In the dark of night, Drake, Alan, Fiver and Pipkin made their way along the deserted Main Street of Sydmonton. The little village was deserted and silent at this late hour but the streetlights were still lit. As they made their way towards Drake's friend's cottage, Alan staggered and fell to his knees. The nerve toxin was entering its final stages, draining him of the last of his strength. Fiver and Drake helped the dying man up.
"Hang on, Alan! Almost there," muttered Drake, holding his colleague's arm over his shoulder to support him. Fiver and Pipkin struggled to support their friend from the other side, silently praying, "Frith, val mon rusatitha!"
The elegant Victorian cottage where Drake lodged was dark and deserted – luckily, Red Hand hadn't thought of posting a lookout here. The four companions mounted the steps to the porch where Drake whipped out a key and they entered, locking the door behind them. The parlour was fitted with expensive, out-of-place Orient furnishings, which Drake had explained belonged to a Japanese medical scientist friend of his, who constantly travelled around the world on research trips, and whose house Drake utilised in his absence.
Leading them downstairs into the basement, they found themselves into an elegant laboratory, equipped, stocked and ready to serve. In spite of his rapidly worsening condition, Alan couldn't help but admire the expensive, state-of-the-art equipment on display, for which many scientists he knew would kill for. He'd never dream of having access to such posh facilities back in his days as an associate university professor. No doubt Drake did some serious work here.
While the two rabbits gently laid Alan down onto a worktable, which would serve as a patient's gurney, Drake got to work, powering up the equipment and opening up cabinets, taking out an assortment of different chemicals and drugs. Placing his laptop on another table, he browsed through his files, bringing a complex 3-D model of a molecule, which Alan figured was the formula for the antidote for Agent Neuron. Drake filled a syringe with some sort of drug, which Alan soon found out was a sedative, and gave him a shot, "This will slow down the effects of the toxin. I hope it buys us enough time to synthesize the antidote."
While Pipkin sat on a chair beside Alan, keeping him company, Fiver assisted Drake best he could, despite his obvious total ignorance of science. The scientist moved swiftly around the lab, carefully mixing different experimental formulas in the coulter counter, separating any impurities in the centrifuge and finally running them through an irradiator for the final synthesis, whilst carefully monitoring the molecular integrity simulation on his computer, determining whether the serum would work.
The first few batches came out defective, the simulator showing total molecular collapse. An hour later, following several failed tests and wasted serums, Drake placed the fifth experimental batch into the molecular analyser and run a test. The computer processed the integrity data and computed the results. They nervously watched as the digital molecule model on the screen slowly took shape, expecting it to disintegrate at any moment, just like the rest. Drake was about to start over, when the computer suddenly gave him a green light, showing a stable molecular structure – finally, he had cracked the correct formula for the antidote! Not wasting a second, he punched in Alan's blood type, age and weight, calculating the correct dosage needed to neutralise the toxin. Another fifteen minutes and the crisis would be over...if the patient hadn't expired by then.
By now, Alan was in a real bad way, the toxin having advanced well into its final stages; lying semiconscious and no longer aware of his surroundings, he was deathly pale, his muscles twitching so violently that Drake had been forced to bind his arms to the tabletop with belts so he wouldn't hurt himself. In the midst of his seizure, faint moans of pain escaped his mouth, as he struggled to breathe. His chest felt like lead as his nerve system slowly failed, shutting down his internal organs and paralysing his muscles, making it impossible to breathe anymore. He couldn't hold out any more. A crying Pipkin bent over him, begging him to hang on just a little longer. The young buck's face loomed in and out of focus, as the lab span all around him. Everything was dissolving into a blur of shifting colours, growing darker and darker by the second…
Working frantically, Drake removed the vial containing the serum from the irradiator with a pair of tweezers, and placed it in the centrifuge. Fiver, who was struggling not to fret at the horrible sight of the twitching Alan, asked, "How much longer?" Drake doubled his efforts, "Just a few more minutes. I just need to run a few more tests to make sure the serum is safe for human consumption." But Fiver shook his head.
"There's no more time! If he doesn't take that remedy now, the Black Rabbit will have him!" Drake turned to look at Alan; it was clear that a few more minutes and the man on that table would be a corpse. There was no more time. Making up his mind, he prepared a syringe and filled it with the untested serum. "Here goes nothing. I just hope it doesn't reduce him to a sizzling pile of flesh." Pipkin whimpered in horror at the thought but Fiver confidently watched as Drake injected the now comatose Alan with the antidote.
With the antidote administered, Drake took out a small oxygen kit from a first-aid box on the wall and proceeded to intubate Alan, sending clean air into his oxygen-starved lungs and brain. They all sat waiting, not daring utter a word, silently praying that the untested serum would work. But Alan remained pale and motionless, like the dead…
Meanwhile, down in a dark basement room inside Red Hand's safehouse, Hazel slowly regained consciousness. His eyes felt extremely sore, his nose and throat burning, an after-effect of being exposed to the tear gas for too long. He had no recollection of what had happened or how he had got there, his memory a total blank. As he tried to stand, his head banged against a hard surface above his head. As his eyesight slowly returned, he realised he was trapped inside a cage made of that 'strong, shiny material', which was metal, that seemed to be used for everything in the human world. Then he noticed he wasn't alone in his imprisonment; Hawkbit lay beside him, slowly regaining consciousness too. There was no sign of their other companions.
Fighting the urge to panic from being trapped in a box, the mist in his memory slowly began to clear and he remembered the poisonous gas getting him and Hawkbit, blinding them and sending them into a panic. The last thing he remembered was someone forcefully grabbing him and then a fire-like pain, which had been a Taser, before he had blacked out. With sick dread, he realised they had fallen into the hands of the enemy – and these ithel, in direct contrast to Alan, were definitely not friendly.
