To Drive the Cold Winter Away by G. W. Thomas 6 The Hanging Man I was dreaming. All around me for as far as I could see were the squirming occupants of Hell trapped in there own cells. Each a twisted and horrible thing... I wasn't dreaming. It was real. As we rose I saw the underbelly of the bridge. The upper rafters were covered with moving shapes. Man-bats, hundreds of them hanging from the steel protrusions. Several detached themselves and came winging our way. I dodged only to feel my ride release me. It was trying to drop me-only the handcuff locked me to its leg, kept me alive. I had a moment then to take a good look at the bats around me. My experience up till then had been half-perceived shapes in the snow. I'd shot five or six bats in my day but never killed one or found a dead one. Now I could see that they were very much a synthesis of man and bat. The body was human though the legs were shorter. The arms were the least human, with two sets of very long arms with bat-like skin between them. The head was all bat, with large ears, small eyes and a mouth full of daggers. When we got to the ceiling my bat found he was in trouble. Their usual method-and I know this because I saw Psycho interred ahead of me-was to grab the ceiling with the two sets of hands attached to their wings, then lift their prey into a cubby I thought was made of its own spit. With another gob it sealed the hole around you. There you stayed because where else could you go? My bat tried this maneuver, clapping onto my shoulders then shoving me into that putrid swallow's nest affair, which smelled like nothing other than rancid cheese. Only when it tried to release me into the cocoon I came out again. I screamed as the creature jerked me around by my wrist but I wasn't letting go. I didn't even have the key. This was my first opportunity to witness man-bat intelligence. There had been lots of arguments by those who saw the bats and lived about how intelligent they were. Some said they were cunning hunters but no more so than a lion or a bear. One fellow told me how he had seen a Man-bat open a car door and yank a screaming woman from inside. I didn't necessarily believe him. He was hungry and he was a liar. This time the bat didn't do anything quite so complex. It parked me in the cubby a second time and hung on the girders with its hands. Unlike real bats, the Man-bats don't hang upside down by their feet but hold on with all their appendages. This bat looked at me, then the handcuff, then me again. I watched its eyes move from one to the other. The thing explored the metal ring around its ankle with its slimy tongue, then my wrist. I could see the light bulb go off as it realized all it had to do was chew through my wrist to be rid of me. Its razor sharp teeth lunged as I drew the knife out of my coat. The cast on my arm smashed into its snout while the blade of knife tore into furred skin. Blood sprayed over me and my bat-spit house. The creature hissed, trying to escape. I resisted, drawing my arm inside. The bat pulled in the other direction. It was stronger. And smarter. I fell out and down. The Man-bat beat its double wings then reattached itself to the ceiling. This made me dance like a puppet on a string. Then it drew my wrist up as gravity pulled me down! The teeth drew nearer as my body swayed away from the mouth. Things were desperate. I wanted to be unattached more than I thought about falling. I swung the knife, missed the teeth but hit the bat's ankle. Two could play this game. I slashed again, even as blood trickled down my arm. I hit again and the bat shrieked in an almost human voice. It might have been my imagination. Either way, the thing stopped biting. Its legs directed me back to the hole of the nest. I didn't fight it, just crawled back in. My knife was waiting if the bat tried to chew my arm or seal me in with spit. The creature rested. Blood dripped from both our limbs. It was all the same color. I hadn't thought about this before. It was a weird chirping squeak that roused me from an ill-advised doze. The bat was talking. The others around it returned its call. Was it just the cry of an animal to others of its kind or speech? I looked at my captor, at the spit-houses (as I came to think of them) of other bats. I saw Psycho's half-conscious face peeking out of one hole about twenty feet away. I had come to kill him. I guess I could watch him die instead-or even join him in death. (Except there was still Hater.) I mean, it wasn't any secret. We all figured the bats were eating their prey. Only, as it turned out, we were all wrong. I dozed again. The bat slept without fear. It even snored a little. The sound reminded me of my wife, Sheryl, and the way she had of snoring only when we were camping. Never at home. When I looked at the ugly face of the bat I wanted to kick it in. How dare it make Sheryl's noise? Something moved near my leg. The spit-house was a slim envelope, just big enough for a man. What could be moving? I tried to see but I was too cramped. I felt with the knife. Something slid across my wrist and I pulled my arm back quickly. I didn't need to have my arm pinned. I screamed. The bat didn't move. One eye opened. He knew what was coming. I kicked hard at the biter inside the envelope. I don't think I connected with anything. I could still