gns.batsoutofhell-第12部分

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ir　colleagues　had　departed　for　their　native　country　in　March；　just　as　though　they　were　keeping　the　place　habitable　for　the　big　flocks　to　return　to　next　winter。　They　had　to　be　moved；　now。　Game　and　starlings　could　not　exist　in　the　same　area。　No　self…respecting　pheasant　would　put　up　with　a　constant　foul　stench　and　incessant　deafening　twittering　throughout　the　nights。
　　
　　Well；　if　the　public　weren't　prepared　to　burn　the　rhododendrons；　then　Ken　Tyler　would　see　to　it　himself。　And　the　public　could　take　the　blame！
　　
　　The　half…gallon　of　paraffin　in　the　back　of　the　Land…Rover　was　covered　by　an　old　blanket。　In　all　probability　a　crumpled　newspaper　would　have　been　quite　sufficient　to　start　a　blaze；　but　Tyler　was　not　taking　any　chances。　The　flames　had　to　spread　quickly；　and　bee　established　before　any　of　the　brigades　already　in　the　area　were　able　to　put　out　the　fire。
　　
　　On　the　floor　beside　the　covered　can　lay　his　shotgun；　a　12…bore；　worn　and　rusted　in　places；　but　nevertheless　with　a　look　of　efficiency　about　it。　The　gamekeeper　never　went　anywhere　without　it。　It　was　as　much　a　part　of　his　character　as　the　baggy　plus…fours。
　　
　　He　drove　past　the　Park　Gate　Inn；　turned　right　at　the　junction；　then　took　the　first　left　down　a　bumpy；　uneven　track　which　followed　a　winding　course　amidst　the　pine　forest。　There　was　a　smell　of　woodsmoke　in　the　air。　It　had　been　around　for　almost　a　week　now；　drifting　across　the　Chase　from　the　numerous　fires；　hanging　in　the　still；　windless；　hot　atmosphere。
　　
　　At　last　the　track　emerged　on　to　an　open　stretch　of　heather；　its　natural　beauty　marred　by　a　number　of　well…trodden　footpaths　and　an　abundance　of　litter。　Tyler　grimaced　as　he　brought　the　Land…Rover　to　a　standstill。　People　were　selfish；　inconsiderate。　They　never　kept　to　recognised　footpaths　but　had　to　trample　down　natural　growth；　leaving　it　looking　as　though　a　herd　of　stampeding　elephants　had　crossed　it。　Then；　to　add　insult　to　injury；　they　left　their　litter　lying　all　over　the　place。
　　
　　It　was　early：　7。15　a。m。　Too　early　for　ordinary　folk　to　be　about；　and　all　the　firemen　had　their　hands　full　anyway。　There　were　rumours　that　today　the　authorities　were　sending　troops　from　Whittington　Barracks　to　help　out。　Well；　if　that　was　the　case；　then　they　were　certainly　fighting　a　losing　battle；　Tyler　decided。　Soon　the　whole　countryside　would　be　reduced　to　a　charred　waste。
　　
　　He　stopped　the　Land…Rover　within　thirty　yards　of　the　high　wall　of　rhododendrons；　and　reversed　so　it　was　facing　in　the　direction　from　which　it　had　e；　ready　for　a　quick　getaway　before　the　flames　took　hold。
　　
　　God；　it　was　hot！　He　pushed　his　cap　on　to　the　back　of　his　head　and　wiped　his　brow。　Even　at　night　the　place　never　got　a　chance　to　cool　down。　There　was　no　respite　from　the　scorching　heat。　By　day　it　blazed　down　from　the　sun；　by　night　it　came　up　out　of　the　cracked；　parched　earth。　There　was　no　escape。
　　
　　He　climbed　down　and　looked　around　him。　Not　a　soul　in　sight。　In　the　distance　he　could　see　a　column　of　black　smoke　mushrooming　in　the　sky。　That　would　be　the　Pye　Green　fire。　A　line　of　firemen　were　fighting　like　hell　in　an　attempt　to　prevent　it　from　destroying　the　STD　station。　Bloody　good　job　if　it　burnt　it　down；　Tyler　thought。　It　spoiled　the　Chase；　like　a　skyscraper。　Trouble　with　people　today；　he　told　himself；　was　they　couldn't　exist　without　every　up…to…date　gadget　and　convenience。
