"Smith, Guy N - Bats Out of Hell" - читать интересную книгу автора (Smith Guy N)

Walter was decidedly uneasy as he led the way towards the half-ruined buildings, the piercing beams of light from the vehicle behind them illuminating the dereliction and creating eerie shadows. Bats at dusk were bad enough, but in the pitch blackness of night they filled him with dread. He'd never thought much about them before. Horrible little things. Usually they fled at the approach of man, but this lot had appeared to attack him. That one had really dashed itself against him viciously.

He halted in the entrance to the stable, listening. Not a sound came from within, no movement or horses, munching of hay.

'Penny . . . Stango.' Shirley's call echoed inside the building. There was no answering whinny, no welcoming stirring. Just silence.

'We'd better check the field at the back.' Shirley's voice was tinged with anxiety.

'We don't have a torch.'

'We won't need one. If they're there we'll be able to spot them.'

'Let's try whistling them first.''

They pursed their lips, emitting a series of high-pitched, unmusical whistles. Walter's mouth was dry. It wasn't easy. After a time they paused to listen.

'I can hear something,' Shirley spoke in a low tone, unsure but optimistic.

Walter heard it, too. It definitely was not any sound made by the horses, though. It was more like the wind soughing through the trees, a gentle breeze at first, increasing to gale force. Then realisation dawned on him.

'Come on,' he hissed. 'Back to the truck. It's those...

A stinging blow caught him on the forehead. His daughter was screaming hysterically, flailing her arms.

'Dad ... Dad, there's something caught in my hair!'

Bats were jinking, swerving, frying all around them. Something was caught up in Shirley's long fair hair, a small furry creature that flapped its wings frantically. She was beating at it, trying unsuccessfully to knock it off.

'Stand still!' Walter spoke sharply, clutching her to him and grabbing the fluttering bat. The very feel of its silky fur was repulsive to him, and every instinct yelled at him to snatch his hand away.

Its claws were entwined in the girl's hair and he could not dislodge it. There was only one alternative. He closed his fingers over it, felt the pulsing body in his palm, and then squeezed. He turned away to vomit, hoping Shirley would not notice. The creature had pulped in his fingers, squelching out a sticky warmth. He wiped his hand on his trousers, heaved again, and then spoke with a determined effort at calmness.

'It's all right, love. It's dead.'

'It's still in my hair. Ugh! There's something running down my neck!'

He threw up an arm to defend them from the swooping bats. One brushed the back of his neck, and be began to drag the sobbing girl back towards the truck.

'We'd best get away from here.'

'But... but what about Penny and Stango?'

'They're probably in the field at the back. They won't hurt.'

The bats had disappeared as suddenly as they had come. Probably all gone back to the stable, Walter thought to himself as he helped Shirley into the vehicle. She was white-faced, crying, shuddering at the feel of the loathesome squashed creature entwined in her matted hair.

'I'm ... I'm going to be sick,' her stomach heaved and she vomited undigested stew in the cab. Walter made no attempt to open the door for her to lean out. Instead he crashed the gears into reverse and began backing down the muddy bridle-path. Before they reached the main Cannock Road he, too, was vomiting again.

Herbie Whitcombe had driven slowly all the way from the Shoal Hill Tavern to Heath Hayes, He was fully aware that the level of alcohol in his blood was way above the legal limit. Usually he rationed himself to a couple of whiskies and then drove back to Chasetown. It was a nightly ritual that took him away from his nagging wife for an hour or two.