feel the bite in my back. I tried to throw myself out of the door, trusting the bat to keep me aloft. Only, the furry black form pressed me back. I slashed with my knife. The bat's stomach exploded in blood and guts. Despite their ferocious nature, the bats' physique was kite-like. I had stabbed with too much force. The creature thrashed and kicked then stopped. Its sudden dead weight pulled me to the point of disaster. I quickly put the knife in my teeth and grabbed the lip of the spit-house door. I was too busy to see if the thing inside the spit house was going to bite me again. I had to work fast. I drew the dead bat up inch by inch, one-handed. After an eternity of pain and black spots about my eyes I had its fur in my fingers. Then with one titanic effort, threw myself out as I shoved the bat into up into the hole. It was then I saw the white tube suckers. Their red mouths latched onto the bat, making my anchor secure. I hung there a while resting. My good arm grabbed the edge of the spit-house while I rested. My entire body was shot. Every muscle in my back and shoulders had been stretched to the limit. My broken arm, safely wrapped in its cast, ached like a burning iron shoved into my shoulder. If trouble came now it could have me... And it did. It always does. I hung there about five minutes just trying to think how I was going to get these damn cuffs off. How was I going to get down? It was then the surrounding bats got nervous. They hissed then moved away, crawling over their own spit-houses like winged spiders. Eventually one dropped only to come winging back at me. I kicked out with my boots, felt teeth along my ankle. Another one came right after, and another. I was meat hung out to dry. And these bats wanted a piece of me. After another kick I struggled up into the mouth of the spit-house. With the dead bat inside this was a very small perch. But the bats left me alone. They were willing to steal me from in the clutches of another bat but once inside I was forbidden to them. I spent most of my time trying not to fall off. I did pull the bat's leg out far enough to saw at its ankle with my knife. It was a slow job, well over an hour, but covered in blood and slime, the shackle finally came away as the limb separated from its body. I rested again, knowing I only had to worry about falling. One problem solved. I had been up for several hours now. Tired, thirsty. Hungry soon, too, I didn't know what to do. Could I eat the dead bat? If I wanted a better seat I'd have to throw the dead thing down. But then I'd have to deal with those white tube mouths. I explored the spit-house walls awhile but learned little. Heat, strangely enough, wasn't a problem. The spit-house was warm. The air all around was several degrees above zero, though fetid with the smell of bats and their shit. My ass and back hurt now more than my stomach. I didn't think I could eat dead bat yet. I'd have to be a lot hungrier. The body chemistry might prove dangerous too. Who knew what poisons these devil dogs and man-bats had in them. I grabbed the footless leg and pulled. Out the carcass came from the hole with three white tubes attached. The tubes weren't biting now but covering the dead thing with a pusy white slime. The smell was unbearable. I took my knife and slashed a tube. It fled along with its two sisters. The creature retreated back inside itself to some central body segment. I didn't know, nor did I care as long as it didn't try for me again. Grabbing the bat's wet fur I rocked it back and forth a few times then let it go. I watched the dark shape fall, landing in the snow far below. I looked around. None of the other bats seemed to notice. Obviously, not a rare thing. Many things must fall from these spit-houses: dead bats, young ones learning to fly, and of course, lots of shit. I put my legs into the hole experimentally, knife ready. Looking in this time I could see how the spit-house was designed. It was a pouch of translucent white stuff with a bulbous organ at the back. From this two of the three tubes came. I grabbed one and hacked with my knife. The remaining tube didn't reappear. I wanted to kill this strange parasite, so I shoved the blade into the hump. As it sunk into the bulge, the last remaining tube snapped out at me, missing my head by less than an inch. I kicked before it could retract and quickly cut it like its fellows. Then I felt and heard something that alarmed me. First the doorway of the spit-house open and closed spasmodically. A weird whine filled my cubby. Then whatever held the sack to the steel beam above started to let go. The whole house was falling off the bridge ceiling! I didn't think. There was no time to think. I jumped from the falling sack to its nearest neighbor. Unguarded, I was able to hold on while I pulled myself up on the lip. The house was occupied! I cut open the film that sealed the entrance, thinking to help the trapped soul inside. (Misery loves company, right?) What I found inside almost made me jump. A devil dog. The man-bats even took hounds as their prey. I had never heard of this. Who had? We knew almost nothing about these new creatures. I needed space. I took my knife and cut away all the mucus at the doorway. Grabbing a slimy, malformed paw I slowly pulled the offensive form out an inch. This would be