Bats of the Republic

by Zachary Thomas Dodson

  “HENRY BARTLE, EXIT THE UNIT IMMEDIATELY BY ORDER OF THE REPUBLIC OF TEXAS. YOU STAND ACCUSED OF OBSTRUCTION OF BLOODLINES AND THE LAW.”

  ∧∧ “Run!” Bartle shouted. “Stay on the inside!” ∧∧ He pushed them toward the back of the house. Eliza hesitated. Bartle pulled a phial of blood from his pocket. He lowered his voice to a desperate whisper. ∧∧ “I’ve left a carbon for you in our secret file in the Vault.” He handed the phial to her. “Follow the plan. Go!” he shouted, slamming the door after them. ∧∧ Eliza scrambled through the back hall, phial in hand. Her eyes darted. Zeke and Raisin followed. ∧∧ They climbed a wooden ladder in back. It led to the rooftop. The watchposts were manned with Lawmen. They shouted and pointed at the door. Many more encircled the front of the house. Steamsabres hissed to life. ∧∧ ∧∧ “I stole these from the Vault. In case something happened.” Eliza opened a wooden box on the roof. She gave Zeke a handwheel. Two ornate handles formed the axis of a wide steel wheel. Zeke gripped it tightly. ∧∧ Eliza pulled out two more and handed one to Raisin. Zeke looked at her. He felt his love for her swell. She had always been sharp, but he had never seen her act with such purpose. She fixed her handwheel on top of a steam-power line. ∧∧ “The line’s not powered,” she said. It ran down to a watchpost a hundred yards from the unit. “It’s not hot. Come on.” ∧∧ She pulled Raisin’s hands to the handlebars and pushed him off the roof. He whizzed down the makeshift zip line. ∧∧ “What about your dad?” Zeke asked. He gripped his own handwheel and balanced it on the steam pipe. ∧∧ “He’s got another way out. Go!” Eliza pushed him. She followed close behind. ∧∧ ∧∧ Zeke sliced through the night air. His eyes stung. He pulled his knees up to his chest and grasped the handles tightly. They flew dangerously fast down the line. Raisin was out in front. He kicked his legs, trying to slow down. ∧∧ Raisin shouted. Zeke looked up to see a watchpost rush toward him. He let go, and fell. He hit the ground hard, bruising his heels. ∧∧ “Dad!” Eliza shouted behind him. He turned to see her drop. The plankways were far below. Eliza hit them rolling. She was unharmed. She jumped up and looked back to Zeke. He felt her indecision empty his chest cavity. He opened his mouth, but it was too late. ∧∧ Eliza ran back toward the pool of light, where a figure lay facedown on the ground. Bartle was being bolo-tied by Daxon, whose head was wrapped in a bandage. They were surrounded by Lawmen and typing Recorders. ∧∧ Raisin lifted Zeke to his feet. Zeke tried to pull away, to follow Eliza. ∧∧ “You can’t save anybody if you’re in jail,” Raisin shouted. ∧∧ He yanked Zeke’s arm. ∧∧ They ran in the opposite direction of the Law flashers. ∧

  FAM. SORICIDAE

  GEN. LEPTONYCTERIS

  12.10.43, 9:15, 70 deg., 15 knots, few clouds

  Mountainous desert region covered with small spiny grass and occasional prickly pear

  Shrew Bat. Average size, grayish-white coat. Elongated face and tail. Hearty digging talons on the tips of wings. After observing cave bats for so long, I hoped again for another species I might document, and today my wish was answered. I believe I have found yet another bat that, if indeed unseen by any before me, will take its rightful place in the great Southwest Hall of the Museum of Flying. I imagine him a close cousin to the cave bats I now know so well. With a shrew-like face, all in white, he is a curiosity indeed. I am giving chase in the hope of finding his mates or nest. Why is this type so rare? Has his colony suffered a collapse, or are they carefully hidden from me? Perhaps this species can dig underground, like a shrew. Have their burrowing holes been added to over so many generations that the cave is a great hall of their making?

