Fangs for Your Help

Gene Waters, the sweaty postman with beady eyes that were too close together, grinned at her like a shark.

Lindsay Adams’s stomach dropped. Oh no. Not again. Couldn’t she ever go out running in peace? Why did her early morning efforts have to draw such attention? Lindsay wanted to get back in shape after years of working at the bakery, which had led to a bit of weight gain. Her boyfriend – now her ex, she had to remind herself – had called her fat and ended the relationship. He threw two-and-a-half years away because of a few pounds. And to think, she’d ignored his increasing smoking and drinking habits. She’d also disregarded his slobbishness, picking up after him and cleaning up his messes. She had told herself that this was what long-term love was like. And then he ended it with her because her body changed – a teensy bit – from when they first met? Well, to hell with him. But Lindsay would make sure that the next time Floyd saw her, his jaw would drop, and he’d regret every mean word. Floyd was a loser. It had taken a while to see that, but the post-separation clarity had put the facts into focus. But, at least he hadn’t been a creep, unlike that damn postman. Floyd had broken her heart, but Gene Waters made her feel like ants crawled over every inch of her skin.

That primordial section of the lizard brain at the back of her head prickled, sending a red alert. She grimaced through her teeth – the smile not touching her eyes – and kept running. She prepared herself for whatever slimy words would flicker out of his mouth.

‘Good morning, sweetheart,’ he said with a predatory grin. ‘Why don’t you slow down a moment, so I can get a good look at you? Give me a slow-mo Baywatch run, why don’t you?’

All the moisture disappeared from her mouth, like rain soaking into the desert’s hardpan. Bile stung the back of her throat, and her heart rate, which she’d focused on controlling, began to slip away from her. Lindsay hated situations like this. If you responded kindly, they took it as a success and repeated the behaviour. If you responded with abuse, they took it as a challenge and repeated the behaviour. No, you had to walk a fine line. A partial acknowledgement but no actual response tended to do the trick. But why did she have to weigh such options when she only wanted to go for a morning run through the park before work? She ignored the rest of what Gene said, tuning it out until it was no more than a refrigerator’s hum. Lindsay ran on, huffing and puffing and trying to regulate the irregular gallop of her heart. She jogged past a row of hedges and trees, and the creepy postman disappeared behind the greenery.

One of the park benches came up on the side of the path, surrounded by shrubbery.

Lindsay needed a moment to rest and recoup, a stop necessitated after the encounter with Gene. He always raised her hackles, and she hated it. She hated him. But also – and somehow, she knew she shouldn’t – she hated herself for letting him get to her. She didn’t know if he knew or cared about the effect he had on her. But Lindsay felt a particular shame for not being able to let his words run off her, raindrops on an umbrella. She’d heard that running was good for stress and sleep; you released endorphins. And she did get that. But Gene’s presence – always there, every day – robbed her of some of those feel-good hormones. She resented him for that. She was a light spot of morning entertainment, a good laugh to him. But for her, it ruined her whole morning and affected her throughout the day. Lindsay sat on the bench adorned with a plaque that had faded with the weather.

The morning sun rose on the horizon, staining a pretty red-pink sky. A cool breeze sighed through the trees, kissing her skin and drying the sweat away. Somewhere nearby, birds chirped, and the undergrowth rustled.

She sighed. The world was quite lovely and peaceful when the Genes weren’t around. Lindsay closed her eyes and raised her face to the sun’s warm embrace. She inhaled and released, letting go of the tension in her body and loosening the tightness in her chest. ‘Mmh.’

The sounds of nature waking up surrounded her. Small animals scurried around, hidden by the leaves. Flowers opened up their petals, scenting the air with their natural perfumes. Birds fluttered here and there, weightless in the sky. And something else squeaked in distress.

Lindsay frowned. Yes, that sounded like some small animal needed help. And judging by the sound, it was nearby, too. Had some tomcat gotten ahold of a baby bird? Was it torturing it for its pleasure? Well, Lindsay knew how it felt to be on the receiving end of such nasty treatment. She would end the horrorshow and rescue whatever tiny animal was in peril. The same way she wished she could save herself. Or that someone else could step in and save her. But no, nobody was around; it was first thing in the morning. Only she, the town’s baker, and Gene, the town’s postman, were up and about. It was why she hadn’t reported the lewd comments. It would be her word against his, and if Gene got no punishment, her life would become hell in this small town. So her situation was hopeless, but she could damn well be the change she wanted to see in the world. Lindsay opened her eyes and got up from the bench, glancing around. She shielded her vision from the bright morning rays with a cupped hand. She set off, searching for those heart-squeezing, desperate squeaks.

