Before preparing to leave Cowslip's Warren, Alan told Sam that there was something else he wanted her to see. Leaving Fiver and Little Threar with Silverweed, to allow them some privacy, he led Sam away from the warren to a nearby clearing. Sam felt her blood run cold at the sight of an ancient-looking, overgrown graveyard – the former Newtown Common churchyard, easily recognisable by the familiar, but now-ruinous church in the centre.
She'd visited this place once before with old man Mike before leaving the 21st century, who'd shown her Alan's false grave, which had become a popular tourist attraction in the years following his disappearance. But now, more than 700 years later, the graveyard was long abandoned and frightfully eerie. Why had Alan brought her to this place?
Alan led her past old tombstones, all chipped and overrun with centuries of unchecked grime and moss, finally stopping in front of one, which looked strangely more pristine than the rest. He pointed at the inscription. Sam felt her insides twist up as she read the familiar name of Russell Robbins, born 1978 and died 2791, engraved on the stone. Her long search for her lost brother had finally come to an end.
"That's...him, isn't?" she stammered. Alan nodded grimly. This was the place where her late brother, a notorious murderer and terrorist with a false name, was buried. Four years ago, he and Alan had fought to the death on this very spot, with the latter emerging victorious. A lonely, forgotten grave was all that was left of Robbins, the man who had once been Ronald Fields.
Sam suddenly felt her legs about to give way. She wanted out of here, away from this horrible place, but something inside her forced her to control herself. She had to face this, to make peace with her former relation to that horrible man, who, unloved and unwanted as a child, had inflicted so much pain and suffering upon the world, including her. After all these years, she now realised it had in fact been her brother, whom she'd never met, that had killed their parents in that arson attack, for abandoning him.
She looked at Alan, who, getting the hint that she wanted a moment alone, nodded, "I'll be over there by the trees. Just holler if you need me."
Sam knelt in front of the grave, staring at the earth under which her brother's remains lay. She briefly wondered, had Robbins ever known about her? If she and her parents had sought him out sooner, maybe he'd have turned out a very different person? Perhaps her family's mistake was ultimately responsible for the rise of that monster? Alas, now she would never know.
She didn't know how long she stood there, staring into space, when she was suddenly snapped out of her trance by a pair of strong hands that seized her from behind. She was forced facedown onto the ground, her attacker twisting her hand behind her back, whilst using the other to keep her pinned down by the neck. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw it was an oaf of a skin-headed man in military uniform. Only this man, Sam realised, was no real soldier.
"Alan, help...!" she cried, but her attacker, quick as a flash, flipped her over, slapping his filthy hand over her mouth, silencing her. His sickening, sadistic expression was like that of a hungry animal having cornered some prey. Sam desperately struggled but he was far too strong for her. The thug smiled gleefully in her face, showing her his rotting, yellowing teeth. His putrid breath was overwhelming.
"Well, well, well, this is an unexpected find – a little feminine pleasure!" he smirked, making kissing-faces at Sam, who realised, with a shudder, what this riff-raff meant to do to her. Sure enough, his ham-like hands hungrily grabbed at her blouse, preparing to strip her. Poor Sam tried to claw at his eyes with her fingernails, but it was no use. Angered by her resistance, the thug drew a large knife, pressing it hard against her throat.
"One more move, sweetheart, and I spill your blood! Your body will still serve its purpose for my pleasures, even if you're dead!" Sam froze, thinking she was about to die. But before her would-be rapist could carry out his threat however, someone came to her rescue.
A familiar brown buck suddenly appeared out of nowhere, springing at the thug and ramming him hard in the side. The cracking of ribs was heard as the man was sent flying, landing on the ground with a yell of pain. Captain Campion didn't give him a chance to recover and reach for his gun; like lightning, he fell upon him, pinning him to the ground.
"One false move, chum, and I'll rip your throat out!"
