Bunnypocalypse
Dead Reckoning
Cain S. Latrani
Copyright © 2011, 2020 Cain S. Latrani
Cover Design by
Michelle Fairbanks
Fresh Design Books
Interior Art & Logo by
Cody Burgos
All rights reserved.
For Patricia, my best friend, the love of my life, my inspiration, and the strongest person I’ve ever known.
You never backed down, you never gave in, and fought to your last day.
I miss you.
Chapter One
IT WAS A DAY like any other. It began with the sound of the alarm clock beeping; same as they all did, rousing Bunny from her sleep. As she did daily, she floundered for the snooze button for a moment before dragging herself awake enough to shut it off. Her morning routine continued as she lay in bed for a few minutes, staring at the ceiling, trying to knock the cobwebs from her mind. The same as always, she sighed and sat up.
With a yawn, she looked out her bedroom window at the late afternoon sun, wiped her azure eyes, slid out of bed, gave her five-foot-ten frame a good stretch, and ran a hand through her tousled blonde hair. With another sigh she hauled herself to the bathroom to carry out her everyday routine.
Hit the head, brush the teeth, wash the face, go to the kitchen, make some coffee, look for the empty box of cereal. Turn on the TV, half-listen to the news, break down and try to cook a real breakfast, head for the shower. Dry and brush the hair, dig through the closet, bitch about the clothes, settle on an outfit, tug on some boots. Look for the keys, look for the coat, look for the purse, check the mirror, leave for work.
Bunny's day started the way all her days had started for the last few years; far later than most people’s, and with no surprises. It didn't bother her, not even when she stopped to think about it. It was what it was, and that's all there was to it. While many might grow disenchanted with the daily grind, Bunny had a philosophy that covered any and all situations that could possibly occur.
Keep your head up, put one foot in front of the other, and never stop.
A silly philosophy many had called it, but for Bunny Beckman, former Chicago police officer turned stripper, it was really all she had to hold the line between sanity and suicide.
She rode the elevator down from her 8th floor apartment, ignoring the look on the face of the man next to her as he tried to peek down her top. She had grown accustomed to the gazes due to her line of work but had recognized the attention for most of her life. He got out at the lobby, leaving her to ride down to the parking garage alone, where she strolled to her beat-up old Camaro, parked next to a shiny new Charger.
Bunny stared at the would be muscle car for a minute then shook her head. Waste of money in her mind. The Camaro might look like crap, but she didn't need a half ton of computer equipment to fix anything that went wrong with it, and that made the old car worth its weight in gold to her. Let the Joneses keep up with themselves, she always said.
She opened the door, the familiar creak of the metal giving her a warm shiver, which was as close to true joy as she got these days. Sliding into the worn and ragged driver's seat, she reached up and gave the pink rabbit dangling from her rear-view mirror a tap, making it twirl for a moment.
It was a small thing, the silly pink rabbit with its huge goofy grin, and white t-shirt stitched with the words “Rock On!” It’d been given to her by someone she’d once loved with all her heart, and though her heart had long since been broken beyond repair, the little rabbit reminded her of better days. It was, in a real sense, the closest thing she had to a good luck charm. Since she was still alive, she figured it must be working.
The familiar rumble of the engine made her smile a little. Some things money really couldn't buy, like self-respect, a commodity she rarely dealt in these days. That deep roar gave her all she needed to get through till tomorrow. Her hands – no one else’s – had tuned the engine and kept it going. It wasn't much, but it was hers.
She pulled to the street exit, pausing to check traffic. It was there she first got the feeling that something wasn't as it should be. A slight tingle at the back of her neck; her sixth sense, as she called it. A hold-over from her days on the force, when situational awareness was key to survival. It was a small thing that drew her eye, the sort of thing most people would overlook, or ignore if they did see it.
A homeless man, one of many who wandered the streets of this part of town, standing inside the wrought-iron fencing that surrounded the steps leading down to the parking garage. It was kept locked, and had been for many years, the sidewalk entrance, a remnant from days gone by. It wasn't uncommon for vagrants to climb the fence and sleep at the bottom of the steps, where they wouldn't be disturbed by passersby or police officers.
She’d seen this particular man before, loitering around the area, begging for change, or sitting on one of the broken-down benches that littered the sidewalks. She'd given him a bit of money a few times, her heart going out to someone even less fortunate than herself. Today, though, he seemed different. Something about the way he stood there, pressed against the
