A logging truck drove along the country road, heading towards Cole Henley. The driver sat at the wheel, smoking and listening to Randy Travis songs on his stereo. Anxious to finish his delivery and get home to bed, he was completely oblivious to the two stowaways hiding in the back. Alan and Fiver had hitched a ride to the village of Whitchurch, to pay a visit to an old friend of Alan's, Johnny Boone, whose friends called Hotdog.
During his time at the orphanage, Alan had made friends with three people that had come to mean the world to him, besides his family: Derek had been his first and had remained his closest friend to the end; Hotdog was a mean-spirited sardonic African Scot, the illegitimate son of an Edinburgh mafia lord who had been arrested by Interpol when he was a boy. Due to his family history, no foster family would adopt him, leaving him to grow up as a ward of the state. With a sense of humour that resembled Bluebell's, as well as a natural-born artist of crime, had become another member of Alan and Derek's circle of friendship, along with a fourth fellow, Ronald Fields. Together, the four boys had started a group called The Hard Boys, as part of their bond of trust and friendship, with an oath never to be apart. Unfortunately, that oath wasn't meant to last forever.
Fields had been the first to go. Following a bitter quarrel with Alan, which had eventually developed into pure animosity, he had eventually severed his friendship altogether and gone his own way, never to be heard from again. Hotdog had chosen a life of crime, preferring to follow in his parents' footsteps which, although didn't hinder his love for his old friends, had slowly caused them to drift apart.
Starting out as a petty pickpocket and shoplifter as a teenager, he had mastered other criminal techniques over the years, including hacking, forging, and black market business practices. Running a black liquor business in Whitchurch, he made his money mostly from smuggling jobs, including flying illegal shipments of his booze across the Channel. Then, about five years ago, his criminal habits had finally caught up with him. After being tipped off by some anonymous source, the police had intercepted Hotdog on one of his smuggling runs. He had been given ten years, but with the outbreak of war, he had been pulled out and recruited by the Royal Engineers for the war effort, serving as a non-combatant on the Bomb Squad on the home front. After the war, he had been returned to prison, to serve his time, but promised an early release on parole sometime around Christmas, for good behaviour. With no one else left to turn to, Alan was now turning to his last remaining old friend.
Aside from being a smuggler, Hotdog was also a professional hacker, having done numerous lucrative jobs in computer fraud, which, combined with his experience in diffusing bombs for the Bomb Squad, made him just the man they needed to help them break into Buxton Hall and stop Black Inferno. As they passed through the village square, the two companions jumped off the truck, which continued on its way. Not waiting to be spotted by any passersby, Alan quickly led Fiver away, to his old friend's address. Crossing a bridge over the Test, they headed towards a run-down section on the outskirts of the town, where some abandoned warehouses and silk mills, defunct since the 1920's, were situated. This part of the village was deserted, virtually unpopulated – except for one place, situated well off the beaten track.
Climbing over a closed gate on the side of the road, Alan led the way down a dark gravel path, towards a run-down boarding house on the far side of an overgrown field. A cracked, weatherworn sign over the front door spelled: 'The Dead Rat Inn'. This was Hotdog's 'humble' abode; although just a derelict inn at first glance, on the inside, Alan knew was Hotdog's secret meth lab, where his clients gathered to do business. Gangsters, wealthy smugglers and other black market dealers from around the country, all members of the local smuggling syndicate, would often meet to do business, like the bootleggers of the 1930s US, or simply to party on Hotdog's booze. Being childhood friends with a member of one of the biggest smuggling syndicates in England had its rewards, even for Alan and Derek, who had once been frequent customers, purchasing liquor and other black market products, all tax-free and at generous discounts. But that was all a thing of the past now.
Ever since Hotdog's arrest, his once lucrative smuggling business had been shut down and all of his associates dispensed. The worst part however were his former clients, Alan had heard, who had invested a hell of a lot of money in smuggling jobs, all of which had been wasted, and for which they were demanding compensation. A former criminal going straight after getting out of prison was never that simple, and for which society obviously didn't give a damn.
Rather than entering through the front door, Alan led the way to the back of the building, to a fire escape door. That was the secret entrance from where customers entered without being seen. He had never brought Mary or Lucy to this dump; although he had some fond memories of wild drinking parties here, this was still a den of smugglers – and, while the place seemed utterly deserted now, he wasn't about to take any chances.
Turning to his long-eared friend, he said, "I best go in alone, Fiver, in case there's trouble." He pointed at a shadowy corner behind some old, rusting containers on the edge of the yard, "I want you to wait over there. Stay well out of sight, till I return." But Fiver looked uneasy at the prospect of being left alone again, "Alan, I don't want to be left alone! Please..." Alan bent down and held the rabbit close for a hug.
"Don't worry, buddy; I promise you I'll be back in two shakes. And that is the word of Alan Johnson," he said, sounding genially reassuring for a change. After all, that was only his old friend he was going to see in there. What was there to be afraid of, other than perhaps giving Hotdog the shock of his life when he realised he had apparently returned from the dead?