Sam, meanwhile, was lying petrified, as if in a trance. Never in her life had she felt so scared, so vulnerable, not even at the hands of her abusive ex-boyfriend. Now she knew what the notion that women were only put on this earth so that big, macho men could have their sick ways with them truly felt like. At that moment, Alan, who had heard the commotion, came running.
"Jesus, Sam! I'm so sorry, I should have stayed close by," he muttered apologetically, helping her up. Luckily, she hadn't been hurt, just badly frightened from her ordeal. "Why didn't you use your gun?" Sam only then remembered that she had had Robbins' gun tucked in her pocket all along. She felt so stupid, so useless for not thinking of using it.
"He caught me by surprise... Said he was going to kill me and then force himself on me..." Alan felt his anger rise. This stranger was obviously no gentleman. He turned to Campion.
"You truly are the rabbit of the hour, Campion. Thanks." he said, dreading to think what might have happened to Sam otherwise, and on his watch too. Derek, for one, would never forgive him. "But what are you doing way out here?"
"The same thing you're doing, I suppose," replied Campion, not daring to take his eyes off their prisoner, "After what happened to Moss, I couldn't just sit around and wait for another victim."
"Does Groundsel even know you're here? Won't you get into trouble?"
Although Campion was a loyal and dutiful officer, his sense of duty to protect his warren would sometimes outweigh his otherwise strict code of command. Despite Groundsel's orders that Vleflain was to have no further contact with Watership Down, here he was, like Alan, trying to find Moss's real killers.
"Right now, we're on neutral territory," he reassured him, "As far as Groundsel-rah knows, I'm on a routine solo patrol. I picked up your scent back there and figured you could use my help." He gestured at the thug, still pinned beneath him. It seemed they'd found their first lead on the enemy at last. It was time for some answers.
"Who are you?" Alan demanded angrily, shaking the prisoner by his lappers, "Answer me!"
"Sergeant Mason, of Governor Crowley's militia," smirked the thug, "We're the new masters of this world!" Alan could have figured this dirty scum regarded himself as such, judging by what he'd tried to do to Sam.
"Well, Sergeant, you've just made a fatal mistake, you have!" he growled, "Now, where is that renegade leader of yours – Crowley, was it again? – holed up?"
"I'm telling you nothing, Dr Johnson!" spat Mason arrogantly, "Oh, yes, I know who you are," he added, noticing the mildly surprised look on Alan and Campion's faces. "The Governor already knows all about you and your mutant fur-ball friends. You jest if you think you stand a chance against us!" But Campion wasn't in the mood for petty threats. He had a score to settle with this piece of hraka for murdering his friend. Unsheathing his claws, he poised them over the man's eyes.
"Why did you bastards kill Moss?" he growled furiously, "Damn you, answer me, or I claw your eyes out!"
"You better start talking while you're still ahead, Sergeant," said Alan icily, "Campion's not bluffing; I've watched him gouge out a man's eyes before and all in one go! Now, for the last time, where is your base?" In spite of his brutality, Sergeant Mason realised his captors were dead serious. And he wasn't about to let himself be blinded for Crowley's sake. Being left blind in a world like this meant being left a walking dead man.
"Our base is in a crater, about a mile due east, over that ridge," he said, gesturing in a familiar direction in the distance. Alan, who had explored these parts years ago, immediately realised where these ruffians were holed up.
"The humanoids' village! Of course!" he gasped, "So that's where they are."
"You know the way?" asked Campion hopefully, looking at Alan. If his human friend knew the place, then they were halfway into the enemy's stronghold already. The man nodded.
"I led a rescue mission there four years ago, to find some of our friends who'd been snatched away by Cowslip's breeders," he explained, "I could find that place again in the dark if I had to. The problem, of course, will be getting in there..."
"Look out!"
By turning to look at Alan, Campion had unthinkingly taken his eyes off of Mason for a split second. That was all the time the hardened mercenary needed to draw a concealed pistol from his trouser-leg, aiming it right between Campion's eyes. Campion froze, eyes wide with fear, thinking he was about to die. Snarling like a demented madman, Mason raised his weapon, ready to fire.
