Bats Out of Hell Read online

  Professor Talbot, on the other hand, was clean-shaven, said little, and was virtually unknown outside his London laboratory. Yet Sir John Stirchley had the greatest admiration for him, and had singled him out from a host of top bacteriologists as the man most suited to help in the crisis which was now building up to a peak.

  All eyes were on Newman, the bandages around his waist and beneath his clothing giving him a more mature stature, but every time he moved the stiff jerky motions reminded one of a screen cartoon character. He had certainly been fortunate not to have received more severe injuries at the hands of the mob.

  "Gentlemen," Haynes began, sounding tired and lifeless, "we are now faced with a situation which, up until a few days ago, we had considered not impossible but certainly improbable. The bats have moved into Birmingham, and, as far as we know, they have not infiltrated beyond the city center. It was thought at first that a single bat had somehow penetrated the Bank Treasury. It was later discovered that several more of the creatures were hiding out in a rather antiquated ventilation shaft. Seven bank clerks who came into contact with the bat died at intervals during the course of the following week. This was only to be expected, but the most alarming features of all were to spread from there."

  He paused, fumbled a cigarette out of a packet on the desk, and lit it with fingers that shook.

  "First, this man Baxterdale," he continued. "As far as anybody knew he had had no contact with the bat. He was later discovered, on the same day, trapped in his car which had overturned. There was no doubt that he had somehow contracted this mutated meningitis virus, but even if he had done so then he should have survived another two or three days. He died within hours! There was a wound on his hand, a small but nasty bite which was later found to have been inflicted by a rat. Baxterdale had contracted the disease via a rodent. Now, perhaps Professor Newman would be kind enough to give us a summary of his recent experiments with rats."

  "I injected twenty rats with the same virus which is causing widespread death amongst the bats," Brian Newman said. "Only one rat died. The others appeared to be immune. I thought that possibly they had become carriers in the same way that many bats are. Further tests proved that they were not. The virus had died without apparently harming them in any way. One rat in twenty, gentlemen.

  Five per cent. But a thousand times more deadly than a bat."

  "And what about mice?" Sir John Stirchley asked.

  "Totally erratic," Newman replied. "Some followed the same course as the bats. About fifty per-cent fatalities. Definitely not as receptive as bats, but more so than rats. But, overall, there is no pattern. There is only one common denominator, and that is that the disease is deadly and it can be carried by almost any living being, including humans! Seven Treasury clerks died as a result of coming into contact with an infected bat. Within a week three hospital staff and one doctor caught the disease. Yet none of those who attended to earlier victims caught it. Why?" He shrugged his shoulders. "Maybe we shall never find the answer to that one. It could be that some people are immune for some reason. One thing seems fairly certain, though. The virus is only passed on while the sufferer lives. Once the victim dies, so does the virus. Whilst we are faced with a situation akin to outbreaks of bubonic plague in the Middle Ages, we have the small consolation of knowing that corpses can be handled with impunity."

  "And your experiments to find an antidote?" Sir John Stirchley asked.

  "Negative. At the moment I have nothing to report. I am still hopeful, though."

  Haynes took off his glasses and sighed. "So much for the biological side of this business." He turned to the. Ministry of Defence official. "Now, Mr. Littler, we have brought you up to date on our side of things, so perhaps you would be kind enough to fill us in on the details of what is happening in the Midlands? One is always dubious of relying solely upon newspaper, radio and television reports."

  "Quite so," the other spoke in a flat, expressionless voice. "Well, as you know a large number of bats have infiltrated the center of Birmingham. The first reported sighting was in the old Snow Hill Station. The pest authorities were called in; the building was sealed off and pumped full of cymag gas. Later it was discovered that forty-two bats had been killed. All males."

