Bats Out of Hell Page 7

  Tyler wrinkled his nose. The sour aroma was stronger than the smell of woodsmoke. He coughed. Maybe if the bushes blazed for a week it might get rid of the stench and scorch up the layer of droppings. It was the only way.

  Usually there were starlings in evidence, one or two flying about, maybe nesting, or just too lazy to go out to feed on the surrounding fields. They chirped noisily. This morning, however, there was not a bird to be seen. Not a cheep. Silence. Sheer desolation.

  Ken Tyler noticed this as he walked towards the rhododendrons, carrying his can of paraffin. Where had all the birds gone? Still, whenever they'd gone, when they came back to roost that evening they'd be in for a nasty shock. They'd singe their wings if they came too close. The starling problem was as good as solved.

  As he approached the bushes the stench was almost overpowering, a combination of excreta and rotting flesh. Many starlings died from natural causes out of the thousands clustering in the bushes, and none of the scavengers of the countryside were prepared to clear up the corpses.

  "Soon settle that," Ken Tyler said as he unscrewed the cap on his jerrican and began splashing the contents over the nearest rhododendrons. "Cremate the bastards!"

  He stood back, struck a match, and flung it at the paraffin-soaked bushes. It fell to the ground, lay burning for a couple of seconds, and then with a roar a small sheet of flame shot up, spreading even before it reached the topmost branches.

  Tyler felt the scorching heat on his back as he ran for the Land-Rover. Those excreta-covered bushes were tinder-dry. The blaze was spreading far quicker than he had thought it would.

  As he opened the door of the vehicle he noticed a movement out of the corner of his eye, and turned back towards the fire. Tongues of flame crackled on dead branches, leaping into the air hungrily as black smoke billowed up in a huge pillar, burnt leaves floating in the air and carrying the sparks. But that was not all.

  Whirling upwards, at first indistinguishable from the sparks and smuts but then recognizable by their very numbers and speed, were hundreds of pairs of tiny wings, crazily veering in all directions. In a panic, soaring and diving, their one aim was to escape the heat of the furnace.

  Tyler's first thought was that these living creatures were starlings now being forced to relinquish their stronghold. Yet as he climbed into the driving seat, slammed the door and gunned the Land-Rover's engine, the truth suddenly dawned on him.

  "Christ alive!" he muttered, glancing back. "Bats!"

  The radio broadcast came back to him. "Report any sightings of bats immediately."

  The Land-Rover bumped and jerked at 40 m.p.h. down the uneven track, its driver heedless of potholes or overhanging branches. His first thought was to return to his cottage and telephone the information to the Research Center up on Pye Green.

  Then he realized that he could not do so without incriminating himself. On no account must he admit to being up here on Castle Ring at the time when the fire broke out. No way. To hell with the bats. That was where they had come from, according to a sensationalist newspaper, and for all Ken Tyler cared that was where they could return.

  He drove back into the yard adjoining his small cottage close to Castle Ring. The bedroom curtains were drawn. His wife still slept. She would not be aware that he had even been outside the yard. Nobody else had seen him, and he had passed no vehicles.

  As he went inside the telephone was ringing. It was the Fire Officer, advising him that part of the Castle Ring Estate was on fire. They could only spare a skeleton force. There was no chance of saving the large expanse of rhododendrons.

  Throughout the county of Staffordshire firemen and volunteers fought blazes. Brownhills Common was ablaze, and the A5 traffic had been halted. A verge smouldered at Hilton, near Lichfield, and a couple of soldiers from Whittington Barracks watched over it, stamping out the flames which broke out periodically. A more serious fire was threatening to destroy Sutton Park, where the combined fire-fighting forces of Staffordshire and Warwickshire were losing their battle.

  All of these men saw the bats passing over, flitting through the drifting smoke, but it was well into the day before the reports reached the Biological Research Center on Cannock Chase.