　　
　　He　checked　once　more　to　make　sure　that　there　was　nobody　about；　and　then　he　lifted　the　can　of　paraffin　out　of　the　back。　Just　two　gallons；　but　it　would　be　more　than　enough。
　　
　　The　shrubs　should　have　been　flowering　by　this　time　of　year；　a　mass　of　sweet　smelling　red　and　pink。　Instead　they　had　a　look　of　dereliction　about　them。　Somehow　the　greenery　had　survived　in　spite　of　the　clinging　starling　droppings。　There　had　been　no　rain　to　wash　the　excreta　away。
　　
　　Tyler　wrinkled　his　nose。　The　sour　aroma　was　stronger　than　the　smell　of　woodsmoke。　He　coughed。　Maybe　if　the　bushes　blazed　for　a　week　it　might　get　rid　of　the　stench　and　scorch　up　the　layer　of　droppings。　It　was　the　only　way。
　　
　　Usually　there　were　starlings　in　evidence；　one　or　two　flying　about；　maybe　nesting；　or　just　too　lazy　to　go　out　to　feed　on　the　surrounding　fields。　They　chirped　noisily。　This　morning；　however；　there　was　not　a　bird　to　be　seen。　Not　a　cheep。　Silence。　Sheer　desolation。
　　
　　Ken　Tyler　noticed　this　as　he　walked　towards　the　rhododendrons；　carrying　his　can　of　paraffin。　Where　had　all　the　birds　gone？　Still；　whenever　they'd　gone；　when　they　came　back　to　roost　that　evening　they'd　be　in　for　a　nasty　shock。　They'd　singe　their　wings　if　they　came　too　close。　The　starling　problem　was　as　good　as　solved。
　　
　　As　he　approached　the　bushes　the　stench　was　almost　overpowering；　a'　bination　of　excreta　and　rotting　flesh。　Many　starlings　died　from　natural　causes　out　of　the　thousands　clustering　in　the　bushes；　and　none　of　the　scavengers　of　the　countryside　were　prepared　to　clear　up　the　corpses。
　　
　　'Soon　settle　that；'　Ken　Tyler　said　as　he　unscrewed　the　cap　on　his　jerry…can　and　began　splashing　the　contents　over　the　nearest　rhododendrons。　'Cremate　the　bastards！'
　　
　　He　stood　back；　struck　a　match；　and　flung　it　at　the　paraffin…soaked　bushes。　It　fell　to　the　ground；　lay　burning　for　a　couple　of　seconds；　and　then　with　a　roar　a　small　sheet　of　flame　shot　up；　spreading　even　before　it　reached　the　topmost　branches。
　　
　　Tyler　felt　the　scorching　heat　on　his　back　as　he　ran　for　the　Land…Rover。　Those　excreta…covered　bushes　were　tinder…dry。　The　blaze　was　spreading　far　quicker　than　he　had　thought　it　would。
　　
　　As　he　opened　the　door　of　the　vehicle　he　noticed　a　movement　out　of　the　corner　of　his　eye；　and　turned　back　towards　the　fire。　Tongues　of　flame　crackled　on　dead　branches；　leaping　into　the　air　hungrily　as　black　smoke　billowed　up　in　a　huge　pillar；　burnt　leaves　floating　in　the　air　and　carrying　the　sparks。　But　that　was　not　all。
　　
　　Whirling　upwards；　at　first　indistinguishable　from　the　sparks　and　smuts　but　then　recognisable　by　their　very　numbers　and　speed；　were　hundreds　of　pairs　of　tiny　wings；　crazily　veering　in　all　directions。　In　a　panic；　soaring　and　diving；　their　one　aim　was　to　escape　the　heat　of　the　furnace。
　　
　　Tyler's　first　thought　was　that　these　living　creatures　were　starlings　now　being　forced　to　relinquish　their　stronghold。　Yet　as　he　climbed　into　the　driving　seat；　slammed　the　door　and　gunned　the　Land…Rover's　engine；　the　truth　suddenly　dawned　on　him。
　　
　　'Christ　alive！'　he　muttered；　glancing　back。　'Bats！'　The　radio　broadcast　came　back　to　him。　'Report　any　sightings　of　bats　immediately。'
　　
　　The　Land…Rover　bumped　and　jerked　at　40　m。p。h。　down　the　uneven　track；　its　driver　heedless　of　potholes　or　overhanging　branches。　His　first　thought　was　to　return　to　his　cottage　and　telephone　the　information　to　the　Research　Centre　up　on　Pye　Green。
