The Hollow Chocolate Bunnies of the Apocalypse

by Robert Rankin

  ‘I’m so sorry.’ Jack ordered further drinks that he had no means of paying for. ‘Put them on my tab,’ he told Tinto. The clockwork barlord, who had been listening in to the conversation, did so without complaint.

  ‘This time it’s really really personal,’ said Eddie.

  ‘We know who’s going to be next,’ said Jack. ‘Like you said, that puts us ahead of the game.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Eddie. ‘We’d better hurry. Tinto, call me a cab.’

  ‘All right,’ said Tinto, ‘you’re a cab.’

  Jack began to laugh.

  ‘That’s not funny,’ said Eddie. ‘That’s such an old joke.’

  ‘But I’m young; I’ve never heard it before.’

  ‘I’ll call a cab for you,’ said Tinto, whirring away to do so.

  ‘I thought you couldn’t afford a cab?’ Jack took to finishing his beers.

  ‘We’ll worry about that when we get to Little Jack Horner’s.’

  Eddie finished his beer, and then two of Jack’s before Jack could get to them. * The cab was a fine-looking automobile. It was a Mark 9 Black Cab Kerb Crawler, with lithographed pressed steel body panels, chrome-trimmed running boards and brass radiator grille.

  It came complete with comfy passenger seats in plush fur fabric and a clockwork cabbie called Colin.

  ‘Very plush,’ said Jack, comfying himself upon a comfy passenger seat.

  ‘Where to, guvnor?’ asked Colin the clockwork cabbie, his tin-plate jaw going click click click.

  ‘Little Jack Horner’s,’ said Jack.

  ‘He’s popular today,’ said the cabbie.

  ‘Why do you say that?’ Eddie asked.

  ‘Because I’ve just come from his place; dropped a customer there.’

  Jack and Eddie exchanged glances. ‘What did this customer look like?’ Jack asked.

  ‘She was a strange one,’ said the cabbie. ‘Didn’t speak. Just handed me a piece of paper with Jack Horner’s address on it. She wore this feathered hat thing and she never stopped smiling. I could see her in the driving mirror. She fair put the wind up me, I can tell you.’

  ‘Faster,’ said Eddie. ‘Drive faster.’

  ‘Faster costs more money,’ said the cabbie.

  ‘Fast as you can then,’ said Eddie, ‘and you can have all the money I’ve got on me.’

  ‘And all the money I have too,’ said Jack.

  The driver put his pressed-tin foot down. ‘I’ll show you fast,’ he said. And he showed them fast.

  ‘Eddie,’ said Jack, as he clung for the dearness of life to whatever there was for him to cling to.

  ‘Jack?’ said Eddie, who clung on to Jack.

  ‘Eddie, what are we going to do when we get there? We’re no match for this woman-thing.’

  The cab hung a left and went up on two wheels.

  ‘Big guns,’ said Eddie. ‘We need big guns.’

  ‘But where are we going to get big guns?’

  ‘Big guns?’ The cabbie glanced over his shiny shoulder. ‘Did I hear you say big guns?’

  ‘Watch the road!’ shouted Jack.

  ‘Big guns, I said,’ said Eddie.

  ‘I love big guns,’ said the cabbie. ‘Well, you have to in this business.’ He now hung a right and the cab went up on its other two wheels.

  ‘In the cabbie business?’ Eddie was now on the floor; Jack helped him up.

  ‘You’d be surprised,’ said the cabbie. ‘Folk get into my cab and ask me to drive somewhere, then tell me that they have no money.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Eddie. ‘So you menace them with your big gun?’

  ‘No,’ said the cabbie. ‘I shoot them. I’m mad, me.’

  ‘Oh, perfect,’ whispered Jack.

  ‘Stay cool,’ whispered Eddie. ‘Mr Cabbie?’

  ‘Yes?’ said the cabbie. ‘Oh hold on, there’s a red light!’

  ‘I’ll wait until you’ve stopped then.’

  ‘I don’t stop for red lights,’ said the cabbie. ‘Not when there’s a really big fare in it for me. I’ll probably take the rest of the week off once you’ve paid up.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Eddie. And the cabbie ran the red light, much to the distress of the traffic that had the right of way. This traffic came to a sudden halt. Cars bashed into other cars. A swerving lorry ran into a shop front.

  ‘Nearly there,’ the cabbie called back. ‘Best get your wallets out, and I’ll take your wristwatches too.’