He tried gnawing through the bars of his cage, only to discover they were completely solid and impossible to penetrate. Exhausted and with his gums starting to bleed, he gave up and turned to tend to Hawkbit instead. Luckily, the buck didn't seem to be hurt, but he hadn't exactly had a cakewalk himself. After a few minutes of nuzzling him and licking his sore eyes and nostrils, Hawkbit finally came to, "H…Hazel-rah?" he groaned, staring at the dismal surroundings of their little prison and starting to feel scared, "What happened? How did we get here? Where are the others?"
Before Hazel could answer him, a door swung open and someone switched on a light. The rabbits froze with dread as Sven Shertok, Tom Shelton and several other men with guns entered the room, crowding around their cage, like wolves closing in for the kill. "So, our guests are finally awake. About time," Shertok sneered with glee, staring at the two giant rabbits as if they were some priceless bounty. Hazel narrowed his eyes angrily.
"Where are our friends? Where's Alan? What have you done with him?" he demanded, glaring at Sven. The leader terrorist chuckled nastily, "I suspect your friend Dr Johnson is still out there somewhere...dead as a coffin nail." Hazel paled, realising that these ruffians had indeed got Alan, but took slight comfort in the fact that at least Fiver and Pipkin had escaped. Sven, apparently reading their minds, sneered nastily, "Your friends will not get very far. We'll soon bring them in." Hawkbit uttered a string of Lapine profanities directed at Sven, which would have translated into rather dirty language in English. Although he didn't speak a single word of Lapine, Sven still got the jest however and frowned. Nobody ever dared insulted him, much less a talking, freak-of-nature giant rabbit! He turned to one of his henchman.
"Hassan, teach these fur-balls a lesson in manners!"
The terrorist Hassan approached the cage and touched the tip of a high-voltage Taser to the bars; as the entire cage was made of electricity-conducting steel, the rabbits were completely exposed. In an instant, both Hawkbit and Hazel were screaming in pain, thrashing about in agony as the current zapped them, causing their fur to start sizzling. Beside Shertok, Tom Shelton laughed sadistically at their suffering, enjoying the show. Before they could fry to death however, Sven, satisfied that they'd gotten the message, finally relented, "Enough. They're no use to us dead." He turned back to the two panting rabbits, still recovering from their ordeal.
"You two fur-balls had better watch your mouths! It's most unwise to anger me. Your friend Alan did; and that's why we had to kill him and his family!" he sneered, his sickly mind working on the most effective approach to coax his two prisoners into submission. Fear was a powerful weapon, which left a prisoner utterly desperate and willing to do anything if it meant a way out – a tactic that always worked in Red Hand's favour.
"I don't know where you two come from, but in this world you'll find that all animals are inferior to humans and either obey us or suffer the consequences. However," he went on, his oily voice suddenly turning sickly sweet, as he changed his tune, "Given that you possess the rare privilege of human speech and intelligence – however that's done -, I'm willing to offer you a bargain you can't possibly refuse."
"Like what? You have nothing that could interest us," retorted Hawkbit boldly, glaring defiantly at Sven with intense hatred, yet Hazel could see a faint quiver in his jaw, indicating the buck dreaded what Sven might do to them next if they refused his demands.
"Oh, but I can," said the terrorist in his sickly sweet voice, knowing just how to play his cards and gain the trust of the two rabbits. As far as he could tell, with Johnson dead, they were now alone and lost in this world – and he could use that to his advantage. "Like I've just said, animals in the human world are hated, hunted and killed without mercy. If you were caught out there, you'd be dead or worse." Although only a half-lie, it was enough to remind the two rabbits that in the human world, without Alan to shield them, they were utterly helpless.
"The 'beautiful' human world out there is your true enemy and I can protect you from it," continued Sven, "All I ask for is your cooperation. I have a few questions that need answering. So, where exactly do you come from? How many of you are still out there?" He was thoroughly disappointed when the two rabbits merely gave him a cold shoulder, realising they were merely being toyed with. Obviously, they weren't buying his false promises of 'protection'.
"I'm no fool," said Hazel coldly, "As I recall, you've done us nothing but harm. Robbins showed no reluctance in killing off so many of our friends to get his way and now you expect us to trust you?"
"I admit Robbins was obviously way over his head and acting without orders, but I…" Sven protested, still trying desperately to win Hazel's trust, but the Chief Rabbit of Watership Down would hear none of it, "Alan is our only true friend and protector who, in contrast to you, deserves our friendship," he spat coldly at his captor, with such fierce loyalty it would have made Alan very proud, had he been there to hear him, "And he will punish you for this, mark my words!" Sven sneered evilly at Hazel's hollow threats, not unlike Robbins.
"How very touching. Except, there's one little problem: Alan Johnson is dead! I never had the impression the dead can come back and bite you. Unless you're suggesting his ghost decides to come back and haunt me?" His men laughed cruelly at their boss's cheap humour. "You're on your own now, you dumb animal – and you're all mine!" There was nothing more to be said – if these freaks of nature wouldn't cooperate the easy way, then they would the hard way. Sven turned to one of his henchmen and whispered something into his ear. The man's face curled into a sadistic smile and hurried away to carry out his boss's order – and as Hazel and Hawkbit would soon find out, it was bad news for them.
"Very well, then," he said, turning to his prisoners again, this time dropping all pretences of kindness, his voice cold and menacing, "If you won't cooperate, then I have no choice than to force you to. And just so you know, no prisoner has ever managed to hold back on us forever – we have methods of interrogation that will eventually loosen your tongue." Even the brave Hazel couldn't suppress a shudder; with their past experience with the savage Efrafans, they realised Sven wouldn't hesitate to torture them until they gave up the secret of their world, which Alan had explicitly stressed would be disastrous if it came out. And if Shertok was right about Alan being dead, then there was no one coming to save them this time.