tricky. I had to hang on the spit-house and pull the hound out at the same time. At any second I expected the beast to wake up and attack me. Would it have enough sense to know where it was? Inch by inch I drew it closer to that fatal point when gravity would take hold. Finally the slimy mass just tipped over and fell away. I quickly climbed inside. The tubes came, of course, but this time I didn't cut them. These were appendages of the living sack. I just kicked them seven or eight times until they stopped coming. I guess they figured I'd settle down eventually. They were wrong. I was planning on getting the hell out of there just as soon as I could come up with a plan. I rested, kicked the tubes again after an hour, rested some more. I was hungry now, but I'd been hungrier. I watched the spit-houses for awhile and came to a conclusion. The only way down was the way I got up -- by bat. I'd have to get on the back of one of the bats. Anything else was suicide. How was I going to get a bat to offer me a ride? No ideas. While I was scratching my brain over this I heard singing. "Born To Be Wild" was being trolled with just a little less gravel than Steppenwolf used to do it. It was Psycho, about three houses over by the sound. He was still alive. I knew I needed a ride down, and with Psycho's help we both might live long enough to hate each other. This might sound funny for I had come to this city to kill him. But when bats surround you, your worse enemy is more welcome than the Easter Bunny. If Psycho could help, I'd take it. Crawling upside down is not easy. The bats do it without thinking. It took me a long time to cross over the three empty houses to Psycho's loud voice. He had finished butchering "Born to Be Wild" and was brutalizing George Thoroughgood's "Bad to the Bone". I ran a knife through the sealed opening of the doorway. I pulled the flap up, and then stopped. The man inside looked asleep though he wasn't. His face was slimy and purple. He said, "Kill me." "I need your help. We can escape if you-" "Fuck you. Kill me." "Why? I'd gladly do it on the ground, but not here." I started to hack away at the fibrous coating around him. "You always were a wimp at heart, Teacher. You don't have the guts to do it." I stopped. If Psycho wanted to die, fine. The bats could have him. But I did need him. "No, I'm going to save your sorry ass, Dylan. We're getting out of here." He laughed. Maybe because I had used his real name. Maybe because of what the spit-house had done to him. "Look at me, dipshit. I'm not human anymore. Look at my legs." I didn't argue but dug in the slime to find a leg. What I pulled out was the hind leg of devil dog. I almost fell off the perch. "What the fuck?" He laughed again. "Gutless. That's why we ditched you back at the watchtower. Hater always said you'd let us down." I ignored his taunts. "What does this mean?" I asked, knowing the answer. "You're becoming a hound." Psycho howled like a dog then laughed at me again. "Yah. You're the smart one, aren't you? You must be a teacher." He laughed his famous Psycho laugh from high school. The one that said you weren't worth a turd in a shithouse. I'd always hated that laugh. "Maybe there's someway to reverse the process? I might be able to get you -" Where? Who had the facilities? The knowledge? Who cared that much about any single person on the planet? Nobody. There were no hospitals, no doctors. "Kill me, you soft-bellied fuck. Let me die like a man." "No." "You haven't the guts, you pussy. I knew it. I always knew it." "No, that's not it," I said as I prepared to jump to the next spit-house. "You never were human." I left him to become a devil dog. Somehow, the change wasn't all that much. "Teacher! Come back. Finish me. Goddamnyou! Kill me!" There was sobbing that followed but Psycho was wrong. I was that hard inside when it came to the three men who were responsible for the deaths of my family, for my town. Two down. One to go. But my problems were different now. I wanted to get down off this bridge. I swung from house to house looking for some method of escape. Several were filled with victims though none could speak any longer. I almost fell off my perch once when a spit-house cracked open at my approach, dumping a newly formed devil dog to the snows below. I watched the dark shape fall then hit the ground. Seconds later it was up, ready to eat anything it could find. For a minute I thought about attaching myself to a devil dog and taking the plunge. But I seriously doubted I would be conscious long enough to fend off the brute after we landed. Easy pickings. I could kill it first, but this was hard enough when they were on the ground. Hanging upside down, it would prove difficult, even with the hound in a semi-conscious state. The answer presented itself in an odd way. Bats were flying around me, had been the entire time I was up there. They never bothered me unless I hung fully down. After I had learned to curl my legs up the soaring predators were no longer in my thoughts. Now I noticed them again. One big fellow was winging his way up towards me. He had a burden. It was a woman, no, a child. She was about eight years old. I hadn't seen a kid in over a year! The bat in question flapped effortlessly with its small prize. I watched. The creature was coming closer. I prayed. If