  ‘You’re a very funny fellow,’ said Eddie.

  ‘Thanks a lot,’ said the cabbie, revving the engine and putting his foot down harder. ‘And some people say that psychopaths don’t have a sense of humour. What do they know, eh?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Eddie. ‘But about this big gun of yours …’

  ‘This one?’ The cabbie whipped it out of his jacket with his gear-changing hand. It was a very big gun indeed.

  ‘Whoa!’ went Jack. ‘That’s a 7.62 mm M134 General Clockwork Mini-gun. Max cyclic rate 6000 rounds per minute. 7.62 x 51 shells,1.36kg recoil adapters, muzzle velocity of 869m/s.’

  ‘You certainly know your weapons, buddy,’ said the cabbie. ‘And this one carries titanium-tipped ammunition. Take the head off a teddy at two hundred yards.’

  ‘We’re sawdust,’ whispered Eddie.

  Jack made shushing sounds. ‘I used to work in the factory that manufactured those guns,’ he told the cabbie. ‘Do you have it serviced regularly?’

  ‘I keep it well oiled.’ The cabbie swerved onto the wrong side of the road, which made things exciting for the oncoming traffic.

  ‘How many times have you fired it?’ Jack asked.

  ‘Dozens of times,’ said the cabbie, performing further life-endangering automotive manoeuvres.

  ‘And you’ve not had the chamber-spring refulgated?’

  ‘Eh?’ said the cabbie, taking a turn along the pavement.

  ‘Surely you’ve read the manual?’

  ‘Naturally,’ said the cabbie. ‘I’m a practising Mechanologist. But what has my religion got to do with this?’

  ‘Nothing at all,’ said Jack. ‘But if you don’t get that chamber-spring refulgated, that gun is likely to blow your arm off the next time you fire it.’

  A grin appeared upon Eddie’s face. It did not take a genius to figure out what was coming next.

  ‘I could refulgate it for you,’ said Jack.

  ‘What do you take me for?’ asked the cabbie.

  The grin disappeared from Eddie’s face.

  ‘You’re going to charge me for doing it, aren’t you?’ the cabbie said.

  ‘No,’ said Jack. ‘I’ll do it for free.’

  Eddie’s grin reappeared.

  ‘Well.’ The cabbie hesitated – although not with his driving.

  ‘Listen,’ said Jack, ‘I’m only thinking of you. Imagine the unthinkable occurring.’

  ‘I can’t imagine the unthinkable,’ said the cabbie. ‘What would that be like?’

  ‘It would be like us not being able to pay and you having to shoot us, but the gun blowing your arm off instead. You’d look pretty silly then, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘I would,’ the cabbie agreed.

  ‘And you wouldn’t want to look silly.’

  ‘I certainly wouldn’t.’ The cabbie handed the gun over his shoulder to Jack.

  Eddie looked up at his partner with a look that almost amounted to adoration. ‘Wonderful,’ he said.

  ‘We’ll see,’ said Jack. ‘Now let’s get this chamber-spring refulgated. We don’t want the cabbie to blow his arm off when he shoots us.’

  ‘Eh?’ said Eddie.

  Jack raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Oh I see, you’re only joking again. I don’t think I’ll ever get the measure of your humour, Jack.’

  ‘We’re here,’ said the cabbie, bringing his cab to a shuddering halt. ‘How are you doing with my gun?’

  Eddie and Jack ran up the sweeping drive towards Little Jack Horner’s mansion. It was a worthy mansion, situated on
a lower southwestern slope of Knob Hill. It was appropriately plum-coloured, and had a great many corners to it where, within, one might sit and enjoy some Christmas pie.

  The plumly-hued front door stood open.

  Jack cocked the 7.62 mm M134 General Clockwork Mini-gun. Its polished butt was slightly dented now, from the blow it had administered to the rear of the cabbie’s head. Jack hadn’t enjoyed striking down the cabbie, but desperate times called for desperate measures. Jack ducked to one side of the open doorway, Eddie ducked to the other.

  ‘What do we do?’ Jack asked. ‘Rush in, big gun blazing?’

  ‘Sneak in, I think,’ said Eddie. ‘Big gun at the ready. And remember, she’ll be expecting us. She knows we have the list.’

  ‘Let’s sneak then.’ Jack took a deep breath and then entered the mansion, Eddie close upon his heels.

  As Jack did his sneaking, he also did peepings about, not just to seek out the mysterious murderess, but to generally peruse the premises.

