hell . . ." Haynes' face took on a deep flush as he surveyed the wreckage.

  "There's been an accident," Newman said. "I slipped and overturned the table."

  "You'd better get these rodents caught quickly," Haynes snapped, noting two or three white mice running around the perimeter of the room.

  Professor Newman closed the door and leaned up against it, looking at the others. "I think we've got a lot of talking to do," he said softly.

  "Talking?" Haynes glanced at him with a puzzled expression on his face.

  "I think Johnson was just going off duty," Newman nodded to the porter. "We don't need to delay him."

  Johnson grunted, and Newman opened the door to let him out. He could not take any risk of wild stories finding their way into civvy street.

  "Now,"—Haynes adjusted his spectacles and glared at the bacteriologist—"perhaps you'd tell me just what the hell is going on."

  In a few words Newman explained about the mutated virus and the fact that about a dozen bats, possibly carrying the disease, were loose upon Cannock Chase.

  "Impossible," Rickers snapped.

  "I wish it was impossible," Newman retorted. "But the first thing we've got to do is to carry out tests on the dead bats and try to determine the extent of this virus."

  "Well, let's get cracking." Haynes glanced at Rickers, "I suggest that Professor Rickers carries out the postmortems here and now."

  "Fair enough," Newman replied, "but I suggest we all wear rubber gloves and protective clothing. From what I've seen these last few days we're dealing with a virulent disease which could be capable of striking us all down."

  Somewhat reluctantly Professor Rickers donned a white coat and gauze mask, the others following suit. Brian Newman stood back. He was content to be a spectator from now on, as he was confident that whatever there was to be found inside the dead bats, Rickers would find it.

  For the next hour the three of them watched Rickers working painstakingly, dissecting
bat after bat, examining entrails with the aid of a microscope, making notes on a scrap of paper, scraping furry remains into a plastic bag, and then starting on another tiny corpse. They could not see his expression behind the mask, and not once did he indicate his findings.

  Finally, with every bat dissected and the remnants enclosed in the waste bag, Rickers removed his mask and gloves and turned to the others. His expression alighted briefly on Newman, disbelief and mockery in his eyes.

  "These bats died of a brain disease," Rickers said. "Meningitis, which is what they were injected with anyway, so that's hardly surprising. The virus is dead, so we can hardly be expected to pronounce a mutation. To ascertain that we should have to examine a living creature, but as they have all apparently escaped there is no opportunity to do that. Doubtless they will die from meningitis in the wild, their bodies will never be found, and that will be that. I would doubt very much whether mankind or even wildlife is at risk."

  Haynes was gloatingly triumphant as he turned to Newman. "You are making mountains out of molehills, Professor Newman," he said, drawing himself up to his full height. "And it would seem that a whole week of work has been needlessly wasted."

  "I tell you, the disease is deadly!" Newman spoke hotly.

  "I suggest you compile your negative report," Haynes turned to the door, ignoring his protest. "Let me have it by tomorrow, please."

  Two minutes later only Susan and Brian Newman remained in the laboratory.

  "And that's that." Newman sighed, "Officially, anyway."

  "What are we going to do?"

  "We can't do anything except wait. Whatever happens now will happen in the outside world, instead of in the laboratory where we stood a chance of controlling it." His hand found hers and squeezed it lightly. "By the way, I'm sorry about last night."