Watership Down The New World chapter 35

Barricaded inside the farmhouse, Alan and his companions listened as the terrorists closed in for the kill. They were completely surrounded and outnumbered at least two to one. To make matters worse, they had left the cores – their only leverage against the enemy - in the barn, completely within Red Hand's reach. Sure enough, they watched through a crack in the boarded-up window as Tom Shelton and several others entered the barn, heard their cheering as they finally found their prize. Alan cursed under his breath, "Damn!"

But there was no time to think about that now, because the terrorists weren't finished yet as they approached the farmhouse. Several of them, Alan noticed, with a chill of fear, carried teargas launchers - they were going to gas them out! Sven Shertok stood in front of his squad and called in the direction of the farmhouse with a bullhorn.

"We know you're in there, Dr Johnson! Come on out with your hands where we can see them!"

Getting no reply, Shertok gave the word and the first shooter fired a gas pellet through the kitchen window, which smashed through the dirty glass, landing inside the old refrigerator which stood open against the far wall. Seeing his chance, Alan clapped his handkerchief over his mouth and nose and rushed into the kitchen. Just as the pellet was about to burst, he slammed the refrigerator door shut. He heard a faint hissing noise inside, as the pellet unleashed its noxious gas, but luckily couldn't escape the airtight fridge. But he knew there were more pellets coming any second now and they had nowhere to run. This time, they were cornered for good.

Outside, Shertok stood watching the house with sickening satisfaction, expecting to hear the agonising screams of Johnson and his friends as the teargas got them, forcing them out of their hidey-hole and into firing range of his snipers. Nothing happened. He frowned; despite having finally recovered Sergei's precious shipment, he couldn't allow Johnson to walk away alive. That man knew far too much and he still had the arming key for the cores in his possession. Making up his mind, he turned to his henchmen, "I'm going to check it out. You lot wait here and guard this door. If anyone comes out besides me, kill him!"

Kicking open the weatherworn front door, he entered the dark farmhouse, shutting it behind him. A semi-automatic assault rifle clutched in his hands and a gas mask on his face, he cautiously made his way through the dark kitchen by torchlight, looking for any signs of life. The fox was in the henhouse, looking for a certain hen to strangle.

"Come on out and play, Johnson. Come on out, wherever you are..."

Hiding in the back room, Alan, Dr Drake and the Watership rabbits watched in silence as Sven searched the house. Any minute now, he'd stumble across their hiding spot and they'd have it. Bigwig was about to spring at Shertok, but Alan held him back, whispering, "Don't! If he turns that rifle on you, he'll pump your guts full of lead!" Alan was tempted to risk a shot at Sven but he knew that, even if he got him, the noise would bring the rest of the terrorists upon them instantly. If only he could create some sort of distraction, to allow them to get to the stairs unnoticed and escape upstairs... His eyes lit up at the sight of the refrigerator, still containing the burst teargas pellet.

With Sven's back turned to him, Alan tossed a rusty nail across the room, towards the fridge; it bounced off the refrigerator door, making a loud noise. Alerted, Sven spun round, his eyes darting to the fridge, thinking somebody was hiding inside it. He was buying it! Striding over, the dirty Police Commissioner-turned-terrorist grasped the door handle with one hand, keeping his gun trained on it with the other, "You're dead Johnson!" Then, he swung the door open.

A cloud of noxious teargas burst out of the fridge, right into Shertok's surprised face, giving him a taste of his own poison. Swearing, he staggered backwards, disorientated, trying to brush away the fumes. Unfortunately, in the gloom, Alan hadn't noticed he was wearing a mask, and thus was immune to the gas. Thinking Sven had been blinded, he turned to his companions, whispering, "Run for it! Up the stairs!" They all ran across the room on tiptoe and up the rickety stairs, all except Drake, who suddenly stopped in his tracks and rushed back into the room, to retrieve his valuables.

"Cole, what the hell are you doing, you fool? Come on!"