Sven turned to face the rabbits in their cage, "I'll give you some time of privacy to reconsider your options – either talk or you die. Choose!" Without another word, he turned and left, leaving Hazel and Hawkbit alone in the confinement of their small prison, pending their upcoming interrogation under torture…
Elsewhere, Bigwig finally opened his eyes to consciousness, finding himself in some vaguely familiar surroundings – the examination table in Josie McEwen's infirmary, where Fiver had lay dying only the other day. He felt weak and sore, almost as if someone had beaten him to a pulp, and an anaesthetic-induced grogginess overwhelmed him. He could vaguely remember being shot, falling through the floor and barely managing to crawl away and hide before passing out. As he tried inhaling, he felt a sharp pain in his side where a bullet had struck him, which had been stitched up and dressed in gauze; a second bullet wound on his shoulder was likewise dressed. But how had he ended up back here? How had he gotten out of the farmhouse? He could hear voices conversing in the room next door.
"...Inspector, I promised Alan I wouldn't discuss any of this with anyone," came the familiar voice of Josie, sounding very irritated, "Please, you have no idea what you're getting yourself into..." A second, likewise familiar voice, which Bigwig had sworn he'd make big trouble if he ever met up with its owner, answered her.
"Mrs McEwen, right now I'm not speaking to you as a policeman – if I were, you'd already be under arrest for aiding and abiding a fugitive. I already know much more than you realise, including how my superiors have apparently been led on a wild goose-chase all along by a terrorist faction operating right under their noses. If this madness is true, then your friend Dr Johnson could be in great danger..."
At that moment, the door opened and Bigwig's suspicions were instantly confirmed as Josie entered to check on her patient, accompanied by none other than that ithe-Owsla man Bigwig remembered was called Santon – the same one who had tried to arrest Alan earlier that day! Ignoring his pain and diminished strength, Bigwig jumped to his feet, expecting trouble.
"What are you doing here?" he demanded. Inspector Santon wisely kept his distance, probably thinking that infuriated, human-sized rabbit might spring at him and maul him.
"Take it easy there, big fellow! I just want to talk…"
"To interrogate me about my friends' whereabouts, no doubt, you embleer ithe!" retorted Bigwig, "Like I am going to tell you!" He rounded on Josie, glaring reproachfully at her. Could she have betrayed them after all?
"How did I get here? Where are Alan and the others? And what in Frith's name is he doing here?" Josie tried her best to calm him down, before he exerted himself too much and pulled out his stitches, "Take it easy, Bigwig; you're badly hurt and must not exert yourself. You're extremely lucky to be alive after taking several gunshots like that. Inspector Santon found you unconscious at Nuthanger Farm and brought you here. Do you remember what happened?" Bigwig felt more perplexed – and angry - than ever.
"He got me out of there? Josie, this rotter tried to capture Alan today - he's after us! How can you trust him?" he demanded, "Alan warned you not to say anything...!" But Santon, impatient to get to the bottom of this, cleared his throat, "Look here - Bigwig, did you say your name was? -, I understand you probably haven't had a good first impression of me. Indeed, it appears I was a damn fool to believe your friend Alan was a murderer..."
"Well, thanks for the obvious," retorted Bigwig sarcastically, still distrustful of Santon, who, ignoring his remarks, continued, "I know that you come from the future – one that a certain Dr Drake, your friend Alan's colleague is destined to create some day." Bigwig muttered a curse under his breath – so much for keeping a lid on the secret of their world. "I also know of the Red Hand Brotherhood, which is apparently responsible for framing him for murder," he added. Although somewhat impressed that Santon had worked out the truth at last, at the same time, Bigwig wasn't sure if he dared trust this fellow.
"What exactly is it to you?" he scoffed, "How do I know you aren't trying to use me to get to Alan? If you think I can be manipulated into…" he snarled menacingly, but Josie stepped in, "Bigwig, please! Alan can't possibly take down Red Hand on his own. He'll get you all killed! Inspector Santon can help us. Please, for your friends' sake, tell him what happened. He already knows too much for us to keep the secret any longer anyway." Resigning himself to the inevitable, Bigwig reluctantly agreed. He turned to Santon.
"I'm warning you, chum - If you give me one reason to believe that you intend to double-cross us, you'll rue the day you were born by the time I'm finished with you!"
"Then I guess I have nothing to fear," replied Santon dryly, not looking the least intimidated by the giant rabbit's aggressiveness. Being a veteran policeman, he wasn't the type to cower at cheap threats, "Spill it!" Bigwig, albeit reluctantly, told Santon and Josie how far he and his friends had gotten on their mission and what had happened to them at the farm. Santon listened carefully, feeling rage boil up inside him as Bigwig confirmed that Commissioner Sven Shertok was indeed a collaborator for Red Hand; a rage that turned to a chilling horror as Bigwig informed them that Sven now had the cores for Black Inferno back in his possession...
Alan slowly opened his eyes, feeling sore and weak. His blurred vision slowly cleared and Drake's lab came back into focus. He could hear sad and desperate voices, one of which he recognised as Fiver's, talking to Drake, "...Please, just try it one more time. He can't be dead!" As Alan stared, he felt something warm and rather wet on his shoulder; Pipkin was huddled up against his seemingly lifeless body, crying softly like a child that had just lost his only parent. Drake was standing beside the worktable, staring at Fiver sadly, "I'm sorry, there's nothing more we can do for him. We did our best..."
"And for that, I'll be grateful to you till the end of my days," muttered Alan as he finally regained enough strength to talk. Drake, Fiver and Pipkin, taken completely by surprise, gasped in joy. The antidote had worked! An overjoyed Pipkin, realising he was awake, nuzzled up against him, as if scared he'd lose him again, overwhelmed with joy and relief, "Oh Alan, you're alright! I thought we'd lost you…!"