  14/10/43

  THE MEXICAN VILLAGE

  Dearest Elswyth,

  I’m afraid my trip home has been stalled by some very unfortunate circumstances. I write with a heavy hand today, and a sore one, the reason for which will presently be clear. I do not mean to scare you, but prepare yourself—this letter may be unpleasant.

  I napped in the last haunted hours of night. Before sunrise, the bats began to return in fits and spurts to their roosts on the roof of the cave. The Indian had gone to town for more supplies. The dawn is a time of great activity for the bats, and by the early light I continued my documentation, though I was alone.

  The bats entered the cave in their looping patterns, gathering in bunches on the ceiling. The well-fed hung fat, like overripe grapes, nestling against one another, adjusting to the cool air of the cave. I was sketching these little clusters, the very picture of warmth and tenderness, perfect for a plate in the published version of my field guide, when something strange to the cave caught my eye: a white bat. I thought I might be seeing things, it was so small and quick.

  I immediately followed it into the cave. The white bat flew past its bedded-down compatriots on the roof, a comet streak against a churning field of black. It had pink-tipped ears and a head and snout like a shrew. I am convinced it is some undiscovered species. This white bat was a trophy specimen heretofore unmatched even in my imagination. Every time it stopped, I would add a little to my sketch.

  In my haste and craning to follow the bat in the little light available, I forgot the treachery of the cave floor and the crevices that crisscross it. This was my first mistake—inviting injury. It felt as though some bony hand reached up from the earth and pulled my foot into a narrow rut, snapping my ankle neatly as a twig.

  My cry echoed for a long time and there was no longer any white bat, only sparks of pain flying around my vision. A broken ankle from hiking the Missouri plain or back home lunging for a touch while fencing would have been a nuisance. However, deep in the black of the cave, I knew immediately my life was in great peril.

  I crawled back much of the way I had previously walked, a dirty and painful business. But if I hadn’t been on my belly, I wouldn’t have espied the small jag of light beckoning me. I’d like to recount that I bravely discovered a new exit to the cave, but in truth it was the only available and necessary one for a hobbled man. It was a tight crevice, but I managed to slide through, happy to return to the open night air.

  Though it was a new way out, up on the surface I could easily see our tent. I had traveled no distance at all. However, my disappointment did not last, because what came next was truly terrifying.

  Dawn had not yet broken. Light began to gather around the edges of the cacti and blister out into the sky. I heard the screams of a child and I thought for a moment that they were my own, some injury stored in my mind in the form of a terrible noise. I now wish the cry was of my own delirious imagining, but it was not.

  A dark shape in the distance was slowly growing larger and blotting out the lightening horizon. It was loping toward me. Before I could take a breath, a beast was on me with fangs and fur and claws. Kicking with my one good leg and spinning wildly in the dust, I struck out with my broken foot, keeping my face covered with my arms for fear of being mauled. I have never been fearful of hounds, but the attack was mounted with such speed and ferocity, I began to think I would know what it was to be eaten alive by a growling living thing.

  My loud cries must have hastened him on, but they would have been of no use had the Indian not been making for our camp already. I heard his warlike shout and there was a blast, like an egg full of gunpowder had been thrown to the ground, and the air was full of smoke. The Indian emerged, beating the beast back with a long pole of stripped yucca stalk. He continued an exhaustive attack with his improvised sword until the beast ran off, whimpering in the gray light.

  It is to the Indian that I undoubtedly owe my ability to recount this story. I have lost much blood this disastrous day. I barely recall the Indian wrapping me in a saddle blanket and carrying me to the Mexican village. When I opened my eyes, I expected to see him by my side.

  Instead, I was met with a surprise—Abril Rodriguez, attendant at my bedside. My pain immediately lessened. Our language barrier remained but it hardly mattered, so familiar she was to me. I was so relieved to see her all the way out in this fo
rsaken place. My surprise still hasn’t left me. She is far-winged indeed.

  We asked questions crosswise for some time. I asked for Aunt Anne, but she didn’t understand. I gathered that she had followed me here on her brother’s orders. To my great astonishment she knew of the cave. She kept pointing to my injuries and asking rapid questions.