"Wait, Miles' disk! My research! We can't leave it!" Drake hissed, as he hastily pocketed the disk, along with his briefcase and laptop, which he tucked under his arm. Even with death hot on his heels, the scientist wasn't about to leave his precious life's work behind. This was a big mistake. Just as he made it to the foot of the stairs, Shertok regained his bearings and saw him. Their cover was blown.

He raised his weapon to shoot Drake, but Alan was faster – his bullet narrowly missed Shertok's head, hitting the wall instead, buying Drake a split second to make it upstairs to safety. Shertok had had enough of playing around. Switching over to automatic firing mode, he bellowed, "DIE JOHNSON!" Like a gangster out of Al Capone's Chicago, he opened fire, shooting up the place like a demented madman, punching holes everywhere. Dodging the gunfire, Alan's party turned around to flee.

Drake led them down a corridor, into a derelict upstairs bedroom. Unlike the somewhat habitable ground floor, where he had set up his lodgings, up here the farmhouse was a wreck, the wooden floor badly rotten from rainwater that had seeped through leaks in the decaying roof, sagging dangerously under their feet. Grabbing every piece of junk they could find scattered around the room, they barricaded the door: some old packing crates, a rusty bed-stand, a broken chair, some old planking, amongst other bits of garbage the long-departed Cane family had left behind. They heard Sven's footsteps approaching, heard him furiously rattling the door handle on the other side, shouting and swearing. In the background, they could also hear the rest of the terrorists, who, alerted by the gunshots, were coming to their new leader's aid. In another second, they had the entire squad trying to force in the door.

"This won't hold them back for long," Alan panted, as they listened to the angry terrorists continue pounding and kicking furiously at the door, which, albeit strong, was starting to crack - any moment now, it would give way and they'd be pinned down. And there was no other way out of this room. Sure, there were a couple of boarded-up windows, but if they tried escaping through there, the rest of the terrorists down in the yard would spot them instantly.

"Any other way out of this dump, Cole?"

"There is an attic up in the roof that runs the full length of the house," said Drake, "I saw it while inspecting the house on the eve of my arrival, but never crawled in there. We can climb up and out through the roof." He pointed at a small trapdoor up on the ceiling, which was the attic hatch.

Standing on an old sea-chest, Alan gave the hatch a slight push and it opened easily. Climbing up, he was immediately engulfed in thick, dusty cobwebs that filled the attic. I hope nobody is afraid of spiders... With Drake perched on the sea-chest, giving them a foot up, one by one, the rabbits climbed onto his shoulders and up through the trapdoor. It wasn't easy; rabbits aren't physically good climbers by nature and combined with their massive size and weight, Drake, who was only half as strong as Alan was, felt as if his legs were about to give way.

With only Bigwig still to go, they suddenly heard the sound of cocking guns. The terrorists were preparing to blast down the door! In another instant, rapid gunfire from automatic weapons began chewing away at the wood of the battered door.

"Hurry up down there!" Alan shouted, "Bigwig, come on...!" But instead of climbing for his life, Bigwig turned and faced the door as it began to crack open. The others yelled after him, "Bigwig, what in Frith's name are you doing? Come on!" But the mighty veteran took no notice. Alan had just enough time to pull Drake up as well, before the wrecked door was shot clean off its hinges and fell inwards. Outside, the terrorists, with Sven in the lead, scampered over the debris of the barricade and into the bedroom, coming face-to-face with one of the worst nightmares imaginable: an enraged Bigwig on the warpath.

"Come on then! Let's see what you're made of!" the mighty Owsla rabbit bellowed, springing at the surprised terrorists, emitting a powerful battle roar as he went. The sight of a talking rabbit, the size of a full-grown man nonetheless, caught the terrorists by surprise, which was all that Bigwig needed. Like a hulking killing machine of muscle and fur, he fell upon them, clawing, biting and pummelling the terrorists like one swats flies. But there was one weapon which, for all his strength and courage, he stood no chance against: their guns.