  "All males!" Newman gasped. "Then—"

  "Precisely. The point I am just about to make," Littler continued, "is that it is reasonable to assume that the females are breeding elsewhere. In the city, or in rural areas? It is impossible to say. According to reliable information which I have, the female bats should have given birth to their young already, and so, by the middle of September when these young bats are able to fend for themselves, their numbers could have increased by twenty-five percent. As one infected bat alone is capable of killing an innumerable number of people before it dies, then we have some idea of what we are up against."

  "But apart from Snow Hill Station." Haynes broke in, "there must be dozens of other such places harbouring bats."

  "Of course," Littler replied. "They have been sighted in scores of derelict slum areas, but it seems that once they are disturbed they leave and seek refuge elsewhere. We had one report of a large flock seen entering a derelict house in Moseley. We followed the same procedure as with Snow Hill Station, but afterwards, when it was safe to enter, we found not one single dead bat. They had obviously flown before our arrival."

  "It's like the mythical burial ground of the elephants in Africa," Rickers groaned. "Somewhere that's never found. We have to find the bats' breeding places if we're to check their spread, and that's only half way towards solving the problem."

  "And what about the public?" Sir John Stirchley lowered his voice. "The scenes on television and the accounts in the newspapers are pretty awful. Is it really as bad as all that?"

  "Worse," Littler said with a grimace. "So far twenty-three people have died as a direct result of this virus. Doctors are working night and day, and surgeries and hospitals are besieged by terrified people who claim to have been in contact with bats. The Prime Minister is speaking to the country tonight. The Midlands is to be declared a disease zone, a circle incorporating Stoke-on-Trent, Leicester, Kidderminster and Wellington. All roads will be closed to and from the Midlands in an attempt to keep everybody and everything in."

  "Impossible!" Sir John snapped. "We have neither the police nor the armed forces with which to implement this. Just closing the roads and railways won't be sufficient. People will travel on foot."

  "We shall not be relying solely upon the police or armed forces as we know them," Littler spoke uncertainly, as though he should not be disclosing the information. "There can be . . . shall we say, the formation of an additional force."

  "Like vigilantes?"

  "Oh, no, the vigilantes are already making their presence felt. This will be a body of men. Armed. Well, I'll say no more, but it is the only way."

  "A police state," Stirchley muttered.

  "Only temporarily. While the bats continue to spread the disease."

  "All the armies in the world couldn't contain a colony of bats."

  "It isn't just the bats, sir. It's the people. If they begin fleeing the infected area then they are capable of carrying the virus to other parts, the same as the bats do. Likewise, we can't have a breakdown of law and order in the Midlands. Imagine the looting which would take place if everyone left."

  "What are the feelings of the citizens of Birmingham at present?"

  "Panic hasn't broken out yet," the Ministry man replied, "but it could at any moment. Once people start dying in the streets and there aren't enough hospitals to cope with the sick, then all hell will be let loose. That's why the BVF is being formed."

  "British Volunteer Force."

  The seven people looked at each other in silence. There was no more to be said. No amount of talking could come up with a solution. Not unless Professor Newman discovered an antidote or someone found the main breeding quarters of the bats.

  "I'm afraid the whole of the blame seems to
have fallen on your head, Professor Newman," Sir John Stirchley said, smiling wanly. "Of course we know that it's just one of those things, but it's no good trying to explain that to the public. I am, however, going to try and get it through to Fleet Street that you are the one person capable of saving them from the bats. I'm sorry about the way you and Miss Wylie were treated by those louts, and about your bungalow, too. I take it you have fixed up accommodation elsewhere?"

  "Yes, I've another bungalow." Newman said "At Chasetown close to Chasewater."

  "Perhaps we should arrange for a police guard," Stirchley mused.

  "I don't think that will be necessary, sir," Newman smiled at Susan. "I am sure that that episode was purely a freak outbreak of hooliganism."

  "Well, if you need anything let me know," Sir John nodded to Haynes, and the meeting broke up.

  Susan followed Brian back into the laboratory.

  "It's terrible," she said, shuddering, and leaned against him. "D'you . . . d'you think there's any chance of finding an antidote now?"