　　
　　Then　he　realised　that　he　could　not　do　so　without　incriminating　himself。　On　no　account　must　he　admit　to　being　up　here　on　Castle　Ring　at　the　time　when　the　fire　broke　out。　No　way。　To　hell　with　the　bats。　That　was　where　they　had　e　from；　according　to　a　sensationalist　newspaper；　and　for　all　Ken　Tyler　cared　that　was　where　they　could　return。　He　drove　back　into　the　yard　adjoining　his　small　cottage　close　to　Castle　Ring。　The　bedroom　curtains　were　drawn。　His　wife　still　slept。　She　would　not　be　aware　that　he　had　even　been　outside　the　yard。　Nobody　else　had　seen　him；　and　he　had　passed　no　vehicles。
　　
　　As　he　went　inside　the　telephone　was　ringing。　It　was　the　Fire　Officer；　advising　him　that　part　of　the　Castle　Ring　Estate　was　on　fire。　They　could　only　spare　a　skeleton　force。
　　
　　There　was　no　chance　of　saving　the　large　expanse　of　rhododendrons。
　　
　　Throughout　the　county　of　Staffordshire　firemen　and　volunteers　fought　blazes。　Brownhills　mon　was　ablaze；　and　the　A5　traffic　had　been　halted。　A　verge　smouldered　at　Hilton；　near　Lichfield；　and　a　couple　of　soldiers　from　Whittington　Barracks　watched　over　it；　stamping　out　the　flames　which　broke　out　periodically。　A　more　serious　fire　was　threatening　to　destroy　Sutton　Park；　where　the　bined　fire…fighting　forces　of　Staffordshire　and　Warwickshire　were　losing　their　battle。
　　
　　All　of　these　men　saw　the　bats　passing　over；　flitting　through　the　drifting　smoke；　but　it　was　well　into　the　day　before　the　reports　reached　the　Biological　Research　Centre　on　Cannock　Chase。
　　
　　
　　　Chapter　Seven
　　
　　Professor　Brian　Newman's　bungalow　was　situated　on　the　outskirts　of　Cannock。　Small　and　pact；　there　was　nothing　to　distinguish　it　from　the　other　houses　in　the　small　cul…de…sac。　Yet　its　photograph　had　already　appeared　in　at　least　one　daily　newspaper；　the　caption　beneath　it　stating　that　'this　is　the　residence　of　Professor　Newman；　who　developed　the　killer　virus　and　allowed　it　to　escape　into　the　world'。
　　
　　Newman　glanced　through　the　local　evening　paper　which　he　had　picked　up　on　his　way　back　from　the　Centre　less　than　an　hour　ago。　His　name　was　featured　again　in　the　bold　front…page　headlines。　He　grimaced；　and　tossed　it　to　one　side。
　　
　　'Well；　they've　really　singled　me　out　for　the　blame　now；'　he　said；　with　bitterness　in　his　voice。　'They　have　to　have　a　scapegoat；　though。'
　　
　　'Then　they're　damned　fools；'　Susan　Wylie　replied　hotly。　'They　seem　to　overlook　the　fact　the　you're　the　one　person　who　stands　any　chance　of　wiping　out　these　bats。'
　　
　　'I　wish　I　could　share　your　optimism。'　Newman　smiled　wanly。　'Weeks　of　tests　in　an　attempt　to　find　an　antidote　for　the　virus；　and　still　nothing　to　show　for　my　efforts。'
　　
　　'It'll　e。'　Susan　assured　him。　She　moved　across　to　where　he　was　sitting；　and　slipped　an　arm　around　his　neck。　'It's　got　to。　There　has　to　be　an　antitoxin　somewhere。'
　　
　　'It's　the　latest　reports　that　worry　me；'　Newman　said；　squeezing　her　hand　gently。　'Large　numbers　of　bats　have　been　reported　heading　south…west；　sighted　at　Brownhills；　Lichfield　and　Sutton　Park。　Now　what　the　hell's　going　on？　A　migration　of　some　sort？　And　what　caused　'em　to　move？　There　are　no　reports　beyond　Sutton　Park；　but　my　guess　is　that　they　won't　settle　there。　The　whole　bloody　area　is　ablaze。　If　they　continue　on　their　present　course　then　our　worst　fears　are　confirmed。'　The　cities？'
　　
　　'Yes。'　He　nodded。　'Birmi