Suddenly, one terrorist with a horribly scarred face, standing a little ways away, finally got a clear shot at him. The bullet found Bigwig in the side. With a roar of pain, the injured veteran hit the floor hard, his massive weight causing the rotten floorboards to finally give way. With a loud crash, the bedroom floor disintegrated, sending the dying or perhaps already-dead Bigwig, along with most of the terrorists, excluding Shertok and his scarred henchman who were in the clear, plummeting to their demise in the darkness below.

Still trying to grasp the impossibility of what they had just seen, the two men stared over the edge of the gaping hole in the floor, where that monstrous rabbit and their comrades had fallen through. Nothing but dust and debris could be seen now, the rubble obscuring everything. They'd been expecting to find Johnson and Dr Drake and instead had been set upon by that giant talking rabbit-out-of-hell, sending half a dozen of their men to their graves. Where the hell had that beast come from? Did Johnson have more of them? The situation had suddenly become a lot more complicated than they ever imagined possible. But, whatever was going on here, it wasn't going to thwart their plans in the slightest. Red Hand always got what it wanted and all the spoils of war that came with it. Sven thought so anyway as he turned to his henchman.

"It seems we have a slight change in plans! Come along! "They turned and headed back downstairs, where they met Shelton at the door.

"What the hell happened up there?"

"Johnson's holed up in the attic and that scum Drake is with him. It seems Sergei was right about that man double-crossing us... Surround the house and aim the tear gas towards the roof; we will gas them again and force them out. Flash out Johnson and Drake, but try and capture their companions alive. It seems we might have stumbled across an interesting specimen." Shelton looked at Sven as if the man had lost his marbles.

"Specimen? Other companions? What are you talking about? What the hell's Johnson got up there...?" Shertok's expression turned angry. He didn't have the time or the patience for deliberations just now, "Hold your tongue and do as you're told! Remember, I want them alive and nothing less!" His snipers took up positions while a cleanup squad, who had arrived from the safehouse on Sven's request, loaded the recovered cores onto a decoy moving van for safe transport back to Buxton Hall.

Meanwhile, up in the attic, Alan, Drake, Hazel, Fiver, Pipkin and Hawkbit were making their way through the cobweb-infested rafters on their hands and knees, looking for a way out, their spirits low at the loss of their comrade. Just when fate seemed to be finally turning in their favour, their best warrior had been lost to the enemy. But Bigwig's sacrifice had at least given them a chance to escape this death trap and they sure weren't about to let it go to waste.

Alan could hear Fiver and Pipkin sniffling behind him, Hawkbit and Hazel not saying a word to each other, completely lost for words. But that was nothing compared to what Alan was feeling; although too tough to shed any tears, he could feel a burning lump of guilt building up in his chest, like he was being stabbed through the heart with a knife. It was because of Red Hand targeting him that Bigwig had ended up in the crossfire. While the rest of their friends still had a chance of been brought back to life by their changing the future, Bigwig was beyond help, completely gone from this world, just like Mary and Lucy… But he couldn't give up now, or else he'd soon lose the rest of his friends too.

Reaching the far end of the attic, where the roof truss faced in the direction of the woods between the farm and the road, they came to a dead end. There was no window or skylight on this side of the roof, only a solid brick wall. They were trapped. Alan banged on the overhead rafters, hoping they might be rotten enough for his fist to punch through. But they held solid.

"All right, now what?" muttered Hawkbit, "Dead end." But Drake, who had been poking around for anything useful, pointed at a couple of old woodman's axes and mattocks, which lay propped up in a corner with some other bits of junk.

Alan stared at the cobweb-infested rafters above his head, hesitating. He had never tried cutting his way out through a roof before, and he wasn't sure it was wise to try now, without the proper knowledge of architecture and demolitions. What if he accidentally damaged the support of one of those beams and the whole structure caved in on them? Before he could think of any safer alternatives, however, Fiver suddenly called out, "Alan, I can hear something from behind this wall."

