Notes from the Future: The Prophet's Reckoning, Part VIII

The Prophet sees someone nearby and grabs -- oh no, it's Becky. He grabs her and is pulling up her skirts, pushing his filthy pants down, he's got her upper arm in his mouth and is biting, tearing at it. She is screaming, struggling to get away, he is laughing as her blood starts to drip down his chin, his eyes locked on mine. His minions have fallen away somewhat.

I take a risk. 

I run right up to him and upend the box on his head. The circle is all shouts and cries.

Wailing and kind of snarl-grunting, he drops Becky and she is whisked away by some Nurse Rachels as the Prophet has caught and is juggling, struggling with what was in the box, screeching and swatting at it as its claws and teeth tear at him. This struggle lasts maybe a couple of seconds, but one thing is clear to everyone in the Compound:

The Prophet is not Fearless.

The crowdy circle has grown silent, watching him.

The Prophet manages to throw the contents of the box away, or it springs away, hitting the gravel at a bad angle and then sitting upright, drawing its paws in, eyes wild, frozen.

"Sorry, Chauncey," I breathe. 

The Prophet is crouched, grunting, gasping, bleeding from his face and scalp and arms, still making noises. He sounds like a constipated baby.

I hear a voice from behind me.

"But ... but that's just a fluffy bunny rabbit."

I turn and it's Clean Zeke, the one I singled out earlier. I'd forgotten he was there.

"Are you afraid of him?" I call, for the group to hear.

Clean Zeke hesitates. Maybe I should have chosen a Bearded Ezekiel instead.

"She is an instrument of Satan! She bewitched that rabbit to attack the Prophet!" Iron Rachel is quick, I'll give her that. I'll also punch her in the twat as soon as she's close enough.

"His name is Chauncey!" I shout, before thinking. What the fuck? Good point, Veronica. Now they know the Satan Bunny has a name.

"This animal is her Familiar! She is a Mexican Witch! She must be burned!" Iron Rachel starts toward Chauncey, who turns his head at her approach, ears high, thumping once in alarm.

The heat is getting to me, because I suddenly wonder why he looks so well. It's been days since we fed him. Was he in the trunk in a hot barn this whole time? He looks perfectly fine. Weird.

"Wait!" calls Clean Zeke. I'm focused again on CrazyLand and Iron Rachel freezes three steps from Chauncey.

"If the Prophet is Mighty and Fearless ..." Clean Zeke sounds like he's crying, his voice shaking, getting higher with every word, but carrying clearly to the group. "If he truly is Mighty, no Rabbit of Satan can hurt him. Yet he bleeds! He bleeds, Brethren!" 

"He Bleeds!" I say, not wanting to influence Clean Zeke too much.

"The Prophet was tricked by this Witch Whore Interloper!" Iron Rachel has clearly attended the Creepy Prophet Academy for Public Speaking.

"He is a Prophet!" Clean Zeke turns to Iron Rachel. "If he has the Gift of True Prophecy, how could he not know?! How could he be deceived by anyone, much less a Whore of Satan and a fluffy bunny rabbit?" Clean Zeke's voice breaks into laughter on those last words, clearly edging into hysteria. He knows. He knows he's marked for death.

"I know, right?! What kind of fucktard is afraid of rabbits?!" I'm hoping his laughter will spread a little. 

It does. The Bearded Ezekiels are laughing, some of the Rachels as well.

The Prophet's eyes are locked on mine. If Gollum had a taller, hairier, dirtier cousin? And if that cousin were an old west prospector who hadn't bathed in maybe years? And who went insane and liked to eat people? Gollum's cousin would still be more attractive than this loonfuck staring at me like he wants to eat my face. Which I'm pretty sure he does.

Iron Rachel turns and gestures toward the main house, and Clean Zeke leaps to his right, screaming, "No!"

His head bursts into fine red mist.

Right in front of me. I feel it hit me, warm and cool all at once. There are some chunks.

The report from the rifle echos off the surrounding hills. Not mountains. Everyone is screaming.

I see Chauncey dart away the instant the shot is fired, and I'm watching him now, wishing him freedom, feeling very detached. I'm thinking about the chunks in my hair, how they will be tangled and that will be gross, when I look up to see Fat Bald Ezekiel standing over me, a club raised in one arm. 

I should do something.

Pain blossoms bright in the left side of my head and