  "No," he told her, "to be perfectly honest, I don't. I've tried everything, and barring a miracle we'll just have to face up to the fact that there's no antitoxin."

  "Then . . . what'll happen?" she asked.

  "If it continues to spread." he replied as he slipped an arm around her, "I guess it'll mean the end of civilization as we know it in this country. Or even the whole world!"

  "We are in the midst of one of the gravest situations since the war," were the Prime Minister's opening words as he began his televised speech on all channels, "and as a result it has fallen upon my government to bring in emergency measures. A State of Emergency was formally declared at six o'clock this evening, and the British Volunteer Force, which has been formed only this week, has now gone into full operation. A disease zone has been drawn up, incorporating most of the Midlands, and there will be no movement of persons either into or out of that designated area. It is our duty to contain the virus within those boundaries, and while every effort will be made to assist the people inside, under no circumstances must the virus spread beyond it. We are hoping that our scientists will discover an antidote within a very short time. In the meantime life elsewhere must continue as near as normally as possible, whilst within the zone it is in the interests of everyone to stay at home, stay indoors, and have as little contact with others as possible. Arrangements for food and other necessities will be made by your local authorities. Be sensible. Stay at home."

  Within an hour of the Prime Minister's speech traffic jams were building up on all roads leading from the Midlands. Nobody had foreseen such drastic emergency measures in spite of the new terror which flitted from building to building in the gathering dusk each night. There were reports of deaths. Some still did not believe it. And those who did refused to believe that it could ever happen to themselves. Somebody was dying on average every half hour in a city the size of Birmingham. One accepted those statistics. The cause did not matter.

  Now, suddenly, the presence of the bats was affecting Everybody's life. Death was one thing. Military rule was another.

  Gerald Pitkin had worked at the Treasury for five years. As an ex-Forces man it helped to supplement his pension after the age of forty-five. Thickset with short-cropped iron-grey hair, he had no other ambition than to see his time out there. At first he had had some difficulty adjusting to the new way of life, the systems, the lack of military discipline, but overall there were few problems. Until that fateful day when the bats had chosen to occupy the ventilation shaft in the Credit House. Fortunately for Gerald he had been standing in for one of the clerks on the bullion vans who had stopped at home with a migraine. So by the time Gerald's van had arrived back at base order had been restored, and the Credit House clerks who had been in direct contact with the bats had been taken to hospital.

  He accepted their deaths philosophically. Baxterdale's he delighted in secretly. But in the days which followed, Gerald Pitkin devoted much thought to the situation. It was rumoured early in the morning that the Prime Minister would be making a statement to the country that night, and Gerald had a good idea what the content of that speech would be. With his army training he forecast events. It had to be that way. They had to try and contain the outbreak of whatever it was, he decided. That meant calling up reservists (not from the infected zone, naturally) plus volunteers, men who feared for their own safety if the plague spread. Rabble. An armed mob with little or no training, just a few brief instructions. Keep the bloody Midlanders in, and if any of 'em try to make a break for it, shoot 'em down. They'd die, anyway. A bullet was quick, painless. The virus was slow agony by comparison. So what was there to lose?

  It was midmorning by the time Gerald had worked all this out. A sudden sense of frustration followed by panic gripped him. Had he left it too late? He and his wife Bertha, and Harry, their eighteen-year-old son, should have made tracks yesterday. His brother Tom's place at Shrewsbury was the safest place for them. They'd be all right there.

  He wondered if there was still time. He looked at his watch, trying to estimate what time he would finish that evening. Surely not later than five, unless some stupid pratt couldn't balance his books, and then they'd all have to hang about waiting. Stupid bloody rules. Nobody left until everybody had balanced. And even if everything went according to plan he might still be too late. Surely others had anticipated a cordoning off of the Midlands? Anybody with any sense could see what was going to happen.

  Gerald Pitkin had to leave early somehow. And one didn't get out of the Treasury before time without a good excuse. Like going sick. He worked out a plan of action, but it was after lunch before he finally put his escape plan into motion.