Crawling over to the little seer and pressing his ear against the wall of the truss where Fiver was listening, Alan realised it was an updraft blowing inside the wall – the flue from the kitchen fireplace downstairs ran up this wall and out through the chimney on the roof. And old chimneys like this one were built wide enough for chimney sweeps to climb up... Could this be their escape? Examining the wall, he saw the mortar between the bricks was crumbling from age, slowly loosening the bricks. Although it'd still take a double hernia to break into that chimney as it was, at least it was a safer option than the roof. He smiled.

"Fiver, I think you've just found us the way out, old chap." Without bothering to explain to the confused buck, he turned to Drake, "Crawl up here beside me and bring that mattock. We're building our own way out of here!"

Tools in hand, the two men attacked the wall; while Drake chiselling away at the crumbling mortar using a utility knife and a brick for a hammer, Alan hammered the loose bricks out with the axe and mattock. Finally, after ten frantic minutes of hard work, they had broken a gaping hole in the chimney. Shining his flashlight up the soot-encrusted flue, Alan saw a small patch of night sky through the broken chimney pot above.

"All right, Drake, you're the slimmest. Up you go! Careful when you step out of that chimney, mind you, or you'll have those goons upon us again." Rolling up his sleeves, the skinny scientist crawled into the flue and up the chimney with surprisingly good agility for someone who scarcely ever set foot out of his lab. Reaching the top, Alan passed him a microscopic dentist's mirror, ideal for looking around corners undetected, which he had brought along for just such an emergency. Drake raised it over the top of the open chimney like a periscope and slowly did a 360, looking out for anybody who might be watching the rooftop from the yard – what he saw nearly caused him to drop the mirror in alarm.

"They're about to gas us again! Look out!" The words had barely passed his lips, when another gas pellet burst through the rotting roof tiling like a cannonball and rolled into a far corner of the attic, unleashing a cloud of noxious white smoke. The gas began to spread quickly, coming straight towards them like a deadly white mist.

"Come on, we have to keep moving! Move it, Cole!" Going as fast as he dared, Drake climbed out through the chimney and onto the rooftop, instantly ducking onto the other side to avoid been spotted against the moonlight. Fortunately, the darkness of night kept him well hidden from sight from the terrorists prowling around the garden, shining spotlights around.

Grabbing Fiver, Alan crawled into the narrow shaft and started climbing, with his rabbit friend standing on his shoulders. He could feel the young buck trembling and whimpering, sensing more trouble on the way. Don't think about it, he thought, Just keep moving... But time had already run out. Sure enough, as he paused for Fiver to climb out, joining Drake on the roof, he heard the sound of another pellet being fired into the attic, this time very close. Climbing back down to the hole for the next rabbit, he felt his eyes start to sting painfully, indicating the presence of tear gas. Hazel, Hawkbit and Pipkin's chocking and moaning from below told him his friends were also feeling the effects of the gas.

Keeping his eyes tightly shut to prevent being blinded and holding his breath, he reached out through the hole with one arm, trying to reach his trapped friends. Blindly feeling about, as far out as he could reach, he felt a small paw brush his hand. Quickly grabbing hold, before he could lose it, he dragged the moaning figure towards him. As he leaned over, the documents he had taken from Sergey's ward suddenly slipped out of his jacket pocket, disappearing down the chimney and out of reach. Lamenting the loss of his only evidence to clear his name, but too late to do anything about it, he managed to get a firm grip on the blinded and chocking Pipkin and doubled back up the chimney just as the teargas engulfed the attic.

Drake and Fiver helped them out of the chimney and onto the roof. Drake took out his bottle of water and rinsed out Pipkin eyes, restoring the dwarf rabbit's eyesight somewhat. But what about Hazel and Hawkbit? Alan was about to climb back down to help the others as well, but Drake held him back, "Alan, no! It's too late. You can't go back down there or you'll be killed!" Alan however, saw Fiver's sobbing face, "Alan, we can't leave my brother and Hawkbit! Please, we have to help them!" Feeling for his little friend and refusing to lose two more comrades on his watch, Alan fought to shake off Drake, who was desperately struggling to restrain him, "Alan, don't be a fool! You'll never make it! Stop!"