In another instant, Fiver had also thrown himself at Alan, "Oh, thank Frith and all Prince Rainbow's messengers! I knew you'd pull through, Alan!" The professor gently hugged his two friends, feeling slightly guilty as he remembered that Hazel, Bigwig and Hawkbit had been lost, while he had survived yet another close shave…again. Looking up, he noticed Drake standing aside, alone, with a sad smile on his face. Alan needn't ask why; his treacherous colleague had finally been given a chance for redemption by saving his life, yet it wouldn't bring back his own dead family. Slowly getting to his feet, he walked up to Drake.
"Cole, if it hadn't been for you, all chances of saving the future would now be lost. You've done me - done us - a great service and for that, I forgive you for betraying my family." Drake lowered his head grimly, "Nothing can ever excuse what I did. But thank you, anyway." Alan's joy of still being alive was cut short however when he remembered that the cores had fallen back into the hands of Red Hand. They had bungled up their mission good. Black Inferno was probably being prepared for launch as they spoke…again. He paled; if that maniac Shertok got his way, a new era of unrestricted world terrorism would commence, unquestionably altering the future for the worst.
"There isn't a moment to lose," he said, turning to his companions, "Red Hand now has the cores and could launch Black Inferno at any moment. The fact that we escaped again will only make them more desperate to see their mission through." Although he dreaded the prospect of going through the same nightmare all over again, which had already cost the lives of so many of their friends, it was inevitable, "We have no choice but to storm Buxton Hall, just like we did Efrafa. We must move now!"
"We wouldn't stand a chance," said Drake sharply, "My father's estate is an impenetrable fortress; it would be suicide trying to break in there! What about Miles' disk?" he suggested, taking out the small disk from his pocket. "If we can crack the encryption and read the contents, we could then have the evidence we need to alert the authorities."
Although it seemed like the only logical solution, Alan was uncertain. With the terrorists now in possession of both the probe and the cores, time was critical. And even if the disk could be deciphered in time, he still didn't think it would be enough to convince the police of the danger, at least not without endless inquiries and explanations, not to mention risking getting him arrested again. But they had to try.
Retreating back upstairs to the living room, they took seats at the large Orient desk. Drake placed his computer atop it and inserted the disk into the drive. As the explorer brought up the contents window, Alan saw it contained a single folder, bearing the telltale title 'Do Not Open'. No doubt it contained some really dangerous information, which had already cost the lives of Miles, his sister and his niece. But when Drake dried accessing it, they discovered the folder was encrypted and locked, prompting for a password.
Examining the control icon more closely, they noticed a hint button on the left-hand corner. Drake directed the cursor over it and pressed it, bringing up a cryptic message:
50 41 53 53 57 4F 52 44 3A 20 52 45 44 20 48 41 4E 44 20 53 54 49 4E 4B 53 21
Alan rolled his eyes in exasperation. Great, just what we need. A hacker's puzzle... His brother-in-law might have been a drunk and a wastrel, but he was still mighty good with computers. Alan, on the other hand, only had a hazy knowledge of hacking and wasn't much good with puzzle-solving either, which was probably what made him such a lousy chess player. Whatever those letters and numbers meant, it definitely wasn't his department, or Drake's. He turned to his colleague.
"Any idea what this crap means?"
"Obviously it's some kind of code," answered the scientist, his mind working furiously to make some sense out of those peculiar letter/number combinations, "All I can tell you is it isn't something found in genetics. It must be mathematical." Beside the two scientists, Fiver and Pipkin sat on a sofa nearby, watching them in silence, not understanding a word the two men were saying.
Drake and Alan tried punching in a few random passwords, including their names, telephone numbers, the names of Miles' relatives and friends, but kept hitting invalid access prompts. Plying their imaginations to the fullest extent, they kept trying. Albert, Einstein, E=MC2, Churchill, Fluffy, Spot, all hit dead ends. Whatever secret password was hidden within that encoded message, they wouldn't be pulling it out of a hat anytime soon.
Alan shook his head, "This is getting us nowhere, Cole. By the time we can figure this mess out, Black Inferno will have launched and it will be too late. We need some hard evidence and fast! Hang on a minute…" he said, as he suddenly remembered another piece of reliable evidence that was still out there: Robbins' bag, containing the voice recorder he had been using to record the progress of his mission, while posing as a documentarian. Last he could remember, it was still onboard the wreck of the Cessna where he had forgotten it, waiting to be picked up. According to Inspector Santon, Red Hand had made sure to erase all traces of Robbins' existence. So what if there was some recording in the voice of the man in question that might reveal his former existence, or, better still, an unintentional testimony about Red Hand's plot to murder him and his family? Only one way to find out.
"We have to get our hands on that recorder," he told his friends, "It might be our only hope of revealing Robbins' crimes to the authorities and effectively expose Red Hand." Drake and the rabbits however were extremely doubtful.
"And what about the secrecy of the future?" asked Drake, "You do realise it will inevitably reveal where the two of you had disappeared to?" Although Alan agreed that Drake had a fair point, not to mention the foolhardy act of leaving the safety of the house and going back out there, where he might be spotted by more of Red Hand's spies, unfortunately they had no other choice. And the sooner he got going the better.
"All right, Cole, I'm going back to the crash site, to recover that recorder. You stay here with Fiver and Pipkin and try and sort out that disk while I'm gone…"
"Wait, we should come with you," said Fiver, standing up, "We shouldn't separate." Alan wanted to argue it was safer for the two rabbits to stay here, but finally gave in and let an eager Pipkin tag along for company, while Fiver agreed to stay with Drake, to keep a sharp lookout for trouble, using his sixth sense.
"In the closet just off the hallway, there should be a bag of scuba gear you can use," said Drake, as he turned his attention back to the computer, to continue the seemingly helpless task of decrypting Miles' disk. Alan took PC Stevens' loaded revolver from his pocket and placed it on the table beside Drake, "Just in case you encounter any trouble in my absence. Remember, Fiver can sense danger; so, at the first sign of trouble, you both get the hell out of here and meet me at Josie McEwen's house in Newtown." Drake nodded.
