When there was nowhere left for her to go and nothing else she could do, Nancy Joyce had become surprisingly calm. It wasn’t peace but a combination of things that gave the semblance of that state: being drained, frightened, numb, and resigned.
She had climbed to the top of the arm and was standing on a small platform beside the highest rung of the ladder. There were two handrails, and there was room for only one person. Above her was the solid base of the torch. Behind her was a steel door. The door obviously led to the small balcony that surrounded the torch, but it was double-locked. And even if she went out there, what would she do? Jump?
Perhaps. She’d rather leap than die under the hooks and teeth of the bat. And if she jumped she would live an extra-how long would it take to fall? A second or two?
Why not? Right now that seemed like a lot. She might also black out as she fell and die painlessly. That was a comforting thought, given the alternative.
So was this, a non sequitur which came to her in a flow of thoughts. She hadn’t had time to contemplate death up at the museum. She’d been too busy surviving. Now that she did she was surprised to find herself not bitter but grateful. She was happy to have had the time she had, the life she did, the experiences.
The entire arm shuddered, and she squeezed the handrails. For some reason the thought of death wasn’t as scary as the thought of being vulnerable like this. She wished this part would pass.
It was dark below, the entrance to the forearm stuffed with the giant bat. The creature was no longer trying to get up here. Rather, it would enter, hack, back down to the second landing, then twist around and enter again. Each time it did, it tore at the support structure, trying to rip the steel beams, steps, and ladder out of its way. Every now and then the hint of sunlight entering through the crown gave her a glimpse of the giant’s face. Motherhood had not softened the creature’s disposition. If there could be such a thing as hate in an animal’s expression, it was there. Joyce could also hear the giant even after it stopped wailing aloud and began panting in long, chilling, hisses. She knew that each suspiration was comprised of hundreds of high blats, the barely audible aspect of her echolocation.
Steel support struts buckled. Rivets strained and the copper plates that comprised the skin of the statue popped on one or two sides. After a short time the smaller vespers began returning to the statue; Joyce could see them outside through the broken seams in the arm.
That was it,she thought. Gentry was on his way from the communications center, and the giant bat must have heard him coming. That was why it was echolocating. The scientist in Joyce found it an amazing synergy. So simple, yet so effective that nothing-no living thing other than a bat-could get near the creature. Not even an insect.
She prayed that Gentry would have the good sense to turn around. If the bats came back in force he’d never make it.
The young woman felt the arm sag and rotate slightly. The platform she was on angled backward so that she was leaning more than slightly against the door. She heard it squeak.
Then she heard something else.
Her name.
And all the calm, all the pensive resignation, was gone in a finger-snap instant as she gripped the handrails and screamed,“Robert-go back!”