Alan, also caught completely unawares by this sudden counter-attack, quickly raised his own gun to shoot, but it was no good; Campion was caught right between him and Mason. By the time he could get a clear shot, the mercenary would have blown Campion's head off. Then, another gun went off – not Mason's and not Alan's either, but Sam's.
The bullet went clean through Mason's forehead, sending him sprawling back onto the ground, dead as a coffin-nail. Sam stood over him, Robbins' gun clutched in her trembling hands. She was shaking all over. At the sight of the bullet-riddled face of the dead Mason, lifeless black eyes staring almost accusingly back at her, surprised that this would-be pleasure toy, as he'd always regarded women, had done him in, she gasped and turned away. She sank to her knees and retched, sickened to the core by her first homicide.
Satisfied that Campion was all right and out of harm's way, Alan hurried over to comfort her. Sam was weeping uncontrollably, looking terribly distraught. She was in a state of shock by what she'd done. Alan gently took the gun from her hand.
"Are you all right, Sam?"
"I killed him... I killed him..." Sam was mumbling, tears of shame and self-loathing rolling down her face. She'd never thought herself a bad person before; she'd been brought up an honest and good-natured woman, who'd never dream of harming another soul. By ending this man's life, even in a moment of panic to protect her friends, she felt like she'd just been branded with the mark of the beast, like her brother had been before her. Even beyond the grave, Robbins seemed to have cursed her to follow in his footsteps. She broke down, sobbing in anguish.
"It's all right, Sam," said Alan soothingly, kneeling beside her, "You did nothing wrong. It was self-defence."
"But I murdered him!" she cried, "You were right; I'm no different from Robbins!" She buried her face in her hands.
"No, Sam, you're not!" persisted Alan, trying his best to calm her, "That scoundrel meant to rape you; he would have almost certainly killed Campion if you hadn't intervened. He had it coming!"
"But I've never killed anyone before," wept Sam, "I feel so awful...!"
"I know, it's a bitter pill to swallow," said Alan, who knew all too well what it felt like to be a killer, "Trust me, I know exactly what it feels like. I too was forced to kill a 12-year-old child soldier while serving in the war and I've never forgiven myself for it. But I had to get my grip together, for the sake of my family and friends. You must be strong, Sam, for all of us." But it didn't seem like Sam could just banish the memory of what she'd just done from her mind any time soon. Then Campion stepped in.
"Sam, however bad you may think of yourself, you still saved my life today. And, on my Captain of Owsla's honour, I will be grateful for what you did till the day the Black Rabbit takes me!" That seemed to give Sam some sense of consolation. Gently, she pulled Campion into a hug.
"Thank you, Campion. I needed to hear that. And thank you for saving me." She kissed him on the cheek. Campion blushed.
Alan turned back to Sergeant Mason's dead body. Although part of him wished they could have taken him alive, to get some more information out of him, it was better this way. There was no question of letting him go, even if he'd cooperated, or this Governor Crowley character would have been onto them in no time.
"All right, we need to hide the body quickly," he said, "Our shot could have been heard anywhere for several miles. Then, let's get back to the others and see what we're going to do."
They hid Mason's body under some rubble on the edge of the church ruins and out of sight from any of his associates who might come looking for him. Alan confiscated the man's weapons, ammunition and even took his uniform, which he figured might come in handy later. Unfortunately, he didn't have a radio, which would have been ideal for spying on the enemy, by tapping into their communications.
Making their way back to Cowslip's warren, they told Fiver, Little Threar and Silverweed what had happened. The rabbits were shocked at the news and firmly voiced their agreements that Sam had been entirely within her rights to kill Mason.
"There's been a change of plans, chaps," said Alan, "It seems we've finally pinpointed the enemy's exact location; we're going in there after dark, to do a reconnaissance."