Walking over to the closet in the hall, he took out a diver's dry-suit, weight belt, an underwater flashlight and a knife. He and Pipkin then hurried to the garage when they found Drake's Benz waiting. Five minutes later, they were speeding along the dark country road towards Sutch and Martin's Flight Club outside Sandleford Park, where their plane had gone down the other night.
Meanwhile, in a dungeon at Buxton Hall, Hazel and Hawkbit lay strapped down on two operating tables, which resembled a butcher's counter from all the dried-up bloodstains of past victims. Strong chain restraints had been attached to their paws, waists and necks, binding them painfully to the rough metal surface.
After leaving the two rabbits alone for a while, the terrorists had returned, removed them from their cage and taken them into another room for interrogation. Sven had returned with a large man with a horribly scarred face, which was missing an eye and the nose, carrying a large leather satchel. The man opened his satchel, revealing a sinister-looking collection of surgery tools, including scalpels, carving knives, thumb-screws and other hideous implements. The sight of all those instruments of torture sent chills down the rabbits' spines, realising the awful predicament they were in for now. Sven cleared his throat, gesturing at the scarred man.
"This is Samir, our in-residence torturer. A truly remarkable fellow; never fails to extract every last scrap of information from prisoners," he said gleefully, "Being brutally mauled by police hounds back in his native Syria, who also killed his family, gives him a craving for inflicting the most painful torture on humans and animals alike. You'll be enjoying his company tonight, before the ribbon-cutting of Project Black Inferno at midnight." The torturer shot the two trembling rabbits a mean smile, showing off his rotten, uneven teeth, as he unpacked a pair of car jumper-cables, which he plugged to a high-voltage battery pack on the floor. Brushing the alligator clips together, he created a spark.
"You two are going to wish you were stew in a pot, long before I'm through with you!"
Hooking up the live cables to terminals fitted onto the edges of the operating tables, much like a crude electric chair, Samir took up position, his finger poised over an old-fashioned circuit breaker that controlled the flow of current. With Sven watching, he performed a demonstration. Flipping the breaker, he sent both rabbits into fits of spasms, much more than they had with the Taser, screaming in agony, as the current was conducted through their bodies.
Sickeningly amused by the sight, Sven took a seat at a nearby table, a tape recorder at his side, while the torturer stood on standby. Merciless and sadistic in the extreme, he proceeded to interrogate them; questions about their world, their relationship with Alan, Robbins' fate, and anything else he believed might be of some importance, everything of which he recorded on tape.
Each time the two rabbits refused to talk or gave an unsatisfactory answer, Sven would snap his fingers and next second, Hazel or Hawkbit would be subjected to the intense pain of electrocution. Soon, their fur and skin was starting to sizzle, stinking up the whole room, as they slowly cooked from the inside out. The rabbits couldn't possibly hold their silence for long. And the more information Sven got out of them, the more he wanted to know. The secrets of the future were out.
"...So, you say that your world will exist sometime in the future. Then what happens to mankind? How will your kind come to rule the Earth?" he asked, slowly beginning to piece together that these giant rabbits would in fact someday replace the human race as masters of the Earth, "Does it have anything to do with this General Woundwort Robbins formed an alliance with? Did he control Black Inferno in the future? Well, out with it!"
"Silflay hraka, embleer ithe!" spat Hawkbit defiantly at Sven. They couldn't let their captor onto that particularly piece of information. The terrorist frowned at the insult and turned to the waiting Samir, "Time we switch tactics. Let's see if thesuffering of one on the other's behalf will loosen their tongues." Smiling gleefully, Samir switched the cables over to each individual table. Hazel paled when he saw Hawkbit was the one chosen to be tortured at his expense while they interrogated him. Hawkbit pleaded with him.
"Hazel-rah, don't you tell them anything! I can take it! I...!" He never got to finish his sentence as Samir turned on the current again, sending Hawkbit into another fit of spasms and screaming. Hazel could take no more; he wasn't going to sit there and watch that brute torture his friend to death, even if it meant giving up the grim secret of his world's beginnings. The explanation that Woundwort's first ancestor, Hemlock would someday lead the lagomorphs to a bloody war against humans left all the terrorists present speechless with shock – and in Shertok's case, outraged.
Although a terrorist and criminal, Sven Shertok regarded himself as the ultimate patriot – a man of vision, fighting to create a new world order of total control and discipline, which had led him into joining Sergei's faction in the first place. With Sergei dead and gone, Red Hand was now his faction, and Sergei's mission his own. Learning that these giant rabbits would someday wipe out all of mankind, made him realise that Red Hand's efforts would all be for naught – and it was up to him to put that right. He turned to his two prisoners.
"You two damned creatures are about to feel the vengeance of man! Mark my words, as soon as I've traced your source of origin, I'll eliminate it and you and your kind will never exist!" he snarled, an insane gleam in his eyes, "And then, I'll have the power to reshape the future at my own accord - a future with Red Hand in total command over mankind's destiny!"
Meanwhile, Alan and Pipkin had returned to Sutch and Martin's Flight Club, where the wrecked Cessna still lay submerged in the frozen lake on the edge of the little airstrip. The hole in the ice had since frozen over, completely covering up the crash site. Alan, in full under-ice diving gear, was ready to take the plunge through a new hole he had cut in the ice. Pipkin nudged him in the side.
"Alan, please be careful. I don't want to see you get hurt," pleaded the dwarf rabbit. The man kneeled down to hug him, "Nothing to worry about, laddie. I'll be back in two minutes." Giving his little friend one last ruffling between the ears, he put on his mask and turned on his flashlight. Taking a deep breath, he jumped through the hole, into the ice-cold water, but luckily this time the dry-suit protected him from exposure.
