We hobbled, we held each other steady, we moved as fast as we could, and soon, thank God, we saw gaps in the trees ahead of us, the lighter grays of open space. Relief gave strength to wearying limbs and we broke into a jog once more, hurrying, running, hand in hand, with me shouting my elation and Midge laughing at my shouting.
We burst from the wood like popped peas.
Dusk had practically thickened into night, but at least the air was several shades lighter than under the cover of trees. We sprinted toward Gramarye, eager to be behind locked windows and bolted doors, and it was only when we drew closer that we began to realize something was wrong, that what we saw in the dimness wasn't making any sense. We slowed. We walked. We looked at Gramarye in dismay.
My foot kicked something soft lying in the grass and I stopped when I saw the dead rabbit, small, no more than a baby, a rictal smile of terror fixed to its tiny face. A choker of blood stained its neck. Midge's fingers stiffened in mine and I saw the other slumped form that she'd discovered. This rabbit was larger than the one at our feet, maybe the mother, and its body was raked from head to tail, the fur stiffened with drying blood.
We didn't speak. We guessed a fox might have killed them, but we didn't put the thought into words. Around us there were other slumped bodies. We walked on, our steps cautious.
And couldn't comprehend Gramarye's transformation.
The walls, reduced to gray in the ailing light, showed only in odd patches.
Black was the dominant color now.
And still we couldn't understand.
Until we saw the walls were swollen with life.
Black, furry life.
Wings stretching and retracting.
Bodies, grossly bigger than before, pulsating as the creatures breathed.
We could only stare numbly at the clinging bats engulfing Gramarye.
HOME AGAIN
FOR A WHILE we stood and gawked, our flesh creeping and our senses not quite together. How could there be so many? They couldn't all have been from our loft, many of them had to have come from other places. Maybe it was a bat convention. And how could they have grown to monster size? Most serious of alclass="underline" what was their intent? These were questions we asked ourselves, not each other—we didn't want our voices to disturb their rest period.
The inclination, you'll understand, was to make for the road, jump in the car, and get away from that bat-coated place as fast as possible. The only problem was that the car keys were inside the cottage where I'd left them earlier, and when I mentioned that to Midge (in a very low voice) her body kind of sagged.
"You go sit in the car," I told her in a whisper.
Even as I spoke, though, two bats detached themselves from the wall and fluttered around to the other side of the building. The moon was up, unclouded but showing only a profile, and in that clean, eerie light the size of the bats' wingspans froze me. We found ourselves crouching, ready to head back into the forest.
"Get going, Midge," I urged again.
"No, Mike," she whispered. "I'm staying with you; we'll get the keys together."
"That's stupid."
"I won't let you go in alone!"
Her voice was so forceful, although hushed, that my shoulders jerked upward and my neck sank in.
I drew in a breath and squeezed her hand. "Okay, okay. But if they get busy I want you to head straight for the car without waiting for me."
"What will you do?"
"I'll be ahead of you."
She returned the squeeze, but couldn't manage a smile.
"Let's skirt around and try the kitchen door," I suggested. "Maybe there won't be so many down there."
Her breathing was fast and shallow as she summoned the nerve to follow me and it wasn't just the moonlight that gave her face such an unnatural pallor. My own skin tones probably matched hers pretty well at that moment.
We slunk away slowly, bodies bent, not wanting to draw the slightest attention to ourselves. It seemed to me that a whole section of wall rippled, the movement black, a wave in an oil slick. We kept going, retreating, then moving toward the embankment. Everything was still and somehow unearthly around us, the dark mass of brooding forest behind, while in front was the bizarre spectacle of the smothered cottage, wearing bats like a tattered hood. Half-moonlight revealed more bodies prone in the grass, the sickening aftermath of the rabbits' before-bed gambol.
We reached the short but steep slope and I quietly slid down, reaching back to help Midge once I was on the flat again. She fell into my arms and stayed there for a few moments, reluctant to leave them. The gray strip that was the garden path leading to the gate beckoned invitingly, the road beyond representing manmade normalcy, a concrete reality, and the temptation to hoof it was strong; but the village was a long way off and the road ran through miles of woodland. Better to take the car.
I'd been right about the bats on this side: they clung mostly to the upper reaches, a dark thatch that twitched and bristled with life. Cautiously, eyes ever upward, I led Midge toward the kitchen door.
A bat fluttered away from the wall above us. Then another followed. Another.
The urge to rush for the door was almost overwhelming, but the thought of alarming them all into flight held us in check.
Take it easy, I kept telling myself. They're only flying mammals, not a vampire among them.
Tell that to the bunnies, came my own wicked reply.
The door was on the latch and my hand was trembling when I stretched to press the catch. I thumbed it down as smoothly as I could, but the click still made me grit my teeth; I expected fangs to puncture my neck at any second.
I pushed the door and the smell of must and rot wafted out as a forewarning that things weren't quite so well inside Gramarye, either; as I widened the gap, the waiting blackness was as welcoming as the stench. If shadows could grin, then they'd have been beaming their darkest right then.
The interior was menacing, and yet . . . and yet it was somehow alluring. I felt as I had as a kid, standing there at the first door of the funfair ghost house; scared, but I'd paid my money and I was sure as shit going in.
I almost tripped over something on the doorstep. Committed to stepping in, I didn't stop to investigate. I went through, pulling Midge with me, and immediately turned to scrabble for the light switch. I brushed it down and, momentarily blinded, reached back to slam the door shut. Midge caught my arm before I did so.
I blinked questioningly at her, anxious to set the barricade between them and us; she was staring at the doorstep.
Rumbo was lying there, his furry little body discolored with blood, his jaws locked open in shock. His eyes were corpse's slits.
BREAK IN
WE LAID HIM on the kitchen table, Midge weeping openly, me choking back tears. I hadn't realized till then how fond of Rumbo I'd become.
The marks on his back were vicious; deep, bloodied grooves running the length of his back where the bats— more than one had done this to him—had raked him. The wounds around his throat were even deeper, but I wondered if fear alone hadn't been the ultimate assassin. He was bald of fur in parts and one tufty ear had been completely shredded; I think he'd put up one hell of a fight.
Without hope I checked for the slightest beat of a heart, and there was none. His body had not yet turned cold and I stroked him, talking softly all the time, as if encouraging his animal spirit to get back inside and loosen up those congealing arteries again.