Don't Blame The Bats - Another Wendy McCandy Story

Don't Blame The Bats - Another Wendy McCandy Story

© Andre Michael Pietroschek, pronounced Pee-tro-shack, all rights reserved

Disclaimer: No warranties!

I was horribly stressed when I finally reached the cabin in the woods, and I was busy preparing myself for far worse than what John Rambo had before him in the original movie, as the Witch Hunt on my head was still going on, and I had already decided to go Wendy McCandy on Asshole Town. Still, even busy loading and checking the weapons hidden in the cabin, and OUT OF THE PROVERBIAL CORNER OF MY EYES, I did not miss the weird occurrence going on outside, as the pale moonlight shone directly on it: Bats attacking crows in a paradoxically odd way.

I could have sworn the bats puked blood, as if that would be some sort of fiery or acidic dragon odem, yet that must have been my stress making my mind play tricks on me, right? Scientific stuff has never been my strongest point. Animals fighting each other happen, until it needs an expert to know more details about the whims of nature. Hellbent on survival, though, I need four more minutes to gather and gear up, as I had broken into this specific cabin due to its owner, a former Meth brewer, still being hospitalized.

People rightfully had me under suspicion of being a grifter or scammer, so let me clarify: The reason for being flexible on my whereabouts and what spots on the world map I may be at, is vaguely similar to the reason of each of you not sharing the PIN's of their debit cards with online drug addicts, or worse criminals from that supposed dark web, which sure as hell is run by the same programmers, who demand record salaries for themselves, straight while supporting a regime that forces everybody else into poverty!

When I finally left the cabin, after around three more minutes in darkness, so my eyes can adapt to nighttime and I can scan my surroundings for potential pursuers, who may not be animal rights dabblers, but locals brainwashed into that Lovers Lane Witch Hysteria incident that got me branded a criminal on the run, the fact that some crows and some bats were on the ground only a few steps away did not escape my notice.

I decided to risk discovery, and did put on goggles and a mask, oh so popular since coronavirus, quickly thereafter rushing over to investigate what the agitated flyers were so crazed about. Under the moonlight, it took me a while to realize that the surviving animals all were indeed blood-splattered, and one minute later, without touching a bird or bat, of course, I also was convinced that the only dead ones got killed by crashing on the ground.

Odd. Weird. Wouldn't you agree? Rhetorical question, as Mandy and Gina had refused to bail me out, and I was on my own. A nineteen-year-old arch-witch on the run. Well, in a curve, as I had only armed myself to retaliate against my accusers and abusers, after all. I may lack the military training, and I may lack a driver's license, but I sure as hell did not lack the teenage expertise that makes those years the best time on Earth, all the fun and not half the dull, daft, and boring duties or career worries yet.

If nothing else, the animals causing a fuss at the forest's edge at least made me realize that the army stuff, the M4 UTAW assault rifle plus spare clips, and the two M72 LAW rocket launchers, were not properly strapped and held by me. I adapted, learning along. Getting my smartphone out, I made a short but cautious video of the scene, zooming in on one crow and one bat surviving. I can't say if the animals were tired, dazed, or feverish, as calling the park rangers or forest ranger station was about all my stressed mind could still come up with on the topic.

Walking with the wind was a bad choice, as it would broadcast my smell. Dad once taught me such, yet I barely remembered. Well, denial aside, few do, as we all have rational mind priority, often unaware that we do not commit to it by the way we act or misbehave.

Shivers did rush down my spine, or better said, shivers rushed through the part of the central nervous system encased in the human spine, when my involuntary hiking trip made me get a brand new suspicion about the crazed animal episode. Criss-crossing the countryside around Asshole Town, please, forgive me the rude renaming; they did go bad guys on me, after all. I was still making my way down through mud and soil, avoiding bushes and slippery sections, when the wonderful moonlight once more made me see what I wished I would never have seen at all.

A county sheriff car had blocked a truck, a truck with that silvery cube full of warnings about hazardous chemicals, and while the scene reflected the peace of the Dead, the same scene also depicted the root of the Evil: For whatever reason, as I had no time to investigate, the trucks container had been damaged, and even on my arrival a suspicious steam leaked out, shimmering in the moonlight, as if the Devil itself rejoiced about every single particle breaking free!

Tears filled my eyes, and I had to rely on my googles filtering the dampness out, for I was no maniac and no mass murderer. Yet, I got it. The Witch Hysteria, with all those radio warnings and police channel activity, had tested the nerves of my fellow humans, and as usual, some kept true to themselves, others failed, or abused the situation on purpose.

From afar, screams, shouts, gunshots, and electronic alarms were heard, so I knew that I was not completely mistaken about the trouble brewing. God had cast the dice, as running back into chemical hell was not worth it to me, yet I had grown up in this town that by now looks as if a chemical-zombie movie was reenacted. My Mum and Dad are still there, the same parents who would have handed me over to the witch-hunting mob only hours ago.

No, not with Wendy McCandy. I may have hated Dad for the movie about John Rambo, and I may have found it dull, daft, and boring, but I would not play the altruist savior on people who had zero qualms about raping me, abusing me, and calling me an effing witch!

The end