Kronk

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Uncle Dan was feeling happy. Life had been good to him. Even on this desolate, windswept Yorkshire hillside with NaTel crews scurrying about and poking hand-vids up everybody’s bottom, Uncle Dan was happy. Ever since he had left MicroWar and joined Beauties of Mother Nature, he had been happy. Beauties of Mother Nature was the big time, and ecstasy was a Top T-rating. The Lesbian Witches of Cornwall had restored ecstasy; and now it looked as if the Mad Rabbits of Yorkshire would extend it.

The mad rabbits of Yorkshire were an enigma. Nobody knew where they had come from or what had caused them. There were the usual mutation theories, and it had even been claimed that MicroWar had developed a breed of killer rabbits (for possible sabotage of collective farming in Commieland) and that one had somehow escaped. But, even without checking, Uncle Dan knew that MicroWar were not that good. Strange. Perhaps the little beasties had been dining on carrots drenched with a pesticide which induced unnatural aggression.

Whatever the explanation, the fact remained that the mad rabbits were quite a sensation.

They had already killed several sheep, dogs and foxes. And it had been reported only yesterday that they had forced one local farmer to climb up a tree to escape their attention.

So far NaTel Research had not come up with any reasonable explanation. Three or four months ago, a nature boy — one of Uncle Dan’s millions of admirers — had written to the programme about a rabbit attacking and destroying a viper. And since then the number of odd happenings had multiplied. Perhaps the mad rabbits had also multiplied. Perhaps there had been only one killer rabbit — some kind of freak — to begin with.

Research, though being unable to shed light on the origins of mad rabbits, had discovered a further unusual happening, also in Yorkshire. Apparently, some time before the first mad rabbit was sighted, a tiger had been killed by a spaniel not very far away. Uncle Dan had been mildly tempted to work the tiger story into his programme, perhaps hinting at some kind of unnatural upheaval in the animal kingdom, but then he decided against it. Bad vid. You couldn’t show a non-existent tiger.

But you could show mad rabbits. Uncle Dan was happy.

There they were, the dear little things, at least a hundred of them, gambolling on the hillside about two hundred metres away. Presently, the NaTel beaters would drive them towards Uncle Dan and the vid crews. Uncle Dan hoped the rabbits would be co-operative.

NaTel had supplied a number of small dogs — guaranteed rabbit chasers all — in the hopes that the rabbits would be persuaded to destroy them.

The plan was to drive the rabbits, turn the dogs loose among them, and get as much of the result on tape as possible. Uncle Dan would speak a small piece with the rabbits approaching in the background. Then, depending how it all went, he could be cut in again at various points.

The day was cold, but Uncle Dan’s electrically heated Norfolk jacket kept him wonderfully warm, as also did the three or four triple whiskies he had taken the preceaution of consuming.

He stroked his bright red beard lovingly. Yes, he reflected, he really was happy. Since leaving MicroWar he had acquired wealth, reputation and twenty million half-witted fans. Life had been good to him. Almost too good.

As he thought briefly of MicroWar, a name floated up from the deeps of memory. Greylaw.

Uncle Dan scratched his head. He was puzzled. Why should he think of Greylaw?

Ah, yes, it all came back now. A month or two ago, or was it a year or two — not that it mattered — he had met this MicroWar type in the NaTel bar. Chatted about old times. Greylaw and that damn silly Tranquillity project. Then the MicroWar type fell flat on his face.

Probably pissed as a newt.

Uncle Dan’s reflections were brought to an end by a signal that the beaters — armed with rattles, cymbals and electronic flash — were driving the rabbits.

Uncle Dan observed proceedings for a moment or two. More than a hundred, he thought.

Possibly two hundred. Perhaps the little bastards were popping up out of the ground. The rabbits were moving slowly. They did not seem too concerned about all the noise and the lines of men. But they were beginning to move more quickly now, and were frisking about a bit.

Uncle Dan became anxious. They looked just like ordinary rabbits. In a short time the dogs would be released. What if they just mangled the rabbits? Shit! What a waste of time.

Feeling suddenly depressed, Uncle Dan signalled vid one and got thumbs up. He turned to it with a broad smile on his homely weatherbeaten face.

“Ahoy, there, me hearties!” he boomed genially. “This is your very own Uncle Dan, alone in the desolate wilds of Yorkshire, the real Laurence Olivier country, where Emily Brontë once wrote The Bride of Frankenstein and John Braine penned his immortal Room At the Wuthering Heights. Yes, folks, we are in country rich with passion and mystery, a surprising land where the rabbits have all gone mad. Join your very own Uncle Dan, and watch yet another beauty of Mother Nature.”

The rabbits were now less than fifty metres away. It was time for the dogs. Uncle Dan raised his hand to his beard. Vid one cut to the rabbits. The dogs were let loose.

So was all hell.

The dogs ran at the rabbits. The rabbits surrounded the dogs. The dogs barked and snapped and were permitted a few moments of glorious disbelief before scores of rabbits coolly and systematically leaped at them and, regardless of casualties, kicked and stamped them into the ground. It was all over in a few seconds — with the death howls of the dogs fading into the wind — but it was wonderful vid.

Uncle Dan was happy once more. Life had been good to him.

But Life, alas, as far as Uncle Dan was concerned, had just run out of unnatural generosity.

And what followed was also wonderful vid. But not for Beauties of Mother Nature. Only for the Late Late Horrorshow.

Perhaps the death of a few dogs had simply acted as a stimulus to the rabbits’ blood lust.

Perhaps the mad rabbits did not approve of the cut of Uncle Dan’s Norfolk jacket. Perhaps they were offended by his bright red beard. Or perhaps he was simply the next nearest target.

Before anyone could do anything, they charged; Vid one, about five paces from Uncle Dan, had the presence of mind to drop everything and run. Uncle Dan’s reactions were slower.

Although he had the advantage of the late dogs in that he already knew that the rabbits were unhinged, like the dogs he simply could not emotionally accept the fact of their unhingement.

He stood and stared.

But not for long. The rabbits were all about him. They made high, curious, squeaky noises like wet fingers rubbed hard on glass. They leaped at his legs, they ran between his feet, and they deliberately tripped him up. He fell heavily, flattening three or four in the process.

But the rest of the rabbits did not seem to care. It was all part of the show. They swarmed all over him, so that he looked like a seethig, writhing, screaming mountain of palpitating fur.

They kicked him and scratched him and bit him and stamped upon him.

And within less than a minute, while a few brave NaTel souls were clubbing peripheral attackers with vids, tripods and any items of equipment that were handy, the mad rabbits of Yorkshire had kicked a still incredulous Uncle Dan to death.