  Chapter Seven

  Professor Brian Newman's bungalow was situated on the outskirts of Cannock. Small and compact, there was nothing to distinguish it from the other houses in the small cul-de-sac. Yet its photograph had already appeared in at least one daily newspaper, the caption beneath it stating that "this is the residence of Professor Newman, who developed the killer virus and allowed it to escape into the world".

  Newman glanced through the local evening paper which he had picked up on his way back from the Center less than an hour ago. His name was featured again in the bold front-page headlines. He grimaced, and tossed it to one side.

  "Well, they've really singled me out for the blame now," he said, with bitterness in his voice. "They have to have a scapegoat, though."

  "Then they're damned fools," Susan Wylie replied hotly.

  "They seem to overlook the fact the you're the one person who stands any chance of wiping out these bats."

  "I wish I could share your optimism." Newman smiled wanly. "Weeks of tests in an attempt to find an antidote for the virus, and still nothing to show for my efforts."

  "It'll come." Susan assured him. She moved across to where he was sitting, and slipped an arm around his neck. "It's got to. There has to be an antitoxin somewhere."

  "It's the latest reports that worry me," Newman said, squeezing her hand gently. "Large numbers of bats have been reported heading south-west, sighted at Brownhills, Lichfield and Sutton Park. Now what the hell's going on? A migration of some sort? And what caused 'em to move? There are no reports beyond Sutton Park, but my guess is that they won't settle there. The whole bloody area is ablaze. If they continue on their present course then our worst fears are confirmed."

  "The cities?"

  "Yes." He nodded. "Birmingham, at a guess. Then the panic will really start. There've been no deaths lately simply because the bats have been hiding out in remote places away from populated areas. Imagine what could happen. Thousands of derelict slum dwellings for them to hide and breed in. A dense population. The hospitals would never be able to cope. There would be widespread chaos, maybe even a breakdown of law and order. A spread of anarchy."

  "You're a pessimist," She kissed him on the forehead. "Well, I'm an optimist. Maybe the whole thing's over, and the virus is dead. The bats might never be heard of again."

  Her attempts to raise his spirits were interrupted by a crashing and splintering of glass. A heavy object thudded on to the carpet and bounced against the fireplace. It was a jagged half-brick. The curtains blew inwards as the warm breeze of a hot summer's night wafted through the smashed pane.

  "What the hell!" Professor Newman was on his feet immediately. A hail of stones crashed into the small living-room, smashing the remaining panes of glass in the window, their force retarded by the obstructing flapping curtains.

  "Come on out, Newman!" came a shout from outside. "Show yourself, you bastard!" Someone was hammering and kicking on the front door.

  "What's going on?" Susan breathed.

  Newman pushed her behind him and moved to the window, parting one of the curtains slightly so that he could see outside. The scene which met his eyes caused him to catch his breath.

  There were some twenty youths gathered on the pavement outside. Others were clustered at the front door, pounding with their fists. "Show yourself, Newman!"

  "Come on out or we'll burn the bloody place down!"

  "Who are they?" Susan was trembling.

  "Yobs. I'll bet the oldest one amongst 'em isn't more than twenty. They're just looking for trouble, and dangerous. If the football season had started maybe they wouldn't be here."

  "What are we going to do?"

  Newman peered out again. The houses around were in darkness. Only a single streetlamp lit up the bizarre scene. T
he residents were obviously not going to tangle with the youths. He wondered if anybody was phoning the police.

  "Dial 999," he said pushing Susan gently away. "I'll try and keep 'em talking in the meantime."

  "If you're not out in ten seconds," a tall, well-built youth in a black leather jacket and jeans yelled, "we're smashin' the door down and comin' in!"

  "What d'you want?" Brian Newman shouted, and dodged back as another stone came whizzing into the room.

  "We want you. You started this fuckin' disease, and if we've all gotta die then you're goin' to be the first!"

  "Calm yourselves." Newman tried to speak evenly. "The matter is under control. There is no need for panic."