Shining his flashlight, the battered fuselage of the crashed aircraft loomed into view up ahead. Holding his breath, he swam up to the open door and shone his flashlight into the empty cabin. Pushing aside the collapsed pilot's seat, he entered the wrecked plane. In the back, the light of his flashlight revealed the opening to the tail shaft, where the plane's small baggage locker was. Sliding his arm inside the hole, he felt around for the bag...
Up top, Pipkin sat on the edge of the lake, watching nervously the air bubbles rising up from the black water under the ice where Alan was, feeling very lonely and scared. How long could a human hold his breath underwater? Or withstand that cold? What if something happened to him and he couldn't help him? He was so lost in his worrying thoughts, that he didn't notice a figure sneak up on him from behind...
Suddenly, he felt a pincer-like grip on his hind leg and felt himself being hoisted in the air upside down. He screamed and struggled, thinking an owl or some other elil had snatched him, but then remembered the elil in this world were too small to pose much of a threat. Instead, he found himself staring into the sneering face of Tom Shelton, who was holding him by the hind leg, looking triumphant at his prize, "Well, well, what an unexpected catch! Mr Shertok will be ever so pleased!" he sneered evilly at Pipkin, who struggled helplessly, feeling his blood curdle with fear. Before he could scream for help, Shelton shoved the rabbit into a garbage sack, muffling out his cries, which he tossed to a second man accompanying him.
The two men had been sent along by Shertok to clean up the crash site and destroy the plane. Both men carried bags of incendiary demolition charges, which would reduce the Cessna to nothingness. Tom's pickup sat parked just down the road, waiting to cart the remains away. With Johnson presumed dead and finally out of the picture, the only thing left to do was to finish covering up all evidence of where he had been. If they were to keep the secret of the future, and of their latest acquisitions, to themselves, then they had to get rid of all traces still out there – including rounding up the rest of those strange giant rabbits.
Suddenly, Shelton noticed the air bubbles coming from the bottom of the lake where the plane was. Someone was down there. But, whoever it was, he'd soon take care of him. About time he got some blood on his hands for a change. Keeping his voice down, he turned to his associate, "Get this rabbit back to Sven and I'll join you shortly. Go!" His henchman nodded and left as Tom turned back to the water, preparing an explosive charge...
Meanwhile, beneath the surface, Alan, holding up Robbins's bag in a gesture of triumph, swam out of the plane. Breaking the surface of the water with his prize, he found himself face-to-face with Tom Shelton standing above him, armed explosive in hand. No sign of Pipkin. The traitorous flight controller seemed struck dumb for an instant at the sight of Alan, but didn't lose his composure as he sneered, "I knew that Shertok was an idiot to presume you had succumbed to that nerve toxin, Johnson. "Had a nice swim then? I sincerely hope so, because it's your last!"
"Yes, it was most exhilarating," replied Alan calmly, working out his options here. Shelton had the explosive charge; the man stood just out of his reach, too far to tackle him without having that live bomb thrown into his lap. If only he could trick Shelton into coming a little closer... Then the man noticed the bag Alan was holding.
"What's that you've got there?" he demanded, inching closer to get a better look. Johnson couldn't have come back here and be diving on that wreck for nothing. No doubt there was something important in that bag, which his associates didn't want lying around, "Give it to me. Now!"
"What have you to trade?" asked Alan, still casually, which greatly annoyed Shelton, mostly because of his own repulsive reputation as a wastrel and coward. That man sure has cast-iron guts, he thought bitterly. But, cast-iron guts or not, it wouldn't do him much good this time.
"I'll make it quick for you," he told Alan, gesturing at the armed charge clutched in his hand, waiting to be detonated, "That's much better than taking you back to Shertok alive, to be tortured. Either way, it's all the same to me. Now, the bag!" He held out his hand, so Alan could pass him the bag. This was a big mistake. The instant he had grabbed hold of the strap, Alan had turned the tables on the little weasel.
Taking advantage of Shelton's momentary vulnerability, Alan pulled hard on the bag, trying to pull Shelton into the water. The man, caught by surprise, dropped his bomb, fighting tooth and nail not to lose his balance. The bomb fell right into Alan's open hands, who, like a pro water polo player, flung it as far away as he could reach. The explosive device landed on the road on the edge of the lake, triggering the detonator. Alan had just enough time to dive again to escape the ensuing blast, which sent a fireball up in the air, blasting a sizable crater in the concrete. Tom Shelton caught the blast wave full force, throwing him to the ground.
No sooner had the blast dissipated than Alan shot out of the water, springing at Shelton. The rat of a man lay on his back, disoriented and his ears ringing, but otherwise unharmed and conscious. In an instant, Alan was upon him, dive knife blade poised over his throat.
"Be quiet, or I'll slit your jugular in half! Now, where's Pipkin, you miserable snake?" he growled in Tom's face, who muttered in a most unconvincing tone, "I…I don't know whom you're talking about…"
"No? Too bad!" growled Alan, tightening his grip on the knife as if about to slit his captive' throat open. Realising Alan meant business, Shelton screamed, "No, wait please! They took him back to our headquarters at Buxton Hall. Shertok has ordered the rest of your giant rabbit friends found and rounded up, along with Dr Drake. He's launching Black Inferno at midnight tonight. It's the truth, honest!"
"It had better be, for your sake Shelton, or you'll find yourself eating your own Adam's apple, you hear?" Alan spat, roughly pulling Shelton to his feet. The man deserved to die, but unfortunately, he was more useful to Alan alive – now, he finally had a witness to clear his name and expose Red Hand. He spun his prisoner round, jabbing him in the base of the spine with his knife.
"We're going on a little stroll down to the police station," he told Shelton, "You're going to make me righteous again! Now, hands over your hand and forward march! Hey, I said put your mits up...!"
But Tom Shelton wasn't about to come along quietly to the police that easily; suddenly he spun round, clutching an old-fashioned straight razor, which he had slipped from his pocket while his back was turned, facing Alan with a murderous stare. Unfortunately, in contrast to Alan, who knew how to hold his own in a fight, Shelton's fighting skills were nil. Within seconds, Alan had grabbed the man's razor arm, twisting his wrist painfully, and causing Shelton to drop his weapon. Tom Shelton had just pulled his last caper.