"Are you sure that's wise, Alan?" said Fiver doubtfully. They didn't have Bigwig or his Owsla with them when they needed them, "By the sound of it, those invaders are dangerous and can mean a lot of trouble if they find us."
"That's exactly my point, Fiver," replied Alan, "It seems they already know a lot more about us than we thought. For all we know, they could be planning an attack on Watership Down at this very moment. We've got to find out what the hell those scumbags are up to, otherwise we'll never be safe."
"Count me in," said Campion, who wouldn't hesitate for a second to follow his friends into danger. This was his mission, as much as it was theirs. As humans would say, Vleflain was in the same boat as Watership Down, regardless of their Chief Rabbits' differences. Alan nodded his thanks.
"Glad to have you onboard, Campion."
"Me too," said Fiver, raising his forepaw. He may be a runty rabbit, but he still had courage. Little Threar, despite his young age, also followed suit. "We're all with you!"
"Frith be with you, my friends," muttered Silverweed glumly, almost as if he had a bad premonition about this, "You will need His help..."
Unfortunately, none of them realised that Sergeant Mason hadn't been out scouting alone. While he had been following Alan and Sam, his partner, Vervain had instead chosen to stay hidden just outside the entrance to the warren, where the group's voices carried, listening in to every word they said.
Vervain was more than satisfied. They would have Silverweed within their grasp soon enough; but now he realised, he also needed a seer, as part of the ritual to revive the General. And, it just so happened, he had two of them: that troublesome runt Fiver and his scrawny brat Little Threar, either of which would do perfectly for the job. And he would personally make sure to acquire the perfect candidate. Quietly, he slipped away into the woods...
Just after dark, Alan led his reconnaissance party, consisting of himself, Campion, Fiver and Little Threar through the forest, following a familiar path towards the humanoids' lair. They'd bid Silverweed goodbye, thanking him for his help and warning him to stay vigilant. They'd offered to take him back with them to Watership Down, where he'd be safe, but the mystic, always protective of his privacy, had politely turned down the offer.
As they approached the site, Alan suddenly became aware of an unpleasant odour that seemed to be lingering about the forest; something that smelled awfully like rotting human flesh, with a touch of burning. And as they soon found out, that was precisely the case.
Entering a clearing, they came upon a recently dug trench, housing a ghastly pile of bullet-riddled, semi-incinerated and rapidly decomposing corpses of a few dozen humanoids. These mindless, ape-like descendants of the human race, one of the deadliest of elil in this world, seemed to have met up with something, or perhaps someone, even more deadly than them.
The bodies were all riddled with bullet-holes, indicating they'd been used for target practise. Among them were also several humanoid children, bound hand and foot with nylon straps and lying in awkward positions, indicating they were still alive when they'd been dumped into the pit. The executioners seemed to have then drenched the bodies in petrol and set them ablaze, leaving only these charred, mangled carcasses for the worms to feed. The sight was appalling.
Alan turned away, feeling sick to his stomach. He'd read somewhere that human beings were close cousins to pigs, but this sure didn't smell like pork chops on a barbecue. He tried not to dwell on that thought; he'd never be able to stomach his favourite streaky bacon for breakfast again if he did.
"Frith of Inle, this is sick!" muttered Campion, looking absolutely appalled at the sight of this massacre, "Why would someone do this?"
"To steal their land, I'd imagine," said Alan, who could already paint a very grim picture of these mercenaries' agenda. He dreaded to think that he and his friends might very well be next on their hit list.
Moving on, they finally came to the edge of the crater. But, instead of finding a lair of primitive humanoids, which'd once preyed on Cowslip's rabbits, now the bottom of the crater was taken up by an elaborate 21st century army encampment.
A dozen Quonset-hut-shaped tents of camouflage canvas stood pitched in neat rows around the camp, alongside some cubicles, which were chemical toilets, and some tin sheds, which were probably storage. On the far side of the camp was a Lockheed jet, parked on the edge of a makeshift runway that had been bulldozed along the bottom of the crater, alongside a small convoy of military jeeps. Generator-powered lights stood mounted on poles all around the camp, bathing the place in electric light, where heavily armed men went about their duties. Alan and his party took cover under some foliage, surveying the crater.