  "I've got the shits," he informed Barlow, the new chief clerk.

  "Well, go and have a crap, then." Barlow was young, wore a permanent smirk on his face and made no secret of his dislike of ex-Forces men. If you didn't start in the Bank straight from school then you didn't deserve to be there.

  "I've had two." Gerald controlled his temper and tried to look as though he might be feeling ill. "And I've been sick, too. I think I might have caught something. A bug, maybe."

  "You had a couple of days off last week." Barlow continued working, pencilling figures in a large cash-book as he spoke.

  "I had the shits then," Gerald forced a belch and hoped that it sounded genuine. "I don't think I ever shook it off."

  "I'll phone upstairs for the key holders," Barlow muttered, picking up the phone and dialling with his pencil. "You'd better have a word with the Chief. See what he says."

  Gerald Pitkcin could hardly believe his good fortune as he hurried along the crowded street, up the ramp to the station, and just managed to board the 3:15 train before it pulled out. He'd never have got away with a yarn like that in Baxterdale's time. Baxterdale wouldn't have listened to anybody who claimed to have the shits. He was one big shit himself. But he was dead and gone, so what the hell?

  Bertha Pitkin looked up in amazement as Gerald walked into the hall. She was thickly built, with greying hair disguised by an auburn rinse. The type who did everything to a routine. That had been bred into her by living for most of her life in army married quarters. And anything which disrupted her self-regimented life upset her. Like her husband arriving home two hours before he was officially due.

  "What on earth's the matter with you?" she snapped. "Are you ill or something?"

  "Told 'em I was." Gerald was sweating, partly because of the heat and partly because he had run the remaining hundred yards as he succumbed to a sense of urgency.

  "Whatever for?"

  "Because we're leaving." He jerked a thumb towards the stairs. Harry would still be sleeping. He was on nights at the car factory this week. "Wake Harry and get a few things packed. Just essentials."

  "Are you mad?" she demanded, surveying him, hands on hips, eyebrows raised, lips compressed.

  "No," he said. "But if we don't get out now, we never shall. They're going to do someth
ing shortly. Cordon off Birmingham, maybe even the whole of the Midlands."

  She stared at him in astonishment, but for once she did not ridicule him.

  "They couldn't." she breathed softly. "They wouldn't dare."

  "They could and they would." He stood poised on the bottom stair. "I'll go up and wake Harry. We need to be on the road in half-an-hour before everybody else realizes what's happening."

  Forty minutes later the Pitkins, Gerald at the wheel of their new Fiat, Bertha beside him and a bleary-eyed Harry in the back amidst piles of loose luggage, headed out of Birmingham. Gerald had tried to telephone Tom before leaving, but after three unsuccessful attempts, each time thwarted by a recorded flat female voice which stated that "all lines to Shrewsbury are engaged", he gave up and they set off.

  The traffic was lighter than it would have been under normal circumstances. Gerald Pitkin prided himself that he was the only person in the whole of Birmingham who had forecast the government's intentions.

  They were through West Bromwich and Wolverhamton by six o'clock, and out on to the A464. Gerald glanced down at the gas gauge. Less than half full. He wished that he had filled up before leaving, but it didn't matter. There was more than enough fuel in the tank and it was less than fifty miles to Shrewsbury.

  Shifnal was crowded. People seemed to be carrying on much the same as usual, going about their everyday shopping, chattering on the streets.

  "Probably haven't even heard about the bats out here, Gerald said. "I guess we're clear by now. We can relax."

  "I think you're making a damned fool of yourself, and us as well," Bertha snorted. "And when you get back to Birmingham you'll find that you've had the sack from the Treasury."

  "I've still got my army pension," he grunted. Things did seem to be very normal out here.

  Harry slept soundly on the back seat.

  Then, with startling suddenness, their returning sense of security was shattered. There was a police roadblock at the entrance to the M54, the Wellington bypass which would have taken them to within a few miles of their destination.