We shall continue informing you on how your life will come to an end. Soon, very very soon. Because bunnies are plotting an apocalypse! Beware and step into Chapter 4 at your own risk! (Read how it started here.)
Please welcome our 4th author, Seth Werkheiser, (aka @sethw). Seth started a music blog in 2001, started a metal blog in 2009 for AOL Music. Left NYC in 2010, quit his job in early 2011 and has been traveling around the US since, on bike, bus, and train. These days he writes metal trivia on Twitter (@skulltoaster), draws robots, and drinks lots of coffee which fuels the growth of his beard.
EASTER BUNNY APOCALYPSE
Chapter 4 by Seth Werkheiser
“We’ve had no reports of feral cats in this region,” said Easter. “How can that be?”
“Damned if I know,” said Gorse, as he tore a blood soaked tourniquet from his right arm, grimacing in pain.
This primary theater of operation was a two-decade-old suburban sprawl. While feral cats ruled this land years ago, they've now been forced from the area by paved cul-de-sacs and brightly colored playsets.
“All I know is this bunny squadron ain’t got a fighting chance with a legion of feline fighters ready to pounce.”
Gorse spoke from experience. In the Bunny Insurgance many years ago, as nothing but a front line bunny-grunt, he'd witnessed piles of matted fur and headless mice for miles.
“Even with air support?”
Gorse didn’t respond. His beady eyes fixed on his battle-scarred bunny arm.
“Air support won’t mean shit,” Gorse said. “They’ll snatch the owls from midair and then we’ll be left hauling a squadron of their kind back to the infirmary.”
He was right. Cats have nine lives, but the memories of a hardened bunny soldier can last for generations.
“We fight, we scatter, air support arrives...”
The bunny and owl relationship had suffered for many moons, mostly from dealing with any number of feral cats. They are cunning warriors, born into a cold, dark world filled with a life of Chinese food dumpsters and restaurant parking lots. With enough feral cats, a region can be blocked off for years. That’s where we stand today. The course of our collective bunny fate is clear, but this situation can escalate the entire ordeal to murderous levels.
“The course of the battle isn’t measured in days, Commander,” said Gorse, looking up from his wound. “It’s over in hours.”
Owl support usually involved high altitude flight. But once the malevolent creatures see an injured ally, they swoop down to assist. That’s where the battle is lost. Their greatest asset, flight, is cancelled out by their enormous hearts.
“Then we must call upon an old ally,” said Easter, while scanning the rows of injured bunnies. “We’ve shared shelf-space with them for years.”
“Damn it, Easter,” said Gorse, throwing his bunny helmet to the ground. “Don’t you get it? Feral. Fucking. Cats. Ain’t nothing gonna help here. No one can help us in a situation like this.”
Gorse was right. No one group or battalion could save our bunny hides. Not against feral cats, led by thirteen-year-old fighters, with names like Knuckles and Chainsaw.
But an entire additional army could. An army built from marshmallow and neon-colored sugar. An army, mass produced in large scale, wrapped in cellophane, and readily available.
“Gorse, have your men ready by first light.”
“Commander, that’s madness! We're out numbered!”
“We’ll have numbers,” said Easter. “The battle will be soaked in blood and sugar, but we’ll have numbers.”
The bunnies will amass an army, a clone army of marshmallowy goodness.
A Peeps Army.