"Cor blimey, they sure came here prepared," whispered Alan, looking through his binoculars, "They've got generators, vehicles, even a jet. These are no spray-painting street hooligans with knuckledusters and flick-knives; these fellows are pros."
"Agreed," whispered Campion grimly, "Well, there's no way our Owslas can take on an ithel army that size."
Alan had to agree whole-heartedly on that. He counted close to a hundred men down there and plenty of light artillery. Attempting to fight this rabble with their limited resources would be suicide. Even the large, seasoned Vleflain Owsla wouldn't make much of a dent, at least not without suffering heavy losses.
"What are we going to do, Alan?" asked Fiver, "We wouldn't stand a chance..."
But Alan had his attention elsewhere. Using his binoculars, he zoomed in onto one of the sheds in the centre of the camp. This one, for some reason, stood well apart from the rest of the structures and, noticing the high-explosives-hazard sign painted on the walls, Alan realized why. That was the camp's powder magazine, where the mercenaries kept all of their ammo. He smiled, scratching his chin.
"I think I have an idea, lads," he whispered to his companions, "If a saboteur could sneak down there and plant a bomb in that powder magazine, we could cripple their arsenal. That should give us a fighting chance."
"You mean we have to go down there, Uncle Alan?" asked Little Threar with a shudder. After seeing what they had done to those humanoids, the young rabbit dreaded the prospect of falling into the hands of these brutes, where they couldn't expect much mercy.
"No, absolutely not!" Alan reassured him, "I can't expose you, or Fiver, to any sort of danger. It's more than my job's worth. The same goes for you, Campion. I'm going down there alone."
"How exactly do you plan to get past their security?" asked Campion, feeling a tad bit snubbed by not being included in on this escapade. He gestured at several armed guards patrolling the perimeter of the camp. There was no way anyone could sneak past them undetected.
"Sometimes, the easiest way is simply going in through the front door," said Alan confidently. The rabbits were stunned.
"How in Frith's name are you going to pull that off?" exclaimed Fiver, "Even El-ahrairah's trickery only goes so far..."
But Alan, who had long ago infiltrated the supposedly impenetrable Efrafa – twice –, had the perfect solution up his sleeve. Reaching into his pack, he took out Mason's uniform.
Hurryingly suiting up, he soon looked just like any one of the uniformed mercenaries. The undercover soldier was ready to go to war. Luckily, Mason's uniform was a good fit. However, there wasn't much he could do about his face, other than keep his cap low and his face in shadow. In other words, he'd just waltz into the lion's den and hope they were a bunch of blind idiots.
"Good luck," said Campion, "Take care!"
"Please be careful, Uncle Alan," said Little Threar worryingly. Alan lovingly patted his nephew between the ears.
"I'll be fine, laddie," he said, giving him a smile, "I've handled punks like that bunch before. Don't worry." He turned to Fiver. Taking off his watch, he strapped it onto Fiver's forepaw. Like Pipkin, Fiver had also been taught how to read time proper over the years.
"It's ten o'clock," said Alan, "If I'm not back in 15 minutes, get yourselves out. Don't come in after me. You hear that, Campion?" Campion nodded solemnly. Although he hated being left behind, he realised it would be up to him to get Fiver, Sam and Little Threar safely back to Watership Down if something happened to Alan.
Sam stared in awe at Alan, as he made his way towards the enemy base, as casually as if taking a stroll down to the local pub for a pint. That man is definitely certifiable, she thought. Despite all these constant brushes with death and danger, deep down, she was beginning to really like this new life of adventure she'd made for herself. It was almost as if she'd been waiting for it all her life, to be the person her brother never was...
Alan made his way down the incline that led to the bottom of the crater. It was much smoother than what he remembered it from four years ago. It seemed Crowley's mercenaries had done a lot of roadwork here, clearing the crater of boulders and building a flat dirt ramp for their vehicles to move in and out.