it wasn't too far away... I jumped. As the bat drew closer, headed for a spit-house near my own, I fell down and onto its back. I threw the empty handcuff around it throat, catching it on the other side. I had my ticket out of here. This sounds easy now, but it wasn't. I pulled the chain tight across the bat's throat with a mind to ride him to the ground. The beast reacted by dropping the screaming kid. The girl fell but I scissored my legs around her long enough for her to grab my pant leg. This added to the weight across the bat's throat. It gasped, gnashed it teeth and died. The three of us dropped like a rock. You're probably thinking: no problem. Lots of snow below. Yes, there was, but there was also lots of guano, which freezes into a hard carpet of gravel-like ice balls. We hit this snowy rock pile with the speed of a missile. It was fifty/fifty if the bat was going to be on top or below. As it turned out, it was me. This story would end right here if it had been any other way. I was out for only a few seconds. If the girl hadn't screamed I would be dead. Devil dogs prowled the bridge, hungry after their birth, eating any dead or dying bats on the ground. There weren't many of these so the hounds came fast. I had no gun. I had a knife in my coat if the fall hadn't dislodged it. I looked up from the black canopy of the dead bat. From the sound, there were two devil dogs, each trying to pull the bat off me. The girl's shrill cries were causing them to pause from their meal. Hounds, I realized then, preferred dead bats to screaming little girls. "Shut up, kid," I managed with my bruised lungs. No blood in my mouth. That was a good sign. "Mister. I want my mom," the girl said. "Be quiet and I'll see what I can do," I growled back. I rolled out from under the bat. I was right. Two hounds, each trying to tear the food from the other. Their tugs would erupt into a fight soon. Now was my chance. I checked my coat. The knife was still inside the lining. The blade wasn't much against two hounds but 'Needs must as the Devil drives'. I pulled it out and called the girl over. "Darling, what's your name?" I could see her now. Asian, probably eight years old. "Cynthia," she lisped back. "Cynthia, we're going to crawl. I know that sounds dumb but if we run the bats will get us again." "Okay." We started our crawl. If she had been any older she probably wouldn't have listened. She was just fine, clawing her way across the icy bridge. Soon after we heard the hounds tear into each other. We didn't turn to look. It didn't matter to us, which one was the victor. We crawled faster. I was right about the bats. They hovered over us, swooped down occasionally, making me flattened out, trying to protect the kid. But the bats never really tried to grab us. I suspected their eyes weren't good, so they took us for devil dogs. Earlier I had thought the bat had preyed upon a hound. Now, I knew differently. They gave them no mind. Why should they? The bats created the hounds. For what reason I didn't know. We made it to the end of the bridge in about eight minutes. I rose to my knees and looked back. One of the hounds had killed the other and was eating the dead one. I guess they like dead dog even more than bats. Either way, it ignored us. "Come on," I whispered to the girl. We rose and ran in a crouch to the distant buildings. I wasn't so much worried about the hound as I was Westies. Who knew if any of them remained to watch us die? We made the distant street then started looking for a safe place to hide. I chose a house that looked like it had been a daycare once. I pushed in the old door and went in first, knife ready. The place was empty. I rummaged in the old kitchen but someone had cleaned the place out long ago. I gathered up a few old teddy bears and some pillows from an old sofa. Cynthia lay down in the nest, ignoring the stuffed animals. We needed food but I couldn't take her with me. "Cynthia. I have to go out to find food. Will you be all right?" "I want my mom." "I'm sure you do, sweetie, but I don't even know where you came from." "I come from the Big Place." Cynthia raised her arms wide to illustrate. "I don't know where that is." "It's-" She stopped. Either her vocabulary wasn't sufficient to explain or someone had told her never to tell. "Are you a Westie?" I asked. She shook her head. "Northie, Southie?" "No." I stopped. What else was there? Hart held the East and there weren't any Easters. Was she from outside the City like me? "Mister, what's your name?" "You can call me Teacher." "Is that you name? I have a teacher but her name is Betty." I didn't say anything for a long time. All kinds of memories and emotions fought inside me. My old job and the twenty-three tiny voices all calling, "Teacher, teacher." All gone now. "Stay here, Cynthia. I'll be back soon with some dinner." I stumbled out the door. The cold wind could have brought tears to my eyes only they were already wet. * * * Next Issue: Things heat up... G. W. Thomas lives in Central British Columbia. He has appeared in over 100 different books and magazines including: PULP & DAGGER ("PennyEyes" serial), WRITER'S DIGEST, GOTHIC.NET, IMELOD, TWILIGHT TIMES and ELDRITCH TALES. He published the action-adventure zine RAGE MACHINE for 2 years. He currently has 7 ebooks at www.NoSpine.com HOME CONTENTS