"Your fingernails are filthy, mate," he muttered, staring at his opponent's muddy hand in disgust, "Time for a bath!" With one powerful head-butt, he sent Shelton staggering backwards into the frozen lake. With a loud splash, the man plummeted into the freezing water. Not pausing to check if Shelton would emerge, Alan hurried back to Drake's Benz and took off at full speed, intent on getting Pipkin back if it was the last thing he ever did.
Meanwhile, back at the cottage in Sydmonton, Drake and Fiver were still struggling to decipher Mile's message, without success. Drake, clammy and exhausted, was rapidly tapping the keys on the keyboard, the computer only giving him access denied messages as he tried to read the encrypted data. Fiver, wondering what was taking Alan so long, was starting to get weary at their lack of progress.
"How are we doing?"
"Nothing a strong coffee won't cure," replied Drake, massaging his temple, which felt about to burst from a throbbing headache, "Whatever encryption system Miles used, he sure knew his business. It's like one of those stupid hexadecimals puzzles in Nerd Science Magazine my son liked to do..." He fell silent, the vast archives of information in his head suddenly making a connection. He stared at the encrypted message again. Hexadecimals... Of course! Miles Millard, you sly old fox... Pulling a piece of paper in front of him, he gestured to Fiver.
"Behind you, in the bookcase, there should be a copy of Chambers' Technical Dictionary – that green book over there," he pointed. Fiver pulled the book in question off its shelf with his jaws and handed it to Drake. Flipping through the pages, he found an ASCII table in the reference section. Letters morphed into perfectly legible words as he wrote them down on paper.
'Password: Red Hand really stinks!'
"Looks like we're finally getting somewhere…"
At that moment, there was a loud thumping on the front door. Drake grabbed the gun Alan had left him and cautiously approached the front door with Fiver in tow, "Who's there?" he called out, aiming the gun.
"Open up, it's me!" came Alan's voice. Drake hurryingly unlocked the door and Alan entered, looking dishevelled and still wearing his diver's suit. He collapsed into a chair looking horribly distraught.
"What the hell happened?"
"We were ambushed at the crash site. They've taken Pipkin!" he muttered, as Drake helped him out of the suit. Fiver rounded on Alan in rage.
"You let them take him? He was supposed to be your responsibility!" he shouted incredulously, but regretted it as soon as it came out of his mouth. Alan stared back at him, looking hurt, causing Fiver's ears to droop in shame at the outburst, "I'm sorry Alan, I didn't mean it. Please forgive me," the young buck muttered apologetically, placing a comforting paw on Alan's knee. Alan gently patted him reassuringly.
"Never mind, Fiver." He told them about his little run-in with Tom Shelton, "They've taken Pipkin to Buxton Hall. Shelton said Sven wants you alive, so they won't hurt him…yet." Fiver suppressed a shudder; frankly, he couldn't if falling into the hands of Red Hand was worse than being captured by General Woundwort, and dreaded to think what they might be doing to Pipkin right now. Alan turned to his colleague, "Drake, any luck with the disk?"
Drake punched in Miles' deciphered password. They all held their breaths in anticipation. Suddenly the prompt icon turned green and the folder opened, revealing a document inside. They had done it! But as they opened the document, they saw nothing but a blank page, save for an Internet bookmark on the top in minute type. Selecting the link, they found themselves online, in a unanimous closed account on some public video-sharing site. A video player popped up on the screen, loading its contents.
Footage taken from a cell-phone camera it seemed appeared, revealing a railway yard, somewhere in East London, Alan figured. Freight trains from across the Channel sat parked side by side in the seemingly deserted yard. The cameraman – presumably Miles – made his way across the tracks, ducking from boxcar to boxcar, apparently looking for something...or someone. As it turned out, the place wasn't completely deserted.
Pointing his camera through the gap between two boxcars, he zoomed in on a group of people busy off-loading three familiar-looking armoured cases from a train. The cores of Black Inferno were being smuggled into the country. Alan could clearly recognise Sergei Petrograd, accompanied by his inner circle: Robbins, Sven Shertok and even Tom Shelton. At their feet, he also noticed the unmoving bodies of two railyard guards they had just shot dead. They could hear Miles' nervous breathing as he surveyed the scene, as per his mission.
"That's the interception point where the delivery point was to be made," explained Drake to Alan and Fiver, as they all gathered around the computer. They watched as Sergei whipped out a key and unlocked the first case, revealing one of the three stolen unobtainium warheads, which were to be used to power Black Inferno.
"...Fortune smiles, gentlemen," he told his associates, "It seems your idea to bribe your contact in railway security indeed paid off. Too bad we had to kill him to keep this quiet," he added, gesturing to the two railway guards Shertok and Robbins had just killed. Shelton seemed somewhat petrified at his associates' ruthlessness, yet maintained his composure, glad that he, being a mere middleman doing this only for the money, wasn't among the dead men. "Black Inferno is a go, my friends!"
It was Robbins who then noticed Miles snooping on them from his hiding spot. "Hey, you there...!" Sergei, Shertok and Shelton whirled round in alarm, also catching site of this unwelcome eavesdropper. The sound of a silent bullet hitting the side of the boxcar above Miles' head was heard, who ducked and ran for his life. They heard Sergei's angry voice shouting in the background.
"After him, you fools! He'll give away the whole operation...!" Then the playback ended. Best Alan could figure, Miles had escaped with his life, just long enough to hide the evidence online and notify his contact Drake, before Red Hand had tracked him down and finished him off. So this was where it had all began. This video was what had unleashed the chain of events that would ultimately make Alan the next target of Red Hand and of Robbins, which would in turn lead him onto his eventful journey into the future. Funny how fate worked sometimes. Personally, he couldn't see how this video was worth the lives of all those people. But at least now he had something with which to strike back against Red Hand.