The cries for help came from under a thorn bush. Beneath the weaving plant tendrils, hidden, criss-crossing shadows gathered like ink. Something small stirred under there, its coal-black eyes glinting out of the gloom.

Her heart issued a tha-thump. She first thought it was a kitten, separated from its mother and littermates. But when Lindsay got down on all fours – how Gene would have said something about that if he were here – she saw it was a bat. ‘Oh, you poor thing!’ she crooned. ‘You must be terrified. Here, let’s get you out of those thorns. No, no reason to be afraid of me. It’s okay,’ she said with a smile, ‘I’m a friend, see?’

The bat retreated away from her, eyes large and soulful. It trembled, propped up on its delicate, membranous wings. Two tiny fangs protruded over its lower lip. Cute little ears twitched on top of its head, responding to the cadence of her voice.

Lindsay reached into the tangled nest of thorns for the animal.

The bat issued a panicked squeak and fluttered, trying to push itself further into the bushes.

She pulled her hands free too fast and nicked her skin on one of the thorns, causing blood to bead up. It was a good thing, though. Reaching in to grab the animal with her bare hands had been a stupid impulse. Lindsay took off her running jumper – it was always chilly, first thing – and wrapped it around her hands. Some of her blood stained the material, but that didn’t matter; she’d have to throw it away anyway.

This time, the bat didn’t try to flee when she approached. Instead, it remained still, blinking at her. Then, it darted its head out and sniffed her jumper. A tiny pink tongue shot out of the bat’s mouth, licking a blood spot.

Lindsay giggled from the tickle. But the laughter soon died when she saw something that concerned her.

When the animal had reached forward to taste her blood, a shaft of light had fallen across one of its wings. That section of the wing now smoked, issuing tiny black clouds. The bat shrieked.

Anger flared up behind her eyes. Had some savage doused this poor, defenceless animal with chemical spray? What kind of monster would do such a thing? Ah, but then Lindsay already had the answer, didn’t she? The sort of person who would use some pesticide on a bat would be the same person who grew up to be Gene Waters. Poor thing; she had to help it. With one quick motion, she reached out and grabbed the bat.

The animal squealed, flapped, and flailed, but it was too weak to put up any real fight.

Lindsay pulled it from its snare, wrapping it up in her makeshift blanket. With her arms covered, she snapped through the branches, which ripped holes in the cloth. Lindsay tucked it close to her body and crouched by the bush. She waited to see if the creature would put up any more of a struggle and hurt itself.

But, now that she’d wrapped it up and kept it hidden in the dark of her jumper, the bat ceased panicking.

Lindsay had once read that covering horses’ eyes kept them calm. Bats might be the same. Either way, she had the animal now and could nurse it back to health. It didn’t seem too hurt, only weakened. Lindsay reckoned it could make a full recovery with some luck. The fact that it appeared hungry when it smelled her blood was a good sign. With her cross-species baby swaddled in her arms, she ran home.

When she re-emerged from the park’s treeline, Gene Waters had moved on with his delivery rounds.

By the time she got home, Lindsay was sweating and was out of breath. Hey, at least she’d gotten her morning run in today. She unwrapped it in her bathroom, ready to bathe it clean of whatever pesticides covered it.

But, when exposed to the light, the tiny mammal started squealing and writhing. The smoke increased tenfold, coming off its body in black plumes.

Spluttering, Lindsay trapped him inside the box of her recently purchased running shoes. She waved the smoke away and opened the bathroom window. When Lindsay returned, the bat – now dubbed ‘Bat Damon’ – had curled up, suckling on her jumper. She watched him for a moment, the lid opening a crack.

The bat cringed from the light and stared at her with caution and something akin to affection. It was still skittish, but its trembling had ceased now that Lindsay left it to the inner gloom of the shoebox.

A frown furrowed her brow. It seemed like a chemical substance had penetrated its fur for a while. But looking at Mr Damon now, he looked fine. Content, even. What gave? Lindsay wanted to investigate further, but she needed more time. And as much as she wanted to ensure the health and safety of this little guy, she wasn’t about to risk her employment. He could hold on until after work. She hoped he’d be okay in there. Could he breathe? He didn’t like the sun, which made sense for a creature of the night. In the end, she punctured some holes in the box for air. But she didn’t disturb Bat’s little nest, made out of her old jumper. With that done, she showered and headed for work, not remembering to close the bathroom window.

When Lindsay got home that evening, the sun was setting and long shadows covered the street. Through the night air, birds sang to each other, wishing one another a pleasant evening and a good night. Inside her house, all was still. No sounds of rustling came from the bathroom, nor was there the smell of a wild animal kept indoors.