As he casually entered the encampment, trying his best to act normal, he was sighted by one of the guards on watch. Alan nervously tightened his grip on his weapon.
"Oh, about bloody time, Serge!" grunted the man, quickly standing to salute his 'Sergeant', who had just returned from his patrol. Alan returned the salute, trying not to look his way and let him see his face. "Mr Crowley has been asking for you, sir."
"Tell him I'll be along shortly," said Alan, doing his best at mimicking Sergeant Mason's grunting voice, as he kept on walking, without stopping. If anyone realised he wasn't really Mason, his perfect infiltration plan would instantly go down the crapper.
He passed a few more men on the way, some of which saluted and kept on walking, others flatly ignoring him, none of them suspecting anything. His schoolyard disguise was paying off even better than he thought. Avoiding a crowd of soldiers on their way to have mess, he made his way towards the outbuildings on the far side of the camp.
Passing outside a row of large tents housing bunks for the men, he noticed a light on inside one. Entering, he found what looked like a storage area, piled high with boxes and crates, all bearing military markings. One corner however was converted into someone's private bunk and office. Its occupant was nowhere to be seen, but had left the kerosene lamp on on his way out, it seemed.
Although he knew it was damn foolish to linger around this place any longer than he had to, least he get caught, his curiosity got the better of him. After all, inside intelligence on the enemy was just as important as his sabotage mission.
Staring at the clutter of papers atop the fold-up desk, Alan gasped as he laid eyes on a pile of dossiers bearing the Bureau crest, which contained detailed files on him, his family and all the other people that had disappeared into the future back in 2012. The pictures of those who were dead, Alan noted with a frown, were crossed out in red. It was clear that Crowley and his goons hadn't come here without doing research first. But where did they get all this information in the first place?
Flipping through the files, he suddenly noticed a familiar pocket voice-recorder lying on the desk. Holding it close to his ear, he hit the play button. The all-too-familiar voice on the tape nearly took his breath away – Robbins! He had found the missing audio log his long-deceased nemesis had made four years ago whilst stalking him and his friends undercover, bidding his time to kill him – the same log that had ultimately made its way back to the 21st century, only to fall into the hands of the notorious Sven Shertok.
Well, I'll be damned. So this is what this is all about, thought Alan, realising what fools they'd been by wasting time suspecting Sam of being a spy. The fact was there never was any spy at all. It was all Shertok's work!
With time quickly running out, he pocketed the tape from the voice recorder and left the tent. Making his way over to the powder magazine, he found it unguarded. Making sure there were no security cameras, he made his way up to the door. He could see it only had a simple padlock, which he could pick, but there was also an alarm system, which would be trickier. If he simply tried opening the door, the whole camp would instantly be upon him.
Drawing his knife from its sheath, he got to work unscrewing the alarm keypad from its panel. Half a dozen multicoloured wires snaked out from behind it. Selecting what best to his knowledge were the lead wires, he cut them. The blaring of the alarm going off never came; the system had been successfully disabled.
Picking the padlock open, he entered the shed. The interior was lined with shelves of magazines, clips, smoke grenades, barrels of napalm and boxes of C4 for military demolitions. There were enough explosives here to level half the camp. Voila!
Hurryingly rigging together a package of C4 and a detonator, he placed it atop the barrels of napalm. Setting the timer for five minutes, to give him enough time to get out of the camp, he armed it. Pocketing as many magazines and ammo as he could carry, to replenish the colony's nearly exhausted arsenal, he was ready to make his leave.
But as he stepped out of the shed, he came face to face with a mean-looking man in civilian clothing, who had the misfortune to be passing outside the powder magazine at that very moment. Alan didn't know this was the turncoat Hirsh, the mastermind behind the hijacking of the convict transport plane and the massacre of Major Haywood and his men, but Hirsh was close enough to see his face.
