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Something was dead down there.
Then he saw them, tiny bodies practically forming a carpet over the entire
bottom, lying in a variety of positions. Unnatural. Stiff. Many were propped
up by the corpses of their companions, and all were in various stages of
decomposition, as though they had been dying at intervals over the past couple
of weeks. 'Bats!' he grunted. 'Bloody hundreds of 'em!' He was astounded, but
not frightened. He did not believe the reports anyway. The trouble with people
today was that they did not understand the ways of the countryside. They were
all too involved in modern living. A surplus of bats had coincided with some
outbreak of disease. They had to have a scapegoat, so they blamed the bats.
Harmless little creatures, really. He recalled the time when there were
supposedly armies of rats on the march. It had come about as a result of
flooding in the west country, and the rodents had been forced to move on in
search of new quarters. The rat population hadn't increased, it was just that
people saw more of them. It was the same with these bats. All the demolition
and rebuilding in the towns and cities had compelled them to move out into the
country, so folks began panicking. There was a logical explanation for
everything if one just took the trouble to think about it.
Jim Dunkley was just about to move away when something attracted his attention
on the opposite face of the quarry. A small cave had been formed in the slate
by constant washing of the rain on the surface. Part of it had come away and
formed an alcove, roughly three feet square and going back into the quarry
about a couple of feet. And as he looked, the whole interior seemed to move.
He stared, and only when a tiny furry creature hopped out on to the
overhanging ledge did he realise what the interior of that cave contained.
'More bloody bats,' he muttered. 'Hundreds of 'em all crowded in together!'
He continued to watch. There was little movement. The bats were resting,
sleeping by day, and when dusk fell they would flit out in search of food.
Possibly the farmer would have crept away undetected had it not been for the
crumbling edge of the deep pit. As he moved he dislodged a piece of slate. It
slid forward, struck some more, gathered some stones on its way, and as a
result a miniature avalanche showered down on to the mass of minute, rotting
corpses below.
The reaction from within the cave was instantaneous. The whole interior seemed
to come to life, the bats pouring outwards as one, then spraying in all
directions in the manner of irate wasps which have had their nest dug out.
Jim Dunkley was not frightened.. He was simply astounded at the sight of so
many bats. He knelt there looking up at them, and as he did so something
struck him sharply in the face. He grunted, and began to struggle to his feet.
Bats were everywhere. Above the trees, below them, clinging to the sides of
the quarry, and still more were emerging from holes and smaller caves. They
flitted around him, as insistent as the flies which had troubled him earlier.
They brushed against him, struck his clothing. He threw up a hand to protect
his face, wielding the shotgun in an attempt to ward them off.
Then the ground beneath his feet gave way, crumbling. He stepped back, but
there was nothing beneath his feet. He was falling, floating, somersaulting...
Jim Dunkley plummeted headlong to the bottom of the quarry, impaling his head
on a sharp unturned rock. His skull split open, showering grey matter and
crimson fluid over the dead bats which lay all around. His body twitched once
or twice, but he was already dead. The shotgun fell, landing softly, barrels
resting against his chest, hammers at full cock.
The bats continued to fly haphazardly for five or ten minutes, seemingly
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oblivious to the man who lay dead in their very own graveyard, and then,
tiring of their unaccustomed daytime activities, they returned to their
sleeping places.
Silence returned to the Devil's Dressing Room. There was not a bat in sight,
the only evidence of their existence being the smell of death which rose up
out of the quarry, and the buzzing of the flies as they fed, uninterrupted.
Chapter Twelve
By late September, terror had returned to the rural areas in full force. No
longer were the bats concentrated in any particular place. With the coming of
dusk people barricaded themselves in their homes, listening fearfully as tiny
bodies thudded against window panes or fluttered down chimneys, squeaking
inside blocked fireplaces as though with anger at being thwarted of their
prey. In spite of many official statements that the bats were not deliberately
intent upon attacking humans, and that their seemingly aggressive attitude was
brought about by damaged radar, the public were still convinced that they were
the main targets of the flying death swarms. And outside the protective cordon
the rest of Britain waited fearfully. It was only a matter of time before the
bats extended their territory.
'As there seems to be no chance of finding an antidote,' Haynes said, 'then
there is only one alternative.' He and Rickers were in Newman's laboratory
where tests were still being carried out on a number of bats, mice and rats.
'And what's that?' Professor Newman looked up.
'We must poison the bats. If necessary, to the point of extinction.'
Newman laughed. 'It's fine in theory. But there's no chance. With rats and
mice you can put poison down for 'em; feed 'em specially prepared food, but
bats live on insect life.'
'Of which there is an abundance this year.'
'Granted, but...'
'Then we must spray the insects and thus poison the bats.'
Newman looked thoughtful. 'And who thought this one up?' he asked.
'I did,' Rickers admitted.
Newman glanced at Susan Wylie. She knew what he was thinking. Insecticides
were dangerous to wildlife in general. They upset the balance of Nature. In
the past, poisonous sprays had been responsible for a decline in the numbers
of birds of prey, buzzards, kestrels, sparrow-hawks, the golden eagle.
Partridges, too, at one stage had almost been wiped out. It was too risky. And
yet, with hundreds dying daily from the mutated virus...
'I guess it's worth a try,' Newman said.
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