Stroking Fiver on the head one last time to reassure him, he walked up to the door. Picking up a stray brick that lay on the porch, he banged on the steel door with a rhythm of carefully timed taps, using the secret signal Hotdog had entrusted him with. Simply knock or use the signal wrongly and the alarm would be sounded and any intruder caught here would be hamburger. Let's hope the password hasn't been changed, he thought nervously, as a slot opened and a menacing voice growled, "Got the password, mate?"
"Dirty schemes sing tonight," Alan whispered into the slot. For a few seconds nothing happened, the guards' eyes watching him closely, making sure this stranger was alone. Alan was just about to turn and walk way, but then he heard a key turn in the lock and the door open ajar, "Enter and be quick about it!"
Alan stepped inside and then the door swung shut behind him, engulfing him in the total darkness that filled the room. For an instant, he thought the unseen guard - two of them actually, judging by the sound of their footsteps – would jump him but they didn't. Obviously, they thought he was just another local come to buy some tax-free liquor. At the far end of the corridor he was standing in, a crack of light was visible between the door and floor, which led to the next room. Pushing open the door, he entered a sleazy-looking pub.
Once this under-the-radar place was full of life, with moonshine, fresh out of the still, served by strippers, a casino, and of course the smugglers' conference nights. But that was all gone. Now, only a couple of haggard-looking customers, probably dangerous alcoholics, sat dozing at the counter, so full of Hotdog's booze, they didn't even register the newcomer walking through their midst. And Alan, although desperately in need of a drink himself, wasn't too keen on joining them. Right now, he had bigger fish to fry.
Making his way to the stairs, he made his way to Hotdog's dingy dwelling upstairs - the only apartment in the old boarding house still inhabited, from where Hotdog did all his dirty work in privacy. Pausing at the door, he could hear music playing inside, what sounded like a bubbling liquor still and the sound of rapid typing on a keyboard. Somebody was obviously working late. Taking a deep breath, he tapped his knuckles on the door.
"Hotdog? Open up!"
The sound of a strange voice demanding entrance seemed to frighten whoever was in there out of his wits. Alan thought he heard a chair topple over, heard more rapid typing, and then the sound of someone running about the room, picking up and breaking things, as if he was trying to hide something. Alan didn't have time for this. Standing a little away from the door, he kicked his foot in the lock, breaking it in, and entered.
Hotdog's flat had the typical look for that of a man of his trade; some cheap, shabby furniture, clippings of pornographic magazines decorating the filthy walls, and an elaborate hacker's workstation spread over three adjacent desks, the computers currently in the process of deleting a stash of illegal files it seemed. In the kitchen, a homemade still stood on the counter. He's only just gotten out of prison on probation and he's already returned to his old mischief...
Evidence of Hotdog's lack of hygiene and housekeeping skills was everywhere. The flat was swarming with litter, unwashed laundry and a pile of dishes in the sink, stinking up the whole apartment. There were also several boxes lying around the room filled containing, what appeared to be, stolen goods, including china, jewellery and even some artefacts, which Alan recognised, to his utmost outrage, as his own belongings, which had been stolen from his apartment. Ignoring all that dirty loot, he turned to his smuggler friend, who was standing over by the sink, hastily pouring bottles of moonshine down the drain.
Hotdog was just as Alan remembered him, with his hippie-style leather garments, long hair tied in locks, his fingers decorated with punk-style rings and a black patch over his left eye and a hideous earring to match, and his customary Chinese ivory marijuana pipe tucked in his back pocket. About to wet himself in fear, Hotdog slowly turned to face his visitor, who was only visible as a silhouette in a shadowy corner.
"All right, officer, I know this looks a wee bit suspicious, but this still is decommissioned, for decorative purposes only..." No doubt thinking Alan was his probation officer come to check up on him and catching him red-handed making booze, he was desperately trying to cover up what he'd been up to. Alan personally thought that was a real lame excuse, given that the whole room reeked of spirits, not to mention the stolen goods lying around. Hotdog was never a good liar.
"Sit down," he instructed his old friend, pointing in the direction of the rickety sofa. Trembling, the smuggler obeyed, thinking it might be one of his debtors collection agents instead, come to call in his debts in blood, "Look, whoever you are, we can work this out... Although I could swear I recognise your voice - but you can't be him. Not unless you're a ghost..." he muttered with a nervous laugh. At long last, he was catching on.
"Perhaps…" replied Alan, doing his best imitation of Jacob Marley's voice, "In life, I was your friend Alan Johnson!" he said, finally stepping out of the shadows. Although normally he'd hate to scare his friend this way, Hotdog had it coming for robbing his house after he disappeared. Sure enough, Hotdog's jaw dropped level with his throat, revealing his many gold teeth, his nervousness turning to pure terror. Among his many misgivings, he was also ridiculously superstitious, much to Alan and Derek's constant amusement.
"Al? No, you're dead! he gasped, backing up against the wall and recoiling, much like a mouse being cornered by a cat. Being confronted by his supposedly dead friend was nothing short of a nightmare, "Why return from the grave to haunt me? I swear to God, I didn't rob your house when you died!" Rolling his eyes at Hotdog denying having robbed him, when the evidence was strewn around the room, and for which he'd be have a bone to pick with his old friend later, Alan continued his torment a little more.
