gns.batsoutofhell-第21部分

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ution。　Not　unless　Professor　Newman　discovered　an　antidote　or　someone　found　the　main　breeding　quarters　of　the　bats。
　　
　　'I'm　afraid　the　whole　of　the　blame　seems　to　have　fallen　on　your　head；　Professor　Newman；'　Sir　John　Stirchley　said；　smiling　wanly。　'Of　course　we　know　that　it's　just　one　of　those　things；　but　it's　no　good　trying　to　explain　that　to　the　public。　I　am；　however；　going　to　try　and　get　it　through　to　Fleet　Street　that　you　are　the　one　person　capable　of　saving　them　from　the　bats。　I'm　sorry　about　the　way　you　and　Miss　Wylie　were　treated　by　those　louts；　and　about　your　bungalow；　too。　I　take　it　you　have　fixed　up　acmodation　elsewhere？'
　　
　　'Yes；　I've　another　bungalow。'　Newman　said　'At　Chase…town　Close　to　Chasewater。'
　　
　　'Perhaps　we　should　arrange　for　a　police　guard；'　Stirchley　mused。
　　
　　'I　don't　think　that　will　be　necessary；　sir；'　Newman　smiled　at　Susan。　'I　am　sure　that　that　episode　was　purely　a　freak　outbreak　of　hooliganism。'
　　
　　'Well；　if　you　need　anything　let　me　know；'　Sir　John　nodded　to　Haynes；　and　the　meeting　broke　up。
　　
　　Susan　followed　Brian　back　into　the　laboratory。
　　
　　'It's　terrible；'　she　said；　shuddering；　and　leaned　against　him。　'D'you　。。。　d'you　think　there's　any　chance　of　finding　an　antidote　now？'
　　
　　'No；'　he　told　her；　'to　be　perfectly　honest；　I　don't。　I've　tried　everything；　and　barring　a　miracle　we'll　just　have　to　face　up　to　the　fact　that　there's　no　antitoxin。'
　　
　　Then。。。　what'll　happen？'　she　asked。
　　
　　'If　it　continues　to　spread。'　he　replied　as　he　slipped　an　arm　around　her；　I　guess　it'll　mean　the　end　of　civilisation　as　we　know　it　in　this　country。　Or　even　the　whole　world！'
　　
　　'We　are　in　the　midst　of　one　of　the　gravest　situations　since　the　war；'　were　the　Prime　Minister's　opening　words　as　he　began　his　televised　speech　on　all　channels；　'and　as　a　result　it　has　fallen　upon　my　government　to　bring　in　emergency　measures。　A　State　of　Emergency　was　formally　declared　at　six　o'clock　this　evening；　and　the　British　Volunteer　Force；　which　has　been　formed　only　this　week；　has　now　gone　into　full　operation。　A　disease…zone　has　been　drawn　up；　incorporating　most　of　the　Midlands；　and　there　will　be　no　movement　of　persons　either　into　or　out　of　that　designated　area。　It　is　our　duty　to　contain　the　virus　within　those　boundaries；　and　while　every　effort　will　be　made　to　assist　the　people　inside；　under　no　circumstances　must　the　virus　spread　beyond　it。　We　are　hoping　that　our　scientists　will　discover　an　antidote　within　a　very　short　time。　In　the　meantime　life　elsewhere　must　continue　as　near　as　normally　as　possible；　whilst　within　the　zone　it　is　in　the　interests　of　everyone　to　stay　at　home；　stay　indoors；　and　have　as　little　contact　with　others　as　possible。　Arrangements　for　food　and　other　necessities　will　be　made　by　your　local　authorities。　Be　sensible。　Stay　at　home。'
　　
　　Within　an　hour　of　the　Prime　Minister's　speech　traffic…jams　were　building　up　on　all　roads　leading　from　the　Midlands。　Nobody　had　foreseen　such　drastic　emergency　measures　in　spite　of　the　new　terror　which　flitted　from　building　to　building　in　the　gathering　dusk　each　night。　There　were　reports　of　deaths。　Some　still　did　not　believe　it。　And　those　who　did　refused　to　believe　that　it　could　ever　happen　to　themselves。　Somebody　was　dying　on　average　every　half　hour　in　a　city　the　size　of　Birmingham。　One　accepted　those　statistics。　The　cause　did　not　matter。
　　
　　Now；　suddenly；　the　presence　of　the　bats　was　affecting　everybody's　life。　Death　was　one　thing。　Military　rule　was　another。
　　
　　Gerald　Pitkin　had　worked　at　the　Treasury　for　five　years。　As　an　ex…Forces　man　it　helped　to　supplement　his　pension　after　the　age　of　forty…five。　Thickset　with　short…cropped　iron…grey　hair；　he　had　no　other　ambition　than　to　see　his　time　out　there。　At　first　he　had　had　some　difficulty　adjusting　to　the　new　way　of　life；　the　systems；　the　lack　of　military　discipline；　but　overall　there　were　few　problems。　Until　that　fateful　day　when　the　bats　had　chosen　to　occupy　the　ventilation　shaft　in　the　Credit　House。　Fortunately　for　Gerald　he　had　been　standing　in　for　one　of　the　clerks　on　the　bullion…vans　who　had　stopped　at　home　with　a　migraine。　So　by　the　time　Gerald's　van　had　arrived　back　at　base　order　had　been　restored；　and　the　Credit　House　clerks　who　had　been　in　direct　contact　with　the　bats　had　been　taken　to　hospital。
