gns.batsoutofhell-第29节

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　　'Only　this　rodent　disease；'　Newman　answered。　'There　was　a　dead　mouse　in　the　kitchen　the　other　evening。　And；　of　course；　we've　been　working　on　them　in　the　laboratory。'
　　
　　'And　thousands　of　people　have　been　removing　them　from　their　homes　without　ill…effect　for　the　last　couple　of　weeks。　It　can't　be　that。　But　whatever　it　is　it's　growing　fast！'
　　
　　Brian　Newman　was　asked　to　remain　in　the　waiting　room　once　they　arrived　at　Walsall　General　Hospital。　Not　even　bacteriologists　were　allowed　to　attend　emergency　operations。
　　
　　The　room　was　empty；　four　white　walls　which　seemed　to　close；　in　on　him。　Claustrophobia　was　another　form　of　despair；　and　he　felt　hopeless。　He　knew　she　was　going　to　die。　Nothing　could　save　her。　That　last　ten　minutes　the　symptoms　had　been　identical　to　those　in　the　creatures　with　the　American　killer　virus。
　　
　　He　could　see　Susan　now。　He　tried　to　shut　out　the　mental　picture。　At　least　she　wasn't　in　pain。　Just　numb。　She　wouldn't　know　anything。　Consciousness　would　return　for　a　short　time；　but　it　wouldn't　make　any　difference。　Her　whole　brain　was　a　rapidly　growing　cancer；　a　forced　greenhouse…plant　that　would　outgrow　itself；　wither　and　die。　The　agony　was　a　fallacy。　Those　creature's　did　not　suffer。　They　were　simply　living；　diseased　flesh。　He…had　discovered　that　only　that　same　afternoon。
　　
　　Yet　how　had　she　caught　it？　It　was　impossible…。　No；　he　corrected　himself；　remotely　improbable；　but　a　freak　occurrence。　Everything　he　touched　became　a　freak。　Oh　God；　if　this　was　the　beginning　of　another　outbreak　。　。　。　another　kind　of　incurable　plague。。。
　　
　　He　could　see　her　again；　moaning　as　consciousness　returned；　blind；　deaf　and　dumb。　Oh　God；　please　let　the　end　be　swift。　I　want　her　to　die。。。　now！
　　
　　He　whirled　round　as　the　door　opened。　Jenkinson　stood　there。　For　the　doctor　it　was　Mr　and　Mrs　Williams　again。　Hope。　Realisation。　Despair。　He　just　had　to　confirm　the　worst　fears。　He　knew　the　words　by　heart。　A　recitation。
　　
　　'I'm　sorry。　We　did　everything　possible　for　her。　But　there　was　no　hope。'
　　
　　There　would　be　a　post…mortem；　but　it　wouldn't　tell　them　much。　A　rare　cancer。　They'd　take　tests；　make　notes；　refer　it　to　the　Cancer　Research；　providing　years　of　work　for　somebody。　And　he；　Professor　Brian　Newman；　could　tell　them。　But　they　wouldn't　believe　him。　Nobody　would；　not　Haynes；　Rickers；　nor　the　American　who　had　discovered　the　virus　in　the　first　place。　Maybe　others　would　die　the　same　way；　and　then　the　authorities　would　have　to　admit　that　there　was　some　connection。　Please　God　it　doesn't　have　to　be　that　way。
　　
　　But　nobody　else　would　die；　Newman　said　harshly　to　himself。　It　was　the　way。　Take　himself；　for　example。　If　he　injected　the　rest　of　the　virus　left　in　the　lab　into　his　own　bloodstream；　nothing　would　happen。　His　body　would　reject　it。　So　would　millions　of　others。　One　in　a　hundred　million　was　vulnerable；　and　it　had　to　be　his　girl。　A　kind　of　retribution　for　everything　he'd　ever　done。
　　
　　And　he'd　never　even　had　time　to　say　goodbye　to　her。
　　
　　
　　　Epilogue
　　
　　The　Castle　Ring　syndicate　shot　every　Saturday　between　September　and　January；　And　on　Sunday　mornings　Ken　Tyler；　the　gamekeeper；　always　went　out　with　Judy；　his　aged　cocker…spaniel；　picking　up。
　　
　　They　never　found　all　the　birds　on　a　Saturday。　There　was　too　much　time　between　the　pheasants　falling　and　the　end　of　the　drive。　No　dogs　were　sent　to　retrieve　during　a　drive。　That　meant　that　a　wounded　cock　pheasant　had　a　good　start　by　the　time　the　dogs　picked　up　his　scent。　The　days　were　short；　and　there　were　too　many　drives　to　be　fitted　in。　Guns　and　beaters　alike　were　impatient。　'If　you　can't　find　'em　all；　leave　'em。　The　keeper'　can　pick　'em　up　in　the　morning。'
　　