  It took me a long time to puzzle out that “coyote” was the given name of the Indian (Abril called him Nocturno Coyote de Siete Colas) and not what had attacked me. She is a friend of the Indian and, not wanting to reveal herself, she hired him to look after me. I want to take umbrage at this, but after the results of my adventuring it is clear she was dead right to do so. I thanked her for the star map.

  The creature that attacked me she named the chupacabra. I know cabra means goat, and told her how unlike this thing was to a goat.

  I got overexcited, and she laid me back down in the bed to calm me. She made sure I was as comfortable as possible by applying to my wounds a salve made of a crushed plant whose English name she did not know. Her magic is potent. I thought if the cave would not serve, she could perhaps show me the way by which souls and birds travel, that my soul might come to meet yours, even as I lie infirm here.

  Abril said that the Nightway is not easy, and to learn it would take me a long time indeed. My health would have to improve first, if I were to become a practitioner. She set to brew a tea from the peyote plant, which I first heard about from McMarrow’s Indian scouts. They use it for religious visions of the soul, though it also lessens pain. Sleep must have taken me then, because when I looked over again Abril was gone. I’m left in the hovel of the village healer, an old wizened woman with black hair and a rabosa to match. With her shriveled hand she has spooned me bitter tea this past hour. My soul has had no vision, instead I feel bilious. But the tea helps with the pain. I am sitting now and able to write. Do not fret, I will safely recover here.

  There were some other disturbing details I’ve discerned from fragments of Abril’s Spanish. Apparently I am not the first victim of such an attack. She seems to describe many more in the village who have suffered similar wounds. I continued to repeat: coyote grande. Though it was unlike to the cagey fellow I drew near the pueblo. Perhaps the beast was a rabid or agitated specimen. The hair on a cat’s back stands that it may present a more intimidating silhouette, so this could’ve been the strategy of some rankled or diseased coyote.

  I tried to pantomime this hair-raising theory to Abril before she left. As I worked at my story, she pointed to a small table across the room, which holds the skull of what looks to be a peccary.

  I remembered the skull I had discovered and realized my large sack was missing. Most of my other effects were, thanks to the Indian, under my sickbed. Including my bundle of letters for you.

  The old woman began to speak about digging up graves. It seems someone has been disinterring the bodies of the dead and removing their hearts, though whether that is a crime or some service to the dead I was unable to clarify. This put the literal thought in my head of “an old wives’ tale,” though this tale is horrific no matter the teller.

  The bites on my body are not severe; it is still my ankle that pains me the most. I felt I must relay these events to you, however gruesome. How will I ever return now? I must rest. It is small comfort to know that no nightmare could compare to this day’s ordeal.

  Your Soldier Survived, Zadock

  BEGIN WATCHPOST TRANSCRIPT:

  Z. THOMAS ›› I don’t know if I should even go inside.

  What if they’re waiting for me in there?

  R. DEXTRA ›› We’re definitely being recorded. Look.

  R.D. INDICATES WATCHPOST TX 724

  ›› Doesn’t matter. They can type all they want. The Lawmen are all at Bartle’s.

  ›› Do you think they’ll throw him over?

  ›› Daxon had him in bolo-ties. I don’t know what happened to Eliza.

  FLAG ➤ ›› This is getting bad. We should go get Leeya and flee right now. Tonight. ‹ FLEE RISK

  ›› I can’t flee, Raisin.

  ›› You have to. They have that letter. And Eliza. If they find you, they’ll lock you up for murder. Think about it.

  ›› Daxon will kill Eliza.

  ›› He won’t. She’s valuable. She knows things he doesn’t. But he’s not going to let her go. She and her dad are going to stay locked up. At least until this city-state is overthrown. Even if the tunnels are blocked, the Deserters are still bringing the war. They’ve got the cannon. The Nightman told me. It was used against Atlantas, but they captured it on its way back to Texas. We’ll all be free of this mad claustrotopia soon.