Before Alan could warn Drake to keep his voice down, the damage was done. Suddenly, they were bathed in light from a lurking spotlight and heard Sven's shouting from the yard below, "There they are! Take them, boys!" His snipers opened fire, causing them to duck behind the other side of the roof, to avoid being gunned down. Unfortunately, the rooftop was icy from the cold, causing them to slip. Losing their footing, they all slid down the side of the roof like on a slide, narrowly avoiding falling to their deaths when Alan managed to grab hold of the drain pipe, with Drake, Fiver and Pipkin clinging onto his legs. Just as he thought his arms would pop off his shoulders under the strain, the ancient drainpipe, unable to support all that weight, came loose from its rusting bolts, sending them crashing into some bushes behind the farmhouse.

No sooner had they gotten to their feet than they heard Sven's men approaching. Not waiting till they were surrounded by a squad of armed terrorists, they turned and run for their lives, with Shertok and his henchmen in hot pursuit. Bullets whizzed all around them as they darted into the woods on the edge of the farm, hoping to lose their pursuers in the dark. Feeling around his neck, Alan realised, with a curse of frustration, he had dropped the key to the cores in the confusion, losing his last bit of leverage against the enemy. There was nothing left to do now but run for it. Giving his companions the word to split up, to confuse their pursuers, they ran into the trees, hoping to rendezvous on the road on the other side.

Suddenly, just as he crossed into the clover field beyond, Alan heard Pipkin cry out, "Help! Alan, help me!" Rushing towards his friend's voice, he saw Pipkin had fallen into the disused farm well, which some blithering fool had left uncovered. Although luckily it was long drained, it was deep enough to trap an animal, even a giant rabbit of Pipkin's size.

Ignoring the danger of the approaching terrorists, Alan rushed to his little friend's aid. Reaching into the mouth of the well on his stomach, he grabbed hold of Pipkin and pulled him out. Unfortunately, his stalling had allowed the enemy to catch up, "I got him, boss!" Alan had to roll over, narrowly dodging the terrorist's bullet, drawing his own gun as he did. But as he did so, he felt a searing pain in his side, much like a needle being forcefully jabbed into him. What had happened? Before the terrorist could get another shot, Alan raised his revolver and next second, the would-be killer crumpled to the ground with a bullet hole through his forehead.

Reaching under his shirt, Alan froze with terror. The nerve toxin syringe he had taken off Shertok back in London, which he had foolishly been carrying uncapped in his pocket, had gotten him in the side when he'd rolled over, sending its lethal nerve agent into his bloodstream. Frantically grabbing hold of the syringe that was pumping poison through his body, he yanked it out and threw it away. But it was already too late; an unpleasant tingling sensation was steadily spreading from the wound up his spine. Robbins's words flashed back in his mind: "When injected, even with a minute dose, within a few hours you slip into a coma and die, completely unmarked, much like from a common heart attack..." Alan's heart sank as he realised, with sick dread, his life was on a countdown. In the most ironic twist of fate imaginable, the same weapon Red Hand had used to kill Miles, the one Shertok had also threatened him with while in custody, had finally found its home, and not by one of Red Hand's assassins. However, there was no time to think about that now, because his gunshot had alerted the rest of the squad.

Quickly picking up Pipkin, he took off through the trees as fast as his legs would carry him, just as Shertok and Shelton appeared on the scene. Ignoring the corpse of their fallen henchman, the two partners-in-crime stared at the footprints Alan had left in the snow.