Lindsay paused after shutting her front door, senses attuned to the quiet of her humble abode. Her heart quivered. Had the little guy perished whilst she worked serving up baked goods to the townspeople? Lindsay couldn’t stand that thought. If Bat Damon was dead in there, she didn’t think she’d be able to deal with his tiny, lifeless body. Oh, how Gene Waters would love it. The poor little lady needs a strong man to come along and help her deal with the nastier sides of life. Well, how’s that for your equality, darlin’? No, screw that. She dropped her bags at the door and marched to the bathroom without bothering to remove her shoes.

The shoebox lay open on its side, her ruined jumper spilling out of its open mouth. There were many little bite marks on the cloth, where there had been blood stains. The bathroom window was wide open.

With her heart in her throat, Lindsay checked every nook and cranny in her bathroom but gave up after half an hour. She had to face facts.

Bat Damon was gone.

Disappointment stung her mouth, but she told herself she was being foolish. She’d rescued Mr Damon, saved him from whatever had ailed him (wasn’t it a pesticide?) and given him a fighting chance. And now, as daylight faded, the little fellow had woken up – rested – and flown out the window. She’d done a good thing and ought to be proud. Others might have shrugged and said, ‘Ain’t nature a bitch?’ And – let’s be realistic, now – she couldn’t have kept him as a pet. He was a wild animal who didn’t belong indoors. Besides, he might not be clean. She ought to consider herself lucky that she hadn’t contracted rabies from him or something. With a heavy heart, she brushed her teeth and prepared for bed.

A rat-tat-tat against her door echoed throughout the home.

Lindsay froze. Who could be knocking on her front door at such an hour? She cringed when she checked the time – 9:13. Oh, how wild her single life was. Lindsay crept towards her front door and peered through the frosted glass. But she could make nothing out except the streetlight against the night sky. She stood tall and threw open the door.

Nobody was there; only a box with an envelope was on her doorstep. The words ‘Nice Human Lady’ were written in a beautiful, ornate script on the envelope. And the box wasn’t a box at all; it was a gorgeous mahogany trunk.

She crouched down, reached for the envelope, and stopped, the blood in her veins running cold.

Someone was standing in the shadows of the treeline, watching her.

Her breath caught in her throat, but she recognised it as not Gene Waters.

Upon detection, the silhouette melted into the rest of the gloaming. A few seconds later, the fluttering of leather wings flap-flapped into the night.

She blinked, not quite believing. Then she did what her parents would have groaned at: she picked up the trunk and took it inside.

The letter read:

To the lovely human lady who rescued me from certain death at the hands of the sun’s rays,

Thank you from the bottom of my as-of-yet unstaked heart. Your kindness saved me, and your generosity fed me when I was weak. Few would rescue a bat, and fewer would donate their blood to a twilight stalker like me.

I know you brought me into your home, but don’t worry, I won’t take that as an invitation. Besides, I don’t eat my friends. We are friends now, yes? I hope so.

It’s been a while since I’ve been friends with a human, and I was trying my hardest to think of a way to express my gratitude. I tried to remember what young human females liked and rummaged around. I located something that may fit you. I discovered another thing that you might find pretty. And I saw a final thing that you don’t like. I hope you enjoy them all.

If you want to meet up to hang out or for a BITE to eat (I’m joking, ha-ha!), meet me where you found me tonight at midnight. I do get rather lonely. Do you ever feel the same way? I would love to make a friend. But if that’s not your sort of thing, then no fret. You’ve shown me more kindness than I’ve seen in 113 years. And for that, I’ll be forever – another joke, ha-ha, I’ve forgotten how fun those are! – grateful.

Thank you again!

Kind regards,

Damyan Orphee

Somehow, the fact that she’d almost got part of his name right shocked her most. Hadn’t she known, deep down, that there was something strange about that bat that liked blood and burned in the sun? ‘Huh,’ Lindsay said to her quiet apartment.

Inside the box, she pulled out an ancient dress – from the 1800s, still beautiful – that was her size. But she wasn’t sure she could, in good conscience, wear it. She ought to donate it to a museum. Ditto for the gorgeous gold necklace with a blood-red ruby dangling from the end. No, the hat was the only thing she’d keep and never show anyone.

Lindsay held the hat, staring at it for some time.

It had once belonged to a particular postman. It was now soggy with drying blood.

She wouldn’t have to worry about harassment during her morning runs anymore. So, there were some good men out there. Lindsay wondered if they had to be undead to reach a certain level of humanity. She looked at the clock once more.

She had a few hours to go until midnight.