Free Bats Out of Hell by Guy N Smith Page A

rats and mice, but at the moment there are no reports to substantiate this."
    "But the question everybody is asking," Haynes said slowly, pausing to draw on his cigarette, "Is just where have the bats gone now? Nobody has set eyes on them since the episode in the cathedral."
    "We can only guess," Brian Newman said. "The time between the Wooden Stables affair and the one in the cathedral we can presume is the period they took to adjust to their new way of life, hiding away from humans. Then they were disturbed by those contractors. They have now retired somewhere to breed. The period of gestation is seven weeks. That takes us up to July. The young are not capable of leading an independent life for two months after birth. By September, we could be in the midst of the most terrible spread of the disease imaginable. It could be nationwide instead of just confined to the Midlands. Our only hope is to find the main colony and destroy them. Now!"
    "A task equivalent to looking for the proverbial needle in the haystack," Rickers said. "Where the hell do we start?"
    "There is no longer any point in attempting to conceal the facts from the public," Newman continued. "The more they are kept informed, the better. We must enlist their help. Anybody who sees bats must report it at once, and we must have teams of pest-control experts standing by to move into action. Whilst the bats remain in rural areas there is still hope, but once they converge on the towns and cities—well, it doesn't bear thinking about!"
    Haynes said, "Oh, God!"
    "We play ball with the Press, then?" Rickers pulled a wry face.
    "We must," Haynes replied. "Give them the full facts, don't leave them to draw their own conclusions. There's already been too much exaggeration and surmising. I'm attending a Press conference this afternoon, and I shall attempt to educate them on bats and mutated viruses. Now, Brian, what's the chance of coming up with an antidote? Is it hopeless?"
    "We'll keep trying," Professor Newman told him. "There isn't much else I can do at this stage. However, to be perfectly honest, I don't hold out much hope."
    Ken Tyler had been gamekeeper in charge of the land around the ancient site of Castle Ring, on the edge of Cannock Chase, for five years. His duties varied between rearing pheasants for his employers, who rented the shooting rights over the surrounding two thousand acres, controlling the vermin, assisting in the culling of the deer herds, and spending his weekends patrolling in his Land Rover to ensure that none of the picnickers who converged on the Chase at fine weekends either lit fires or deposited litter.
    A small, wiry man, he wore the traditional suit of plus fours in all weathers, including freak heat waves. It was his uniform, his symbol of authority. People knew to whom they were talking when he stopped them. In his own estimation he commanded the same respect as that of a police officer. His word was law on the Chase. If Ken Tyler instructed anyone to quit the land, they were expected to obey without question.
    For the past fortnight he had rarely enjoyed more than four hours' sleep in any one night. Fires were breaking out all over the Chase. At this very moment two brigades, aided by troops and voluntary helpers, were attempting to contain thirty acres of blazing conifer thickets. There was no chance of putting the fire out. They had to be content to widen the fire-breaks and hopefully prevent it from spreading to an adjacent five hundred acres of larch trees.
    Ken Tyler knew all about the deadly bats. His attitude was one of "I-told-you-so". Hadn't he forecast something like this happening from the very first day when the building of the Biological Research Center had commenced next to the German Cemetery? Yet he still had his routine duties to attend to. He had listened to the repeat broadcast of the previous evening's plea to the public. "Find the bats," they said, "before they give birth in July."
    Tyler laughed. Some chance.