Chapter Three
Jun. 7th, 2006 09:13 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
baronessekatI know, I know, it's been over a month. But here you go.
I pulled up at the address the cow had given me. I sat there staring at my surroundings and wondering just what the hell was I doing there.
See, normally when I get hired to take out some undead dudes, I’m called to a cemetery, funeral home, or maybe a morgue. You know… places you expect to find the dead or undead. This was none of those things.
This joint was … a war zone. The rather simple Victorian style home was surrounded by rows of razor and concertina wire. I saw pits with spikes, fox holes and palicades. There were turrets fully manned with guards sporting all kinds of artillery. I had to flash my identification three times just to make it to outside the front door.
Whoever this mysterious benefactress was, she was into something serious and intense. Good, I hate Sunday school picnics.
I got out of the car and went back to the trunk. I pulled out a crate I got from Butter Lamb and smiled. I couldn’t wait to see how these new weapons worked. The demonstration I was given was impressive and well… what guy doesn’t like new toys?
After double checking my holster I headed up, crate in tow, to the front door and rang it. As I stood there, my nose twitched. The scents of this place were unsettling. I smelled the sulfuric tang of mortar discharge, the burnt smell of fired gunpowder, the acrid taste of death and something else. Something more subtle. Something that instantly made me not particularly fond of my new employer.
But a rabbit’s gotta eat and pay the bills so I reached out and rang the bell. While I waited, I checked the position of the sun. I figured maybe two hours until sunset. Three and a half until full dark. Then the party would really get started.
I turned back as the door opened and put on my most charming “I don’t give a flip” smile. Usually it makes the dames go gaga. But Mootilda just blinked at me over her polarized sunglasses.
“Mr. Bunny. We expected you over an hour ago,” she said flatly.
I shrugged. “I had to get the weapons. You didn’t honestly think I kept the good stuff in my office did you? You saw the neighborhood.” I rubbed a paw over the crate. “Just one of the babies in this crate could feed a family of 6 for at least two days, more if you found a good market.”
She looks briefly at the crate. “Think they will be the thing we have needed to stop this plague?”
I shrugged again. “Can’t hurt. So, we going to stand here on the front step chewing the cud?”
“Follow me,” she said as she turned and headed into the house. I followed along, dragging the crate behind me. That “something else” smell was stronger as we went deeper into the house.
Miss Merriweather stopped before a set of pocket doors and turned at me. My nose twitched, my fur felt ruffled. I knew what was behind the door. Now, I’ll face hordes of Zombies, stare down hungry wolves, and tell of tax collectors. But what was behind that door set off almost every panic button I had. I turned and looked at Mootilda.
“You seemed to have forgotten to tell me about your benefactress doll face.”
She smiled sweetly and handed me a pair of sunglasses as well. “You’ll want to be wearing these when you meet her.”
I had barely a heartbeat to put them on before she opened the doors and I stood facing my one true nightmare.
“Hello, Mr. Bunny. I’m Weasel,” my employer said turning and fixing her gaze on me.
I pulled up at the address the cow had given me. I sat there staring at my surroundings and wondering just what the hell was I doing there.
See, normally when I get hired to take out some undead dudes, I’m called to a cemetery, funeral home, or maybe a morgue. You know… places you expect to find the dead or undead. This was none of those things.
This joint was … a war zone. The rather simple Victorian style home was surrounded by rows of razor and concertina wire. I saw pits with spikes, fox holes and palicades. There were turrets fully manned with guards sporting all kinds of artillery. I had to flash my identification three times just to make it to outside the front door.
Whoever this mysterious benefactress was, she was into something serious and intense. Good, I hate Sunday school picnics.
I got out of the car and went back to the trunk. I pulled out a crate I got from Butter Lamb and smiled. I couldn’t wait to see how these new weapons worked. The demonstration I was given was impressive and well… what guy doesn’t like new toys?
After double checking my holster I headed up, crate in tow, to the front door and rang it. As I stood there, my nose twitched. The scents of this place were unsettling. I smelled the sulfuric tang of mortar discharge, the burnt smell of fired gunpowder, the acrid taste of death and something else. Something more subtle. Something that instantly made me not particularly fond of my new employer.
But a rabbit’s gotta eat and pay the bills so I reached out and rang the bell. While I waited, I checked the position of the sun. I figured maybe two hours until sunset. Three and a half until full dark. Then the party would really get started.
I turned back as the door opened and put on my most charming “I don’t give a flip” smile. Usually it makes the dames go gaga. But Mootilda just blinked at me over her polarized sunglasses.
“Mr. Bunny. We expected you over an hour ago,” she said flatly.
I shrugged. “I had to get the weapons. You didn’t honestly think I kept the good stuff in my office did you? You saw the neighborhood.” I rubbed a paw over the crate. “Just one of the babies in this crate could feed a family of 6 for at least two days, more if you found a good market.”
She looks briefly at the crate. “Think they will be the thing we have needed to stop this plague?”
I shrugged again. “Can’t hurt. So, we going to stand here on the front step chewing the cud?”
“Follow me,” she said as she turned and headed into the house. I followed along, dragging the crate behind me. That “something else” smell was stronger as we went deeper into the house.
Miss Merriweather stopped before a set of pocket doors and turned at me. My nose twitched, my fur felt ruffled. I knew what was behind the door. Now, I’ll face hordes of Zombies, stare down hungry wolves, and tell of tax collectors. But what was behind that door set off almost every panic button I had. I turned and looked at Mootilda.
“You seemed to have forgotten to tell me about your benefactress doll face.”
She smiled sweetly and handed me a pair of sunglasses as well. “You’ll want to be wearing these when you meet her.”
I had barely a heartbeat to put them on before she opened the doors and I stood facing my one true nightmare.
“Hello, Mr. Bunny. I’m Weasel,” my employer said turning and fixing her gaze on me.