"Look," said Sven gleefully, as he spotted the battered, bloodstained syringe that lay beside Alan's tracks, "Well, well, well, what do you know – fate's stepped in and done our job for us. If that thing got him, he'll be a corpse in two hours. Don't touch it!" he added, as Shelton bent down to pick up the syringe by the sharp end, "If you prick your finger with that needle, it's hearts and flowers for you too!" Shelton dropped the syringe as if it were a red-hot amber. At that moment, another man came running.

"Boss, we've secured the farm. You should come look at this, sir. It's incredible..." Remembering their unfinished business back at the farmhouse, Shertok turned to Shelton, "Pass the word to clear up all traces of our visit and prepare to pull out. We're going back to headquarters to examine our spoils of war at our leisure."

"What about Johnson?" asked Shelton, "He's escaped again…!" But Sven was no longer interested in continuing a, as far as he was concerned, pointless chase, "We needn't bother with him anymore. He'll soon be dead anyway, no matter where he runs; there's no antidote for that toxin. He'll probably turn up dead on the side of the road by morning. And look," he said, showing them the key to the cores he had found on the ground nearby, "Johnson dropped it back there; we finally have everything we need to get back on schedule. Let's go!" They turned and left.

Meanwhile, Inspector Santon and Detective Coyle were on their way to Nuthanger Farm. As they drove along, Coyle listened via cell phone to the autopsy report on Sergei's body, which the police had taken into custody before they'd left London, "It appears your hunch was correct, Inspector. The coroner confirms the dead man's fingerprints and DNA don't match any of Joseph Buxton's old medical records – any evidence of extensive plastic surgery to alter facial appearance. Forensics are cross-checking his records now... It seems he was indeed an impostor walking in someone else's shoes, just like Johnson claimed."

"Well, no kidding, Coyle," grumbled Santon, wondering just what the time they'd wasted chasing the wrong man would mean for Johnson's safety. Perhaps Red Hand had already caught up with him? "What about the cause of death? Anything?" Coyle got back on his phone with Forensics.

"A minute trace of some lethal, unknown toxin in his bloodstream, apparently of military origin. It could be an assassination job." Santon frowned at the mention of unknown biochemical weapons being used; these kinds of things weren't something a common criminal would have access to; whoever was behind the old man's death definitely had connections. This case was getting a little too hot for his liking.

"I see. Anything else?"

"So far, we've been unable to match the alleged Mr Buxton's DNA to anyone in any of our Registry databases. It's as if that man doesn't even exist. We contacted MI6 and had them send word to the Russian Embassy, asking for any records on this Sergei Petrograd, but it will take some time. However, we might have tracked down a relative of his."

"Who?"

"Dr Johnson's missing former boss, sir: Dr Cole Drake. Apparently those two are related by blood," explained Coyle, feeling utterly baffled at this new piece of information the Forensics had come up with. Santon, on the other hand, was beginning to see the pattern to all this: if the impostor Buxton and Dr Drake were related, then maybe they'd found the connection between this terrorist faction and Johnson. All the more reason to find that man as soon as possible and take him into protective custody, before they lost their key witness to an assassin's bullet. Coyle looked at his boss strangely.

"You do realise, sir, the arrest warrant for Johnson still remains in force?" he reminded him sternly. Despite the new evidence, that man was still guilty in the eyes of the law, "Dr Johnson is still a murder suspect, Inspector; he's also facing additional charges of escaping police custody, stealing a Constable's uniform and weapon, and breaking into a hospital ward with a stolen identity. If Commissioner Shertok proves clean, he'll be changed for assaulting him and PC Stevens…"

Swaying past a large pick-up truck heading in the opposite lane, the police van turned onto the dirt path that led to Nuthanger Farm. Little did they realise that that truck they'd just passed carried Commissioner Shertok, his Red Hand thugs, the cores of Black Inferno, as well as two sedated giant rabbits in a box, back to the terrorist's headquarters.

The police van pulled over by the collapsed gate. Santon and Coyle, guns in hand, stormed the farm. The Inspector's first impression as they entered the farmhouse was that they had arrived too late. Although the farm was totally deserted, the evidence of the recent shootout was evident: bullet holes could be seen everywhere on the walls and the noxious smell of teargas filled the air. Splitting up, the two detectives started combing the crime scene for clues.