Always preferring to eat separately from the rest of his bullying, oafish associates, Hirsh had unceremoniously collected a plate from the mess hall and was looking for someplace private to eat his dinner, only to discover an intruder in a stolen uniform about to sabotage the powder magazine! Dropping his plate of stew, in a flash, he drew his handgun in Alan's face.
"Who the hell are you?" he barked, gesturing at Alan to back up against the wall, "What do you think you're doing?" Alan didn't answer, instead keeping his eyes trained on the weapon in Hirsh's hand. Hirsh's eyes went wide, as he spotted the ticking bomb sitting inside the shed.
"So, playing Guy Fawkes, are you?" he snarled, advancing on Alan, "Say your prayers, you...!"
But Alan had lured him into the right position. Suddenly, he grabbed the side of the open shed door and slammed it hard in Hirsh's face. The man yelled in pain as his nose burst like a tomato on a brick wall and dropped his weapon. Quick as a flash, Alan junk-punched him with both fists. Hirsh crumpled to his knees, howling.
Realising he only had a minute before this entire base was put on full alert, Alan turned and ran from the scene, making for the edge of the camp. His sabotage plan was foiled, so he might as well make it back to his friends while he still could, to fight alongside them, rather than be taken prisoner and shot, or else tortured to death at the hands of these ruffians.
Making it back to the sleeping quarters, he found the way blocked by a crowd of semi-drunk mercenaries returning from mess. If he tried walking through that crowd, they were bound to see his face and his cover would be blown.
Quickly picking up a discarded supplies box, he heaved it onto his shoulder. Keeping it between the thugs' view and his face, he casually walked through the crowd, moving as quickly as he dared without arousing suspicion.
He had almost made it, when suddenly a battered and utterly shaken Hirsh came running. Despite his broken nose and having taken a double junk-punch, he'd recovered just in time to diffuse Alan's bomb and secure the powder magazine. Now, he had to alert the rest of the camp of this dangerous intruder.
"Security breach!" he yelled, getting everyone's attention, "Intruder in the camp! There he is!" All eyes turned to look at Alan, realising he wasn't one of them at all, "Get after him, you fools!"
Alan didn't wait for them to respond. With quick reflexes, he turned and hurled the box at the mercenary nearest to him. The man sunk to the ground in a pool of his own blood, his skull caved in. In another instant, Alan had drawn Mason's gun and shot another opponent dead. The rest of the mob, unarmed and scared shitless by the fierceness of this murderous intruder, drew back, raising their hands in the air.
Alan would have happily blown away more of these bastards right there and then, but this wasn't the right time. As soon as they had given him a wide enough berth and the coast was clear, he turned tail and ran for his life. In another second, the wailing sound of an alarm was sounded.
"Hey, you're not Sergeant Mason...!" shouted one of the guards at the gate who had previously let him in, as Alan ran right past him. He sprinted up the dirt ramp, with bullets whizzing all around him. He winced as one grazed his left thigh, drawing blood. Ignoring the pain, he ducked into the trees. For the second time in his life, Alan Johnson had made a dramatic escape from this place and still in one piece.
His friends were waiting for him, all having gone tharn with worry at the sound of the commotion, but overjoyed to see him safe.
"Oh, my goodness, Alan, you're bleeding!" gasped Sam, noticing Alan's bloodied thigh. But Alan didn't have time to worry about that now. Down in the crater, he could hear the sounds of jeep engines being started up. Very soon, the area would be crawling with armed patrols hunting them down. They had to flee deep into the woods at once, where they could lose their pursuers. Alan mounted his horse and helped Sam up too.
"Everyone, down to the river!" he called, "We'll meet up on the riverbank!"
The passage through the thick foliage in the dark wasn't easy. Campion led the way, followed by Alan and Sam on horseback, with Fiver and Little Threar picking up the rear. Low branches brushed painfully across their faces as they ran faster than they had ever run in their lives, towards the river. If they could make it to the opposite bank, they'd be safe.
