Guy Smith - Bats Out Of Hell

It was humid inside the small laboratory in spite of the window which was open contrary to all regulations. Outside the sun shone and, but for the absence of foliage on the trees surrounding the squat grey stone buildings which comprised the Midlands Biological Research Centre, one would have been forgiven for assuming that summer had already begun. Small birds twittered incessantly as they busied themselves searching for twigs and dry grass with .which to complete the building of their nests. Rooks circled and cawed noisily above a line of tall elms. Another cycle of life had begun.

The tall, fair-haired man in the long white coat moved away from the window and, ignoring the 'no smoking' sign above the long table which supported several oblong glass cases, he lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply, and slowly blew twin streams of smoke out through his nostrils. His handsome, tanned features wore a worried expression, his lips were a tight, bloodless line, his pale blue eyes focused on the end container. He drew even more fiercely on his cigarette, seemingly unaware of the attractive blonde girl who watched his every move intently.

The rats, mice and guinea pigs in the other cages were unnaturally still, almost as though they sensed that something untoward was happening in that very room, something totally in contrast to the laws of Nature, something which they could not understand but feared all the more because it was beyond their comprehension.

Even the reinforced glass could not muffle the shrill, almost insane shrieking of the bats within the cage. Usually they were motionless and silent by day, only becoming active when the laboratory was in darkness and the bacteriologists had left. Not so today. For the last three days they had been abnormally active, with the exception of those that lay dead on the floor of their prison. Even in death they had an unnatural look about them, the corpses stiff and twisted beyond the limits of rigor mortis, the tiny faces masks of pain and rage, proof that the creatures had died in extreme agony.

The living flung themselves blindly at the walls, some dropping stunned with the impact, lying inert for several moments and then recovering surprisingly quickly, piping their rage and hurling themselves back at the glass again. Some eight or nine lay dead below the maddened twenty or so that continued their crazed aerobatics in the cramped enclosure.

One small, reddish-brown silky body attempted to secure a hold on the smooth sides of the case with its minute claws, slipped, and fell to the floor. It rolled onto its back, kicking frantically at first, then slowly the twitching limbs stiffened as though rigor mortis were preceding death. Yet the two watching humans knew by the way the bat's eyes dilated that it still lived. They realised also that it was in indescribable pain—and there was nothing whatsoever that they could do about it.

It was a quarter of an hour before the bat's eyes dulled and it died. The last victim, an hour ago, had suffered for forty-five minutes before it was granted a merciful release from its suffering.

'Hell,' the tall man muttered to himself, 'I've never seen anything like it before!'

The girl moved closer to him, and asked in a low, husky whisper, 'What is it, Brian? What's happening to them?'

He seemed to notice her presence for the first time, and his expression softened momentarily. 'I don't know,' he murmured, averting his eyes from her gaze.

'But. . . ' her fingers closed over his as she spoke, and he made no attempt to remove them. 'The tests. The tests we did yesterday. They're bound to show something . . . the reason for this paralysis in the bats, the mad rages, the pain ...'

Professor Brian Newman looked silently out of the window. Out there, across the soft, springy heather which was just beginning its new growth, were something in the region of twenty-five thousand acres of woodland and heath—Cannock Chase, a well-known beauty spot to which crowds of tourists thronged at weekends and on bank-holidays. A natural environment, except for this place, the Midlands Biological Research Centre, an ugly scar on the landscape.

Newman remembered the beginning of it all, the protests, the petitions by the locals. It hadn't got them anywhere. They hadn't achieved anything, simply because they had been conned by the authorities. Local councils had been persuaded that the centre was for the good of the people. Well, the Professor thought, smiling wryly to himself, it was certainly supposed to be for the good of all mankind. Except for... for this\ His gaze was drawn irresistibly back to the glass cage, the dead and dying bats, the small bodies of the doomed thudding continuously against the sides as they swooped and fluttered insanely, often colliding with each other. Soon these creatures would all be dead. It might take until the day after tomorrow. There was no way of helping them or alleviating their suffering. All he could do was to watch them die and hope that it would end there. Then cremate the corpses and say nothing, not even to Haynes. Haynes wouldn't understand. He-was an administration man, and the less he knew, the better. Likewise the other scientists. There must be no more meddling. Once these bats were dead, that had to be the end of it.

'The tests,' Susan Wylie squeezed his hand and whispered huskily. 'What did they show, Brian?'

Newman turned to her, and sighed loudly. They showed that the inexplicable has happened. Something which we cannot explain, only accept. The virus is a mutated one caused by experimenting. I've tried to determine the difference between bacterial and viral meningitis. In humans it's difficult to tell in the early stage, which is the very time when either the virus or the bacteria might be destroyed. Take meningococcus, for example. There are ten types of viruses. The symptoms are all the same: severe headache, high fever, vomiting, stiffness of back and neck muscles, but not . . . this. I've never known the disease lead to madness or such awful agony. And I have created a new horror. A mutated virus! God knows how it happened, it was a million-to-one accident. Those tests we did ... my—God, how far it could spread, and to which species: rats, mice, other rodents , . . even humans! It doesn't bear thinking about!'

'But Brian,' Susan slipped an arm about him. 'There's no harm done. Whatever you've created is confined in that single glass cage. The whole disease is trapped in there. It can't get out. Admittedly there's nothing we can do to ease these creatures' suffering, but once they're all dead, that's that. As you say, cremate the bodies and nobody will be any the wiser.'

'I guess you're right,' he tossed the butt of his cigarette out of the window. 'A couple of days and I reckon it will all be over. But it's frightening to think what freak mutations can be brought about by experiments like this one. All over the world scientists are conducting such. experiments daily. Students, too. It could happen anywhere, anytime, and something far more terrible than nuclear war could be unleashed upon the world I don't know how this came about. I'd feel one helluva lot easier if I did. Nevertheless, we must end it here and now. This laboratory must be kept locked. Nobody must come in here, not even Haynes. At the end of the week, when there's no trace of this mess left, I shall report that my experiments were a failure. Negative results.'

'I suppose that's the best thing,' her pert features puckered into a smile. 'Let's forget all about it tonight and enjoy ourselves.'

He stiffened slightly, and looked away.

'What's the matter?' there was concern in her voice.

'I... I'm afraid we'll have to postpone tonight, Susan. I'm sorry, but that's the way it is.'