Santon's attention turned to the fireplace in the kitchen. Shining his flashlight in the grate, he saw something white lying in the corner, which had been buried in falling soot from the chimney and overlooked. It was a bundle of crumpled papers, which, unbeknownst to him, Alan had dropped while escaping up the chimney.

The Inspector picked up the papers, dusting them clean and brought them into a patch of light to read their contents. A frown formed across his stern face, as he read Miles Millard's confession to his sister. If this letter was genuine, then he had just shed light on the entire mystery, confirming Johnson's statement of Red Hand's existence. Only question was, where was the evidence that Millard had allegedly hidden away before his death? Suddenly, Coyle's voice from the room next door, where he had been searching, snapped him out of his trance, "Inspector, get in here, quick! I found something!"

Hurrying into the farmhouse living room, which was a wreck, the ceiling having caved in during a struggle upstairs it seemed, he saw his deputy pointing at something lying half-buried in the debris...something alive. The sight nearly took the Inspector's breath away.

"Holy Mother of Christ..." he muttered in amazement as both men stared dumbstruck at the giant, anthropomorphic rabbit with a patch of thick fur between his ears, lying injured and semiconscious amidst the rubble. Santon needn't ask where this creature had come from; they had found one of those giant humanoid rabbits he had seen on Dr Drake's video log of the future. Another impossible mystery surrounding Dr Johnson had just been dispelled.

Noticing the rabbit's heavy injuries, Santon turned to Coyle, "Help me move him into the van. We're taking him someplace safe for treatment. I'm going to drop you off at the train station in Newtown, Coyle; you're to have these shipped to the lab for analysis immediately," he said, passing Coyle the documents, "And, remember, this is to remain strictly confidential until I say otherwise."

Moving the injured Bigwig into their van, Santon and Coyle took off, heading back to Newtown Common. Coyle looked sceptically to his boss, who was driving anxiously at breakneck speed, "What are we doing, sir? You do realise, the Chief Inspector will have our heads for failing to disclose our findings," he said, gesturing at Bigwig lying under a tarp in the back of the van, "We could both be arrested, maybe lose our badges, for withholding potential evidence…" Santon turned to his deputy.

"Neil, I've known you for ten years, lad; you always go by the book and I respect you for it. However, sometimes our job requires some…independent action. Johnson kept the existence of these creatures secret for a reason; until we can find out exactly what this is all about, I insist we keep it well under wraps. Besides, what exactly do you propose we do? Go before the Chief and say we have a talking rabbit the size of a man in our custody, which is apparently in league with our fugitive? They'll close the case and we'll probably both end up sharing a padded cell in a lunatic asylum!" Coyle, however, was still extremely sceptical about this.

"And just how exactly do you propose we handle this, sir?" he demanded, "That…thing in the back will be dead soon without medical aid. Whom are we supposed to turn to, if we are to keep a lid on this?" But Santon had already worked it all out.

"Back at headquarters, I inspected the clothes Johnson was wearing when we took him into custody. They bore the nametag of a Major James McEwen, RAF. Remember that pilot who went missing while searching for Johnson's plane? It seems our fugitive visited the McEwen residence sometime during his disappearance; so his family might know something about our friend in the back, maybe even where Johnson is. My sources tell me Mrs McEwen happens to also be, ever so conveniently, a veterinarian. If she already knows the secret, which my gut instinct says she does, then she's just the person to give us some answers..."

Meanwhile, in the fields outside the village of Sydmonton, Alan and his three remaining companions paused to catch their breath. Although having escaped with their lives, they had failed…again. Their prize lost and back in the hands of the enemy, and three more deaths to mourn. Bigwig, a natural survivor and dedicated warrior, had sacrificed his life in hopes of giving his comrades a chance to escape, yet Alan had been unable to honour that sacrifice; Hazel, their brave and noble leader, and Hawkbit, a sarcastic complainer yet loyal follower had also been lost to the Red Hand Brotherhood. But it hardly mattered anymore, as Alan now had another, far bigger problem to worry about.