  Jack was getting a feel for grandeur. For wealth. He’d viewed the overt opulence of Humpty Dumpty’s apartment, the gilded rococo chic of Oh Boy! and the romantic harmony of Madame Goose’s establishment.

  This, however, differed from those, which indeed differed from each other.

  ‘This stuff is old, isn’t it, Eddie?’ Jack peeped into an elegant room, lavishly furnished with ebonised furniture trimmed with heartstone and heavy on the ormolu. ‘I mean, it’s old.’

  ‘Antiques so often are,’ said Eddie.

  ‘Yes, but what I mean is this: the folk in nursery rhymes are the old rich of Toy City, aren’t they?’

  ‘They are.’ Eddie ducked down behind a Zebrawood thuya of considerable yearage.

  ‘So who owned this stuff before they did? Are these people the new old rich? Was there previously an old old rich that had this furniture built for them?’

  ‘Oh, I see what you’re getting at. Well, now that you come to mention it, there was something the curator said to me about the copyrights on the nursery rhymes that doesn’t seem to make any sense.’ Eddie rolled onto his belly and squirmed under a low mahogany side table with foliate splayed legs and rosewood inlay.

  ‘What did he say?’ Jack followed Eddie and struck his head upon the table’s underside. ‘Ouch,’ he continued.

  ‘What he said was …’ And then Eddie put his paw to his nose.

  ‘What?’ Jack asked.

  ‘Can you smell that?’

  Jack did sniffings. ‘No,’ he said. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Jam,’ said Eddie. ‘Plum jam.’

  Jack clipped Eddie on the ear. ‘This is no time to be thinking about food,’ he said. ‘Naughty, bad bear.’

  ‘Watch it,’ said Eddie. ‘But do I smell plum jam. Too much plum jam.’

  ‘Can you have too much plum jam?’ Jack asked. ‘I’m very partial to plum jam, as it happens. And cradberry preserve.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Eddie, licking his mouth. ‘Cradberry preserve is very nice indeed. And bongle jelly, that’s particularly toothsome on hot buttered toast and …’

  ‘Stop it,’ said Jack. ‘I’m still hungry, but I can smell it too, now. It’s a very strong smell of plum jam.’

  ‘Come on Jack, quickly,’ Eddie squirmed out from under the table and jumped to his paws. ‘Quickly.’

  ‘Okay, I’m coming. Oh damn, I’m stuck under this table.’

  There was a bit of a struggle, then certain damage was inflicted upon the mahogany table with the foliate splayed legs and the rosewood inlay. Jack emerged with the big gun held high.

  And he followed Eddie at the hurry-up, into another kitchen.

  Jack recalled all too well the horrors that he had met with in the kitchen of Madame Goose. He was not, however, prepared for those that awaited him here.

  21

  ‘Oh no,’ croaked Jack, when his stomach had no more to yield. ‘That is all too much.’

  Eddie was slowly shaking his head. ‘Much too much,’ said he.

  Little Jack Horner sat in the corner.

  But Little Jack was not so little now.

  He had been roped onto a kitchen chair, bound hand and foot. His body was bloated, the stomach distended, hugely distorted. The cause of this was the rubber tube that had been rammed into his mouth and forced down his throat. This tube led upwards to a great metal kitchen vat, suspended from a ceiling stanchion. This vat had evidently been filled with plum jam. This vat was now empty.

  On the floor, about the chair, a pool of jam was spreading. It spread over around and about a hollow chocolate bunny.

  ‘Sick,’ said Eddie, giving his head further shakings. ‘That is very sick.’

  Jack wiped vomit from his chin and tears from his eyes. ‘He might still be alive,’ he said. ‘Perhaps we could pump his stomach out?’

  ‘He’s dead,’ said Eddie. ‘As dead as, and more so besides. Not the best way to go, I suppose. But I can think of far worse. Imagine if the vat had been filled with sprout juice.’

  ‘Eddie, stop it, please.’

  ‘Sorry, it’s nerves.’ Eddie twitched his nose. ‘Jack,’ he said in a low and dreadful tone, ‘Jack, don’t move.’

  ‘What is it, Eddie?’ Jack had the big gun raised once more.

  ‘She’s still here. I can smell her perfume.’

  ‘Stay close to me.’ Jack swung the big gun around and about. ‘Come out!’ he called. This first ‘come out’ didn’t come out too well; it lacked for a certain authority.