  His reply was greeted with guffaws, and more of the youths began crowding into the tiny front garden. One of them had an axe, and he heard the woodwork of the front door begin to splinter. Susan was talking on the phone. Time was running out. Why didn't some of the locals do something? Or were they in sympathy with these louts who sought revenge on the man who was responsible for the terrible mutated virus?

  A denim-clad arm was thrust in through the flapping curtains. The fingers gripped a rolled newspaper, the flames licking at the nylon material, igniting it instantly.

  Newman struck downwards viciously with a heavy glass ashtray, catching the youth on the forearm. There was a howl of pain, and the improvised torch fell to the carpet. The professor stamped on it immediately. More stones and bricks showered into the room.

  There was a splintering crack from out in the hall, and he knew that the front door had yielded. Susan screamed and came running back into the room, slamming the frail door behind her. There was no way of locking it—not that it would have been any use. Newman pulled her to him, determined to shield her from the mob. Flames were now leaping from the curtains on to the pine wall coverings, and choking black smoke filled the room.

  "Did you . . . get through?" Newman gave way to a fit of coughing.

  "Yes." She wiped her smarting eyes. "Gave them . . . the address . . ."

  "Then let's just pray they get here in time."

  Youths crowded into the room, young faces twisted into expressions of hate and fear. Several of them had knives. The big fellow, the one who had done most of the threatening and shouting, pushed his way to the front and grabbed Newman by the front of his pullover.

  "Get your hands off me!" Newman hissed.

  "Shut your trap!" The other struck the professor across the face with the back of his free hand, and Newman tasted blood in his mouth as he staggered back.

  Three of them had hold of Susan, and were dragging her screaming out into the hall.

  "Let go of her!" Newman's voice was lost in the shouting, and he felt himself being pulled along with the crowd. The room was ablaze. It was only a matter of minutes before the entire bungalow became an inferno.

  Fists were pummelling him the whole time. His eyes were smarting from the smoke, and only the coolness of the night air on his face told him that they were outside. He was flung to the pavement. Boots thudded into his body, and he groaned aloud. It felt as though a rib was broken, but his main concern was for Susan. He looked up, trying to see her through a forest of legs. Then he heard her scream, "Let go of me! "

  He tried to rise, but was kicked down again, rolling over, covering his head with his hands in an attempt to protect his skull,

  "Dirty bastard! Murderer!"

  "Vivisectionist pig!"

  There were a dozen different reasons for their hate, all merged into one action of lawless mob rule. Susan Wylie struggled desperately, but she was totally helpless in the grip of four leering, lusting, angry youths. They wanted her naked, but they weren't going to bother undoing buttons and zip-fasteners. Garments were ripped into shreds and torn from her body. Her bra strap snapped, and hands pawed at her soft white breasts. As her skirt came away she felt her thighs being forced apart. Fingers prised and stabbed between them, bringing cries of pain to her lips.

  Brian Newman lay in a huddled heap on the pavement. Breathing was an effort. There was a searing pain in his lungs. He could feel the heat from the fire, and then liquid was jetting on to him. A spot landed on his swollen lips, warm and acid and foul.

  "Piss on the bastard!"

  His attackers were standing over him, a dozen or more streams of urine soaking his clothing. But his only thoughts were for Susan Wylie.

  Then, just as consciousness seemed to be slipping from him, he heard the bee-bor-bee-bor-bee-bor of approaching sirens, becoming louder by the second, and tyres screeching as vehicles took the bend into the cul-de-sac.

  "Cops!" somebody yelled.

  "So what? There's enough of us."

  Two squad cars pulled into the kerb twenty yards from the mob. Four uniformed officers got out and regarded the scene steadily. One reached back into his vehicle and begun to talk into his radio. It was an explosive situation that required the utmost caution.

  Professor Newman and Susan Wylie were afforded a brief respite as their attackers turned to weigh up the new opposition. Lights were going on in the surrounding houses now as the residents' courage returned with the arrival of the law.