The toxin in his bloodstream was acting fast - he could already feel a slight twitch building in his extremities, much like Parkinson's disease, and beginning to feel extremely fatigued as if coming down with the flu – only this was no flu. His nervous system was beginning to go haywire, which would gradually lead to fatal organ failure, coma and eventually death. The thought of soon leaving his remaining friends alone in a world where they didn't belong was nothing short of torture. But how was he suppose to explain the to his two rabbit friends that they'd soon be left completely on their own in this strange human world?

As if sensing his anxiety, Fiver, who was sobbing softly for his brother, nudged him, "Alan, what's wrong?" He had to tell them, Alan thought. Although he hated to break the news that would definitely crush his friends' already shattered hopes, he couldn't postpone the inevitable much longer, whether he liked it or not.

"Fiver, I…I'm going to die," he muttered, causing his companions to stare back at him in shock. "What?" Alan pulled up his shirt, showing them the syringe stab wound, feeling so bloody stupid. Because of one little slip, he was going to die a rather nasty death and his friends, whom he'd brought back here under his protection, would be left to an even worse a fate without him.

"I've only got a short time left to live," he said grimly, "Listen, I need to make arrangements for you before it's over. You need to…" But both Fiver and Pipkin, realising their predicament, cut him off, "No! Alan, you can't do this to us! You can't die on us now! We need you, please!" How Alan wished he had a knife to cut his tongue out, but it was no good shying away from the truth.

"I'm sorry Fiver, but it's hopeless. Robbins himself confirmed that there's no antidote. As much as I hate to say this, I'm nearing the end of the road." The two rabbits however, remained defiant, "No, there has to be some other way!" cried Fiver, he and Pipkin staring pleadingly at Alan, "Please Alan, you can't leave us on our own! Remember what Bigwig said? You must think about surviving!" Before Alan could express his regret in being powerless to do anything more, however, Drake interrupted.

"What sort of nerve toxin did you say it was?"

Alan told him everything Robbins and Shertok had said about Agent Neuron and its effects. Although it seemed like a waste of time, Alan knew his colleague, in the face of science, was a Colossus. Sure enough, Drake's eyes lit up with recognition.

"I know this Agent Neuron," he said, "I was tasked with synthesizing it by my father a few years ago, to use by his assassination network for eliminating opponents without leaving traces of the killing – the same weapon I used to kill him in the end." A tiny ray of hope blossomed inside Alan's heart; if Drake was the creator of Agent Neuron, then maybe he had developed some way of reversing it?

"Is there an antidote?"

"Only an untested formula on paper," said Drake, "I deliberately withheld it from my father, in the hopes that I might be able to use it against him someday..." Alan felt as if fate was merely toying with him; sure, Drake might have a recipe for an antidote, but what were his chances of synthesizing a batch, one that had never even been tested nonetheless, and administering it before it was too late? Slim, if not nil, as far as he was concerned. Still, knowing Drake's extraordinary expertise in molecular biology, at least he and his friends now had something to hope for. It seemed their future was in the hands of the same man who had betrayed his family.

"Do you think you can develop an antidote in such a short time?"

"I see no reason why not," replied Drake, looking surprisingly optimistic, even for a borderline mad scientist. But this wasn't the time to start questioning his powers of science. After all, he was Alan's only hope of seeing the sun rise on another day. Drake pointed up the road where Sydmonton was.

"Up in Sydmonton is a friend of mine's house, who has a biolab in his basement. I rent the place when he's away oversees on research, to utilise the lab for my own work. Everything we need is there and I have the formula right here on my laptop. Let's go!"

With the two rabbits helping a rapidly weakening Alan along, the group of four set off at a quick pace for Sydmonton, where they hoped to develop an antidote for Alan before it was too late…