Campion and Fiver had plenty of experience in evading enemies out in the field, but Little Threar was young and inexperienced, and was quickly falling behind.
"I...I can't run anymore, parli," he panted, "I'm worn out!"
"Just a little more, Little Threar," Fiver desperately urged his exhausted son on, knowing all too well he was putting his own life at risk by helping him. The enemy, he knew, was hot on their tail and would soon catch up, "Please, son! You can do it!"
They came to the river. Alan's stallion gracefully slipped into the churning water, which rose up to Alan and Sam's waists, but the horse couldn't care less. In a few swift strokes, it had made it to the other side. Behind them, Campion, another expert swimmer, helped Fiver across. But Little Threar wasn't so lucky.
Wading through the shallows, the young rabbit suddenly slipped on the slimy stones and fell into the deep part of the river. The current was strong from the spring rains and poor Little Threar had never been in open water in his life. Before anyone could grab him, he was drifting downstream.
"Help! I can't touch the bottom! Parli! Uncle Alan!"
"Hold on, lad!" called Alan, "I'm coming!"
Before he could dismount from his horse and take the plunge however, several pairs of headlights appeared on the opposite bank. The mercenaries' jeeps had caught up with them. Before they knew what was happening, the sound of gunfire filled the air again.
With death only seconds away and with Little Threar well out of reach, the group took to their heels and ran, dodging bullets as they disappeared into the trees. The mercenaries tried to resume the chase, only to find their way blocked by the river. One careless driver tried to wade across in his jeep, only to stall the vehicle's engine halfway across. Those vehicles were only rated for country roads and riding around the barracks, not the jungle-like terrain of the future world. By the time they could get more men across, the intruders were gone.
Meanwhile, Little Threar had somehow managed to make his way ashore, after being washed up onto a sandbank further downriver. Never in his life had he had such a frightening experience. Muttering his thanks to Frith for still being alive, he looked around the dark, unfamiliar countryside.
Never having had any proper Owsla training, Little Threar felt lost and afraid. He was separated from his companions and all alone out here. He could never find his way back to Watership Down on his own. Now what was he going to do?
Struggling to stay calm and think, Little Threar considered his options. He could remember his Uncle Alan's teachings, that if he ever got lost, he should stay put and wait for help to arrive, unless there was immediate danger. He knew for a fact his parli would move earth and Shadowlands to find him. But he couldn't just sit here and wait to be rescued. The elil of the night would get him long before he could be found.
At that moment, his ears perked up at the pattering sound of footsteps approaching. The scent in the air told him there was another rabbit close by. Little Threar felt his heart soar – they'd come for him! He was saved!
"Parli? Uncle Alan? I'm here!" He could definitely make out the outline of a rabbit in the dark, but couldn't quite make out who it was. Strangely enough, the stranger didn't answer him, as he slowly approached him.
"Parli, is that you...? Aargh!" Suddenly, without warning, the stranger sprang at him, pinning him down. A patch of moonlight fell across his face, revealing the triumphant face of Vervain. Too late, Little Threar realised he'd walked straight into an ambush.
"No, not your pathetic Outsider parli, you little runt," smirked Vervain. Little Threar struggled, but even the skinny Vervain was too strong for him.
"Help! Uncle Alan...!" Little Threar screamed, but Vervain quickly pressed his paw down hard over his throat, almost suffocating him.
"Shut up, you miserable little runt, or I'll choke the life out of you!" he snarled, "You're going nowhere!"
"What do you want with me?" choked Little Threar, struggling to breathe under Vervain's iron grip. He didn't like the look on the evil rabbit's face at all.
"A sacrifice," muttered Vervain in Little Threar's ear, making the young rabbit's blood curdle, "You, outsider, are going to use your seer powers you've gotten from your worthless father, to restore my master to life..."
Author's note: Sorry about the cliffhanger, but the chapter was becoming a bit too long. I'll try and finish chapter 40 as well, before moving on to my other stories. Enjoy and please review!