  More sirens. This time it was a fire engine, headlights dazzling the youths as it drove towards them, slowing, blocking the road.

  Suddenly, as one, the crowd broke into a wild retreat, pushing policemen to one side, scrambling over the roofs of the squad cars, running past the fire engine, then scattering into the wild disarray.

  Nobody followed them. Even a second approaching police patrol car did not slow until it drew up behind the fire engine. The firemen were already unrolling lengths of hose and connecting it to the hydrant.

  The officers helped Professor Newman and Susan Wylie to their feet, covering the girl with the remnants of her torn clothing. She shivered in spite of the heat from the burning bungalow.

  "What happened, sir?" a sergeant asked.

  "Just a frightened mob." Professor Newman winced at the sharp pain in his lungs. "They were looking for trouble. Decided to take it out on us on account of this virus."

  "Oh, you're the professor who let the bats out!" Newman detected contempt in the other's tone. "Well, I suppose we'd better get you to hospital for a checkup. Doesn't look like there'll be much left of your bungalow."

  Newman grimaced. The police were only assisting because it was their duty. Had they realized from whom the summons for help had come they might not have arrived so quickly. Officially, they deplored this outbreak of lawlessness. Individually, they secretly sympathized with the mob. The virus carried by the bats did not discriminate. Whichever side of the law one was on, it struck with impartiality. And the cause of its existence was this young professor. Without him it would probably never have happened. And nobody believed him capable of containing or destroying it. His efforts were nothing more than an attempt to pacify the public, to appease his own conscience. It was only a matter of time before widespread death swept across Britain, and maybe even further afield.

  Chapter Eight

  The Bank's Treasury was possibly one of the latest publicised functions of banking in the whole of the city of Birmingham. Without its existence the banking system would not have operated smoothly. A local headquarters for the supplying of additional cash, and the collection of surplus money by means of bullion vans, serving all the branches in the area, had replaced the previous method of dealing with these requirements by High Value Packets, both labour and time saving.

  The bullion vans passed almost unnoticed in the city traffic. Their weekly collections and deliveries at branches were noted with mild interest by passersby. Those with more subversive motives attempted to discover their timetables, routes, and the amount of money which the vans carried. Yet an air of mystique prevailed. Security companies' vans were attacked frequently. The Bank's went unscathed, such was their organization and security, including a number of guards who remained on board at all times whilst they were in transit, even to the extent of
eating their meals inside during all weathers, in stifling heat or freezing cold.

  Yet the Treasury itself was a veritable fortress, a basement stronghold beneath a huge office block where security measures were such that none could pass beyond the first checkpoint without proper authorisation. The underground structure was old, partially converted to meet modern requirements for the storing of vast quantities of money into a maze of tunnels which housed the many strong rooms and working areas where money was counted and sorted into denominations. Large amounts of cash, the daily takings of multiple companies, was also brought in here for counting and checking, thereby dispensing with lengthy delays at branch counters. This section, adjacent to the main strong room with grilled walls and locked doors, was known as the Credit House.

  Some twenty clerks were employed in the Credit House alone, spending five days of the week shut away from the daylight, working laboriously and monotonously. They, too, were subjected to several checks before entering or leaving their place of employment, everything geared towards an invincible money store.

  The heat wave penetrated the depths of the Treasury right down to the Credit House, the clerks sweltering in the heat that was conveyed underground by the brickwork in the same way that storage heaters retain their temperature.

  Joe Lutton had worked in the Credit House ever since its formation a decade ago. Everything was a routine which did not deviate, and, provided one obeyed the rules and systems laid down, there was a substantial pension to be picked up on retirement. One did not even have to count the notes by hand these days. One simply inserted a bundle into a machine, pressed a button, checked the digits recorded on the dial, and removed the notes from a clip at the back of the instrument. Machine-minding, in effect. Joe Lutton, a small, dapper, freckled-faced clerk in his early forties did not even have to think about the work these days. His mind wandered to other matters as he laboured with the efficiency of a human robot.