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

There were about a dozen bats still left alive, the oxygen machine attached to the cage ensuring that there was no way in which either virus or bacteria could escape into the atmosphere. The creatures were still zooming frantically about their enclosure, and in the silence of the room their shrill piping and buffeting seemed even louder. Newman moved closer, watching them. Whereas earlier he had been repulsed, he now experienced a morbid fascination almost to the point of being hypnotised. He had created something, death in a form that had not hitherto existed. It was all his doing.

He, stood staring at the bats for well over an hour, his mind having lost all sense of time. He understood the attraction of an aquarium in a conventional home, constant movement, always something happening, however trivial. This was different, exciting. Death could occur at any second.

After a time he became aware that the death-rate amongst the bats seemed to have slowed. They continued to batter themselves ceaselessly against the glass, but those which fell stunned revived after a time and resumed their futile occupation. At first Newman thought that the creatures were making attempts to attack him, but eventually it dawned upon him that this was not so, for they flew at the opposite side with equal compulsion. It was madness, he decided. Their brains were of a low order, yet the mutated virus appeared to have robbed them of everything except basic instincts. They resented imprisonment and were determined to seek freedom in the only way they knew, blind flight. Yet, even in the midst of their panic, they were colliding with one another time and time again.

'God!' Newman spoke aloud as the answer suddenly dawned on him. 'The virus has destroyed their radars. They're flying blind!'

Some time later he opened the window and lit a cigarette. The night was mild.and humid, freak weather for early April. It was almost like summer. His thoughts turned to Susan. There was no way in which he could lie his way out of this one. She wouldn't accept excuses, and Professor Newman wasn't the type to plead. One way or another it was over, and too late he realised that he didn't want Fiona after all. There had never been anything more than physical attraction between them. She had been good, very good, but after each session his one thought had been to take her home. With Susan he was content to cuddle her until they both fell asleep. That was the difference.

He wondered if Susan was back at his bungalow right now. In all probability she was packing her bags and loading them into the Mini. The chances of her turning up at the Centre of the following day were remote.

He glanced in the direction of the telephone, but discarded the idea at once. It wouldn't work. A phone call would not stop Susan from leaving.

Newman felt physically and mentally drained. His thoughts returned to the bats, and the knowledge that he could not risk any interference from Professor Rickers and his students the next day. He had hoped that the creatures would die quickly, but now it looked unlikely. In that case, there was only one solution. He would have to destroy them. They could easily be gassed. The only problem was that the lethal gas was stored in a separate part of the building, under lock and key, and could only be obtained with Haynes's permission, which certainly would not be forthcoming.

He tried to think of alternative means. Perhaps if he filled the glass case with water and drowned the occupants ...

Newman lay down on the sparse couch and stretched himself out. His entire body was crying out for sleep, yet he knew that there was no chance of slumber. His brain was too confused, going over recent events, trying to work out solutions, thinking of Susan, of Fiona, of Haynes and Rickers, and the students. Somehow he did not like the idea of switching off the light and being alone in the darkness with those squeaking, thudding bats. His thinking was becoming illogical, he told himself. They could not possibly get out, but until every one of them was dead there would be no peace in that laboratory.

He lay there just looking up at the plain white ceiling. For the first time in his life he felt totally helpless. Events would control his own actions from now on.

Sometime after the first grey light of dawn had crept in through the uncurtained windows he dropped into a fitful doze. It seemed only seconds since his eyelids had closed before he heard a key being turned in the lock. He sat up with a start. It could only be one of a small group of people who had access to laboratory keys. Haynes, Rickers... Susan!

'Good morning, Professor Newman,' she walked in, closing the door behind her.

Brian Newman was too startled to reply. He simply stared at her in amazement. She was immaculate in every aspect, and there was no evidence of her having spent a troubled night. She barely glanced in his direction, taking off her coat, and then immediately set about her routine duties, sterilising implements, checking charts, and all the time ignoring him totally.

Newman sat up and swung his legs to the floor. His suit was crumpled, his hair awry, and there was a growth of stubble on his chin. He rubbed his bleary eyes, and sighed loudly.

'I could use some coffee,' he spoke softly, a tremor in his voice.

'We have coffee at ten,' Susan Wylie replied formally. 'However, there is coffee, sugar and dried milk in the cupboard if you wish to make yourself a drink.'

He stood up, swaying slightly. His head ached abominably. He looked quickly in the direction of the bat cage. There were still a dozen or so of the creatures flying crazily to and fro, bumping, falling, fluttering up again. No more had died during the night, and that didn't add up. Either the virus was dead, they were immune to it, or else the incubation period in these last few was longer.

'About last night. . . ' he began, clearing his throat.

'I slept well, thank you,' she replied icily without glancing up. 'Now, if you will excuse me, Professor, there are certain items which I must go and collect from the stores....'

'Now listen to me!' he snapped, his level of anger rising fast. Women had cursed him hundreds of times over the years, pleaded with him, cried, but none had ever treated him with indifference.

She ignored him and turned in the direction of the door.

'I said listen to me!' his hand shot out, grasping her by the shoulder and turning her round to face him. 'There are one or two things we've got to get ironed out.'

'I have no idea what you're talking about, professor.' Only her eyes gave away her innermost feelings, bitterness that an outward show of indifference could not cloak.

'You know damned well what I'm talking about!' he rasped. 'About last night at the Shoal Hill Tavern.'