　　This　morning　was　no　different。　He　had　a　brace　in　the　bag　in　the　first　half　hour。　Neither　of　those　birds　had　been　'runners'；　but　who　was　to　know？　Shooting　game　on　Sundays　was　against　the　law；　but　there　was　nothing　to　say　that　one　could　not　despatch　a　wounded　creature　on　the　Sabbath。　It　was　the　only　humane　thing　to　do。　And　in　any　case；　Tyler　needed　to　bag　as　many　as　possible　if　he　was　to　keep　back　a　brace　or　two　for　himself　when　the　boss　called　round　later　in　the　day。　He　wouldn't　have　to　be　too　greedy　this　season；　he　decided。　Game　was　scarce。　The　fires　had　ruined　a　good　breeding　season；　and　now　weeks　of　rain　were　spoiling　the　shooting　days。　The　bags　were　well　down　on　the　previous　year。
　　
　　Judy　ranged　to　and　fro；　taking　her　time；　relying　on　her　nose。　Her　head　went　down。　She　picked　up　something　out　of　the　long　grass；
　　
　　'Good　girl。　Bring　it　on。'
　　
　　The　spaniel's　face　was　hidden　behind　a　mass　of　fluffy　brown　feathers。　At　first　Ken　was　congratulating　himself　on　another　hen　pheasant　in　the　bag；　but　as　Judy　came　closer；　he　groaned。
　　
　　'Another　bloody　owl。　Christ　A'mighty！　Three　picked　up　yesterday；　and　two　kestrels。'
　　
　　It　came　on　to　rain　again。　He　pulled　down　the　brim　of　his　hat　and　turned　up　the　collar　of　his　coat。　'Bleedin'　weather！'
　　
　　Judy　forced　her　way　into　some　dense　briars　and　the　gamekeeper　stole　forward。　It　could　be　that　old　cock　that　the　Colonel　had　dropped　with　his　second　barrel　on　the　last　drive。　It　had　been　too　dark　to　look　for　it　properly。
　　
　　He　could　see　Judy　on　her　way　back。　Certainly　it　wasn't　the　cock　bird。　Light　brown　feathers；　some　catching　on　the　thorns　as　the　dog　pushed　her　way　out。　It　was　a　big　bird。　A　buzzard。　Tyler　had　not　seen　one　on　the　Chase　for　five　years。　The　last　had　been　a　stray；　blown　off　course　by　a　freak　gale。　So　was　this　one。　But　it　had　e　from　a　different　reason。　A　futile　search　for　food。
　　
　　He　took　the　buzzard　from　the　dog；　and　held　it　up　in　his　left　hand。　Under　normal　circumstances　it　would　have　weighed　approximately　three　pounds。　He　doubted　if　this　bird　would　have　topped　the　scales　at　a　pound。　It　had　wasted　away；　reduced　to　skin　and　feathers　by　starvation。　The　keeper　tossed　it　back　over　the　briars。　It　seemed　to　hang　suspended　in　the　air；　almost　floating　down　on　to　the　thorn　bushes；　landing　with　scarcely　a　sound。　Just　a　few　feathers　wafted　in　the　wind。　It　was　just　one　of　many；　and　luckier　than　most　of　the　birds…of…prey　species。　It　was　already　dead。　Many　more　had　still　to　die；　suffering　the　pangs　of　hunger；　searching　vainly　for　rats；　mice；　insects。　Finding　nothing。　Not　even　a　beetle。
　　
　　Myxomatosis　had　broken　out　amongst　the　rabbits　again。　Coincidence？　There　weren't　even　any　young　coneys　for　the　hawks。　Science　had　destroyed　them；　and　this　was　only　the　beginning。
　　
　　An　hour　later　Ken　Tyler　stood　amongst　the　trees　which　overlooked　the　Biological　Research　Centre。　A　car　was　parked　outside　and　he　recognised　Newman's　Allegro。　The　bacteriologist　hadn't　wasted　much　time　getting　back　to　work　again　after　the　girl's　funeral；　the　keeper　grimaced。
　　
　　A　fit　of　anger　assailed　him。　He　shook　a　fist　in　the　direction　of　the　squat　ugly　buildings。
　　
　　'You　bastard！'　he　shouted。　'All　this　is　your　work。　You're　destroying　wildlife；　one　species　after　another。　You　killed　the　girl。　Everybody　knows　it。　The　papers　say　so；　but　you　and　your　bloody　kind　keep　on　denying　it。　You　won't　admit　that　humans　can　catch　it。　Sod　you！'
　　
　　His　anger　subsided；　and　the　gamekeeper　walked　slowly　away；　retracing　his　steps。　Newman　hadn't　heard　him。　Nobody　had。　It　wouldn't　make　any　difference；　anyway。
　　
　　They'd　created　something　they　couldn't　control；　and　now　there　was　no　way　of　stopping　it。　Only　when　all　forms　of　life　were　wiped　out　would　the　cancerous　virus　finally　die。　And　it　took　a　gamekeeper　to　realise　that。
　　
　　On　the　way　back　he　had　to　wait　for　Judy　again。　She　was　away　for　fully　ten　minutes　this　time；　and　when　she　returned　to　heel　she　was　carrying　another　owl　in　her　jaws。







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