　　
　　He　accepted　their　deaths　philosophically。　Baxterdale's　he　delighted　in　secretly。　But　in　the　days　which　followed；　Gerald　Pitkin　devoted　much　thought　to　the　situation。　It　was　rumoured　early　in　the　morning　that　the　Prime　Minister　would　be　making　a　statement　to　the　country　that　night；　and　Gerald　had　a　good　idea　what　the　content　of　that　speech　would　be。　With　his　army　training　he　forecast　events。　It　had　to　be　that　way。　They　had　to　try　and　contain　the　outbreak　of　whatever　it　was；　he　decided。　That　meant　calling　up　reservists　（not　from　the　infected　zone；　naturally）　plus　volunteers；　men　who　feared　for　their　own　safety　if　the　plague　spread。　Rabble。　An　armed　mob　with　little　or　no　training；　just　a　few　brief　instructions。　Keep　the　bloody　Midlanders　in；　and　if　any　of　'em　try　to　make　a　break　for　it；　shoot　'em　down。　They'd　die；　anyway。　A　bullet　was　quick；　painless。　The　virus　was　slow　agony　by　parison。　So　what　was　there　to　lose？
　　
　　It　was　raid…morning　by　the　time　Gerald　had　worked　all　this　out。　A　sudden　sense　of　frustration　followed　by　panic　gripped　him。　Had　he　left　it　too　late？　He　and　his　wife　Bertha；　and　Harry；　their　eighteen…year…old　son；　should　have　made　tracks　yesterday。　His　brother　Tom's　place　at　Shrewsbury　was　the　safest　place　for　them。　They'd　be　all　right　there。
　　
　　He　wondered　if　there　was　still　time。　He　looked　at　his　watch；　trying　to　estimate　what　time　he　would　finish　that　evening。　Surely　not　later　than　five；　unless　some　stupid　pratt　couldn't　balance　his　books；　and　then　they'd　all　have　to　hang　about　waiting。　Stupid　bloody　rules。　Nobody　left　until　everybody　had　balanced。　And　even　if　everything　went　according　to　plan　he　might　still　be　too　late。　Surely　others　had　anticipated　a　cordoning…off　of　the　Midlands？　Anybody　with　any　sense　could　see　what　was　going　to　happen。
　　
　　Gerald　Pitkin　had　to　leave　early　somehow。　And　one　didn't　get　out　of　the　Treasury　before　time　without　a　good　excuse。　Like　going　sick。　He　worked　out　a　plan　of　action；　but　it　was　after　lunch　before　he　finally　put　his　escape…plan　into　motion。
　　
　　'I've　got　the　shits；'　he　informed　Barlow；　the　new　chief　clerk。
　　
　　'Well；　go　and　have　a　crap；　then。'　Barlow　was　young；　wore　a　permanent　smirk　on　his　face　and　made　no　secret　of　his　dislike　of　ex…Forces　men。　If　you　didn't　start　in　the　Bank　straight　from　school　then　you　didn't　deserve　to　be　there。
　　
　　'I've　had　two。'　Gerald　controlled　his　temper　and　tried　to　look　as　though　he　might　be　feeling　ill。　'And　I've　been　sick；　too。　I　think　I　might　have　caught　something。　A　bug；　maybe。'
　　
　　'You　had　a　couple　of　days　off　last　week。'　Barlow　continued　working；　pencilling　figures　in　a　large　cash…book　as　he　spoke。
　　
　　'I　had　the　shits　then；'　Gerald　forced　a　belch　and　hoped　that　it　sounded　genuine。　I　don't　think　I　ever　shook　it　off。'　'I'll　phone　upstairs　for　the　key　holders；'　Barlow　muttered；　picking　up　the　phone　and　dialling　with　his　pencil。　'You'd　better　have　a　word　with　the　Chief。　See　what　he　says。'
　　
　　Gerald　Pitkcin　could　hardly　believe　his　good　fortune　as　he　hurried　along　the　crowded　street；　up　the　ramp　to　the　station；　and　just　managed　to　board　the　3。15　train　before　it　pulled　out。　He'd　never　have　got　away　with　a　yarn　like　that　in　Baxterdale's　time。　Baxterdale　wouldn't　have　listened　to　anybody　who　claimed　to　have　the　shits。　He　was　one　big　shit　himself。　But　he　was　dead　and　gone；　so　what　the　hell？
　　
　　Bertha　Pitkin　looked　up　in　amazement　as　Gerald　walked　into　the　hall。　She　was　thickly　built；　with　greying　hair　disguised　by　an　auburn　rinse。　The　type　who　did　everything　to　a　routine。　That　had　been　bred　into　her　by　living　for　most　of　her　life　in　army　married　quarters。　And　anything　which　disrupted　her　self…regimented　life　upset　her。　Like　her　husband　arriving　home　two　hours　before　he　was　officially　due。
　　
　　'What　on　earth's　the　matter　with　you？'　she　snapped。　'Are　you　ill　or　something？'