THE VAMPIRES ATTACK
Bomba was awake instantly. He strove to rise, but fell back heavily.
His limbs seemed weighted with iron.
At the same moment another shrill cry from Casson reached him!
“Vampires! The blood-sucking vampires! Quick, Bomba! Quick!”
As Bomba’s eyes accustomed themselves to the gloom of the hut they
caught sight of the horrid creature that had provoked Casson’s cry
of warning—a blood-sucking vampire bat, as large as a hawk, with a
spread of over two feet across the wings.
True to its habits, it had attacked its victim while the latter
was sleeping. It had settled on Bomba’s feet and started to suck
his blood, while its great flapping wings kept up a gentle fanning
motion, designed to soothe the lad and keep him asleep as long as
possible.
Bomba had been so exhausted from his exertions of the day before that
the bat’s task had been easy, and it had been able to prey on him
for a long time undisturbed.
In a flash Bomba knew what had happened to him. This, then, was the
reason for that strange numbed feeling in his legs. Much of his blood
must have passed from him to the vampire to render him so weak.
The bat was still at his feet, draining him of the vital fluid,
flapping, flapping those terrible wings with a lulling motion.
A wild fury assailed Bomba, rage at his own impotence.
With a tremendous effort, he raised himself to a sitting posture and
moved his half-paralyzed legs.
The vampire left its perch on Bomba’s foot and flapped into the air a
short distance, its vicious, beady eyes fastened malignantly on the
boy’s face. Bomba knew that the terrible creature, with the cunning
instinct of its kind, was aware of his weakness, and would not easily
be frightened off.
At the same moment there was another cry from Casson, and two other
sinister shapes flapped their way into the half-ruined hut.
Bomba gave a hoarse cry, staggered to his feet and reached for the
heavy club that he always kept close by his side when he slept. With
the other hand he grasped his machete and turned grimly to face the
invaders.
But even as he turned, he staggered and almost fell. He was horribly
weak. He could hardly hold the weapons. It was a gigantic effort even
to lift them above his head.
He called to Casson, hoping for some help from the old man. But
the aged naturalist was sitting upright on his improvised couch of
boughs and palm leaves, and his eyes were fixed with the bewildered,
half-fascinated look of a frightened child upon the horrible winged
intruders.
Bomba groaned. Lifting the machete with a tremendous effort—he had
already discarded the club, finding the weight of both weapons too
much for him—he made a feeble advance upon the enemy.
There was a whirring of wings, and the hideous creatures swooped down
on him in a black, loathsome cloud.
Bomba gave way before the fury of the onslaught, striking at them
with the machete, while with the other arm he shielded his face from
the batting of those merciless wings.
Sensing his weakness, the bats became more bold and vicious. They
pressed upon him, striking him about the head and body. There was
a sharp pain in the arm that shielded his face, and Bomba felt a
trickle of blood run slowly down to his finger tips.
He lowered the shielding arm and shook the blood from his fingers. He
wielded the machete again, and this time found a mark. But the blow
was weak, and far from seriously injuring his foe seemed only to have
the effect of further enraging it.
There was a second fierce attack, and beneath the flailing of wings
Bomba found himself borne to the floor.
In the fall the machete dropped from his hands.
Weaponless! Helpless!
In a fury of impotence, Bomba beat at the bats with both fists. He
struck out wildly, blindly. But his wily enemies avoided the blows
and pressed him the more viciously.
Bomba could not see that Casson had slipped from his bed and was
staggering to his feet. Even if he had, he would have felt but
little hope. Before Casson in his enfeebled state could be of any
assistance, Bomba’s need of help would be over.
The furious attack of his fists had kept the enemy at bay for only a
few seconds, and now Bomba was utterly exhausted. His muscles refused
to obey the commands of his will. His hands fell limp, and again the
vampires settled upon him.
The arms with which he tried to protect his face were bitten a
score of times. Blood welled from the wounds. One of the vampires
had settled upon his chest. Its weight seemed to be crushing Bomba,
smothering him. The next moment he expected it to be at his throat.
With a hoarse cry he threw out one arm. His fingers touched something
cold and hard. The revolver, the gift of the white men!
What was it that thrilled Bomba as his fingers closed upon the barrel
of the weapon? What meant the excitement that coursed through his
weakened body as his finger felt the trigger? A feeling inherited
from generations of white ancestors; the sensation of almost
limitless power that the touch of a firearm brings to its possessor?
With all his remaining strength Bomba called for Casson to get out of
the way.
“Fire stick! Shoot!” he cried, and Casson, understanding, backed into
a far corner of the hut.
Bomba’s arm was throbbing and paining. He was bruised and beaten by
those powerful wings. He felt as though almost the last ounce of
strength had been drained from him. That sensation of overpowering
weakness warned him that he must act quickly if he were to act at all.
Slowly he lifted the revolver and pressed it against the body of the
bat that rested on his breast.
The boy shut his eyes, held his breath, and pulled the trigger.
There was a loud report, a curiously throttled squawk close to his
ear, and what had been a vampire bat was now but a gory mass huddled
on the ground.
The noise of the shot had frightened the other two marauders, and
they hovered about fanning the air with their great wings, manifestly
uncertain whether to return to the attack or take refuge in flight.
Relieved of the weight of them, Bomba raised himself unsteadily on
his left elbow and again lifted the magic gift of the white men.
Despite his fatigue, his weakness from loss of blood, Bomba was
fiercely exultant. He had done with this wonderful weapon what he had
failed to do with the club and the machete.
But there was small time allowed him for jubilation. The vampires,
the first moment of panic passed, evidently resolved not to let their
prey escape them and again returned viciously to the attack.
This time Bomba was ready for them.
Casson, watching from the remote corner of the hut, saw the boy
slowly lift the weapon. Bomba waited until the first of the
assailants was almost upon him. He was by no means sure of his skill
with this death-dealing weapon, and he meant to take no chances of
the bullet going wild.
There came a second report, another wild flapping of wings, and he
had lessened the odds against him by half. But the remaining vampire
kept on straight for Bomba’s head.
Bomba pulled the trigger again, but only an ominous click answered
him. Twice he tried again desperately, and with the same result.
And now the vampire was fairly upon him.
Acting purely on instinct, Bomba shifted the revolver in his hand,
and with the butt end of it struck at his enemy. He hit the bat full
on its ugly head, and it fell stunned to the floor.
Bomba did not know whether it was dead or not. But he meant to make
certain, and he struck at the bat again and again until it was a mass
of pulp.
The battle was over. It had been like a struggle in a nightmare. In
every other fight in which he had ever engaged he had been in the
full possession of his senses. His courage, his agility, his strength
had been at his command. But in this fearful combat the loss of blood
before he awoke and the resultant physical weakness had put him under
a terrible handicap.
But the soul of him had not failed. His indomitable fighting spirit
had brought him through a victor.
He lay there panting, and it was some time before he could struggle
to his feet.
He shoved the carcasses of the vampires from him with a disgusted
grunt. Then he balanced the revolver in his hand and stared at it
with a strange gleam in his eyes.
“I am like the white men now,” he said to Casson, as the latter
crawled over to him. “I can use the fire stick!”