"Man of the worldly mind, do you believe in me or not?" Hotdog nodded, nervously muttering, "Now I am good as pork...!"
"Well then, I suppose you'll believe me when I tell you, I still walk the Earth as a living man?" he interrupted him, abandoning his torment and approaching his old friend. Hotdog was rubbing his good eye, still not trusting his own senses, "But I saw your coffin lowered into the grave along with Deke's! But then…" he added, realising the obvious, "your bodies were not found to begin with..."
"That's right, you old dog! About time you caught on!" said Alan cheerfully, as Hotdog burst out laughing, realising that one of his best friends, one whom he believed to have lost forever, was indeed still alive. Alan joined in the laughing too, as the two friends embraced.
"Bloody hell, Al! What the hell happened to you?" he asked, "And what's the idea of trying to give me a heart attack?" he added reproachfully, giving his friend a non-too-gentle punch in the gut for scaring him half to death with his dramatic entrance. Alan however, realising time was running out fast, got straight to the point.
"As much as I hate to spoil this lovely moment of reunion, I need your full attention now," said Alan, interrupting Hotdog, "I'm on the run from the police and you're the only one I've left to turn to..." Hotdog was giddy as a kid in a candy store at the news, thinking this was some wild joke, "On the run from the police, you say? Oho, welcome to the club, matey! About time you decided to follow my good example and becoming an honourable criminal…!" But noticing his friend's serious expression, Hotdog quit his clowning, realising something was very wrong here.
"What's going on here, Al? And, come to think about it, where's Deke? Why isn't he here with you?" Alan shook his head sadly, "Derek's dead, Hotdog. But we don't have much time, so I want you to shut up and hear me out."
He told Hotdog everything; Miles's discovery of Red Hand's operations, Red Hand's scam to get him and his family, Robbins, his journey into the future, the rabbits of Watership Down, General Woundwort and Black Inferno. By the time he was finished, Hotdog was trembling, no longer with fear, but with rage.
"A bunch of bloody terrorists killed Deke?" he bellowed, "Why, I'll have their heads mounted on my wall! Don't worry, Al, those gutter rats will feel the wrath of the Hard Boys, make no mistake about that! But, what was that you were saying about being…teleported into a future world of giant talking rabbits?" Learning that one his best friends had been killed by a terrorist assassin he could buy; but a journey into the future sounded too far-fetched, even for him. Alan didn't even bother pushing the matter further; he would just have to wait for his old friend see the living proof with his own eyes shortly. Right now, they had more important priorities.
"Red Hand is launching Project Black Inferno at midnight tonight! I'm going to try and stop it, alone if I have to! Now, are you with me or not?" Although still confused by Alan's strange story, Hotdog nodded firmly.
"Why yes, I'm with you all the way! There's no way those vermin are getting away with this! I for one won't let Derek Shaw to have died in vain! But I still don't understand what was that about those giant talking rabbits..." Alan smiled at him.
"You shall see soon enough."
After packing an improvised bomb kit, Hotdog's hacking laptop, wires, software, and all the other tools they would need, Alan and Hotdog descended down to the yard, where Hotdog's van awaited. Motioning to his friend to stay put, Alan whistled in the direction of the containers, "Fiver, come on out!" The excited buck sprang from his hiding place like a jack-in-the-box, right into Alan's embrace, "Thank Frith, Alan! I was starting to worry. So, did you find who you were looking for?"
Alan turned to look at Hotdog, who was staring, utterly dumbstruck at the sight of the giant, anthropomorphic rabbit in Alan's arms, which was actually talking like a human being! His pipe dropped from his agape mouth in shock, right into his pants, with its contents still lit. "Fiver, meet Hotdog, an old friend of mine and Derek's. Hotdog, this is Fiver, first friend I ever made in the future." Fiver couldn't help but smile.
After introductions were made and everyone brought up to speed (namely Hotdog snapping out of his trance and putting out the fire in his pants, realising his friend wasn't mad after all), the group of three loaded their equipment onto Hotdog's shabby van and were soon speeding out of Whitchurch, towards Overton. Alan sat in the back with Fiver, loading his weapons and checking the gear. Fiver sat in silence, lost in thought, probably dreading the prospect of the mission that still lay ahead of them. Noticing his little friend's troubled expression, Alan gently placed a hand on his friend's shoulder to comfort him.
"Fiver, the crucial part of our mission is almost at hand; pretty soon we will know, once and for all, if we have any chance of finally correcting the future. Whatever happens, I just want you to know that I love you very much and I will never turn my back on you, no matter how this turns out." Fiver smiled warmly, lovingly nuzzling Alan in return. Meanwhile, somewhere in the night, a clock struck eleven; one hour to launch.
Author's note: Another chapter gone! For those who are confused, go back and read the first chapter, where Alan is going through his photo album. The character of Ronald Fields will be explained more later. Please review!