Unbeknownst to any of them, outside, several hooded thugs armed with assault rifles were noiselessly approaching the cottage. Without realising it, by using Drake's car and then leaving it outside, in plain view, and which the terrorists had flagged after Sergei had ordered his son under surveillance, had led their pursuers straight to their new hideout.
The squadron leader ordered his men to circle the house, preparing to break in, while another man worked on a nearby power box, preparing to cut the power on the block and throw the place into total blackout for the attack...
Inside, the group had turned their attention to the contents of Robbins' bag. Alan had opened the waterlogged bag and emptied its contents atop a table for a thorough examination. Aside from the tape recorder, which, despite being submerged for nearly a day, was still intact from being wrapped up in a waterproof sandwich bag, Alan also found his camera, containing all the pictures he had taken, which Robbins had stolen from him. Their notebooks unfortunately were completely ruined, having been reduced to masses of soggy papier-mâché.
Realising he was still in his dive suit, Alan excused himself and went aside to put on some dry clothes. It was time to plan their next big move. How were they to get all this evidence into the hands of the authorities before midnight? So far, they had gathered some substantial evidence; Mile's disk, Robbins' tape recorder, and Drake himself as a witness. Although obviously it would take a lot of careful handling before the authorities could be let in on this, namely making sure they kept the secret of the future out of the spotlight, now they had a chance. Alan was considering whether or not to turn himself in with the evidence, when suddenly, the lights went out.
"What's going on?"
Before Alan could answer Drake, he heard Fiver go tharn and start moaning from another vision – trouble had found them at last. Sure enough, at that moment, the front door burst open and half a dozen masked hitmen stormed in, firing in their direction. Alan ducked behind a sofa, pulling Fiver with him, but unfortunately Drake couldn't dodge in time. With a yell of pain, the scientist fell to the floor, bleeding out from a bullet wound in his side. Another wave of bullets hit the desk, blasting the computer with Miles' disk still in the drive to smithereens. But there was no time to lament on the loss of their most crucial evidence.
Seeing all hope for the future about to be lost if Drake died, Alan grabbed for the nearest weapon: the drinks cabinet. Grabbing a bottle of gin, he ripped off the cap and stuffed a strip torn off the curtain down the bottlenose. Setting the wick ablaze, he flung the bottle in the direction of the murderous squad, which were still crowding in the hall. The bottle impacted with the squad leader's head and shattered; in an instant, all six assassins were engulfed in flamed, as the flaming booze drenched them. Taking advantage of the distraction, Alan darted forward and grabbed hold of Drake, pulling him behind the safety of the sofa.
With his colleague momentarily out of harm's way and in Fiver's care, Alan pulled out his own guns and joined the fight. With most of the terrorists on fire and burning to death, it was easy to gun them down in a clip of bullets. No sooner had the last of the intruders dropped dead on the floor, than he turned back to Drake.
Turning him over, Alan and Fiver gasped as they saw the bullet wound on the left side of the scientist's abdomen which was oozing out blood, staining his shirt red; the carpet underneath was also turning crimson from more blood escaping from the exit wound on Drake's back. Frantically, he ripped open Drake's shirt to get a better look at the injury. Although luckily not a fatal wound, Alan could tell it required immediate treatment in the emergency room. Drake was still conscious, despite the severe blood loss, staring down at his wound.
"How bad is it? Am I going to die…Argggggg!" he screamed as Alan drenched the wound with some whisky from the drink's cupboard and pressed a bunch of napkins over it, to stop the bleeding. "You're bleeding pretty bad, but I don't think it ruptured any organs. Fortunately, the bullet didn't become lodged in there; if we can only stop the bleeding, you'll survive. Here, Fiver, press down hard on this. I am going to call for help."
Just as he was about to reach for the phone and call an ambulance, he heard it: distant sirens, police sirens, approaching. Although utterly relieved that help was underway, the risk of being taken back into custody was something that he couldn't chance at this moment, not while he still had Fiver under his care. If his friend was seen, the secret of the future would be blown for good. As if reading his mind, Drake spoke.
"Alan, take Fiver and run. I'll sort it out with the police. To them, I'm only a missing man, not a wanted fugitive. You must get to Buxton Hall quick, to stop the launch and save your friend."
"The disk's destroyed, how are you going to prove anything...?" Alan retorted, but Drake grabbed him by his shirt collar.
"I'll be fine. For once in your life, take someone else's advice. Now get going, don't waste time!" Realising he had no other choice, least he get caught amidst a scene of carnage by the police, Alan hurryingly picked up his jacket and backpack. Bending down, he shook Drake's hand.
"Take care, Cole. Remember, give the evidence to Inspector Charles Santon of Scotland Yard; he's the detective working on my case. And be careful what to say to him; nobody else must learn the secret of the future.
"Good luck, Alan!"
Just as several police cars pulled up in the driveway, Alan and Fiver jumped out a back window and fled over the backyard fence. Scaling fence after fence, they finally made it back to the Main Street. Picking up the young buck in his arms, Alan broke into the run, following the dark road that led out of town, not slowing until they'd put a safe distance between them and Sydmonton. Somewhere in the night, a clock struck nine; three hours before Black Inferno was due to launch.
Author's note: Another chapter gone! In the original draft, Drake was killed and Alan saw Fiver disappear, as all the WD rabbits ceased to exist. Out of grief of losing everything again, Alan commits suicide. If I had kept that draft, the next chapter would have been an epilogue many years later (after the comet impact, when the world has started over, but without the rise of the Four Brothers), where Santon has married Josie and they talk to their children about Alan's story and how Project Black Inferno was stopped thanks to his efforts, plus a scene in the land beyond life (the world from the Cross Bearer), where Alan finally reunites with his family and the WD rabbits. Please review so I can update faster! Thank you!