  ‘Come out! I have a gun.’ The second ‘come out’ came out somewhat better. ‘Give yourself up!’ Jack fairly shouted now. ‘The mansion is surrounded. You have no means of escape.’

  Eddie nudged at Jack’s leg and pointed with a paw. ‘Broom cupboard,’ he said.

  ‘They favour broom cupboards, don’t they?’

  ‘Shoot through the door, Jack.’ Eddie mimed gunshots as best he could. ‘Shoot her while we have her cornered.’

  ‘I can’t do that.’ Jack’s gaze wandered back to the bloated corpse.

  ‘Don’t start that again. Shoot her, Jack.’

  ‘But I …’

  But he should have done.

  The broom cupboard door splintered and through it she came: slender and deadly; swift and smooth.

  And then she was on them.

  She swung a fist at Jack, who ducked and struck Eddie’s head with his chin. And then she had Jack by the scruff of his neck. She hauled him from his feet and swung him around in a blurry arc. Jack lost his grip upon the pistol, which skidded over the flagstone floor. The struggling Jack was hefted aloft and then flung with hideous force.

  He tumbled across the kitchen table, scattering crockery and disappearing over the other side.

  And then she was up on the table, grinning down at the fallen Jack. And then she was stooping to take up a large meat cleaver.

  Jack backed away on his bottom. ‘No,’ he pleaded. ‘Don’t kill me, please.’

  The being in the figure-hugging rubber grinned on regardless. She raised the cleaver to her lips and licked its edge with a blood-red pointy tongue.

  ‘Who are you?’ Jack tried to edge away, but there was nowhere left for him to edge to. ‘Why are you doing these things?’

  The being leapt down from the table and stood astride Jack, grinning evilly.

  ‘Say something.’ Jack was in absolute terror now. ‘Please say something. Anything. Please.’

  The being raised the cleaver. Her mouth slowly opened, as if to utter words, and then it closed again.

  And then the cleaver swung down.

  Jack was aware of a horrible force. Of a great pushing and pressing and cutting and tearing and …

  An explosion of sound.

  His eyes had been closed.

  But now they were open.

  And he saw it all happen in slow motion.

  The upswing of that cleaver.

  Then the down.

  And then the splitting of the head.

  The
fracturing and shattering as the head became a thousand scattering pieces.

  But it was not Jack’s head.

  It was that of his attacker.

  The cleaver came down.

  Jack ducked aside and it crashed to the stone floor beside him, dropped by a hand that was now clutching at the empty air where a head had just been. There was only neck now, with ragged sinews and tubey things spilling out dark ichor.

  The hands, both hands, clutched and clawed, and then the headless body fell onto Jack.

  ‘Wah!’ went Jack. And ‘Aagh!’ and ‘Oh,’ and ‘Help.’

  ‘You’re all right.’ The voice belonged to Eddie. ‘You’re all right. I got her, Jack. Plugged her good. She’s as dead as. And I’m not kidding you about.’

  Jack fought to free himself from the fallen corpse. He could see the grinning bear. The grinning bear was holding the 7.62 mm M134 General Clockwork Mini-gun.

  ‘It’s a good job it doesn’t have a trigger-guard,’ said Eddie, ‘or I’d never have been able to fire it. The cabbie was right about it taking heads right off though, wasn’t he?’

  ‘Wah!’ went Jack once more.

  Then once more he was sick, which, considering that he’d had next to nothing in his stomach prior to the first vomiting, was something of an achievement.

  Although not one of which he could be proud.

  *

  ‘She’s definitely dead this time,’ said Eddie. ‘For all of Toy City’s unfathomable mysteries, I can assure you, Jack, that nothing lives with its head completely shot off.’

  Jack, who was on his knees, hauled himself to his feet. ‘Thank you, Eddie,’ he said. ‘You saved my life.’

  ‘That’s what partners do,’ said the bear. ‘You save my life, I save yours.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Jack stooped and patted Eddie on the back. And then he gazed down at the headless corpse. ‘So what was she, Eddie? What do you think?’

  ‘Turn her over, Jack. Let’s have a good look at her.’

  ‘No way. I’m not touching that.’

  ‘Get a grip, partner. We’re fearless detectives, are we not?’

  ‘No, we are not. Look at me, Eddie. I’m shaking all over and my trenchcoat is covered in black goo. My stomach’s caving in and look at the state of my fedora.’ Jack stooped to pick up his fedora. The falling cleaver had taken its crown clear off.