Out and away from the stone monolith and the smokey warrens they bounded, Zebulun pursuing hot on the tail of whom (or what) he imagines is Cottontail.
"Paranoid old fool," Zebulun groaned to himself, "We don't even know what is ahead."
He was forced to admit, however, that fear is a fine motivator, for he had never seen the doctor leap and run so fast and so far. So far from sight.
And very soon Zebulun Hare found himself again alone, exhausted, slowly marching forward toward what he assured himself was a safer place than he had just left behind. Again he was rewarded for his hopefulness, and light began to show itself, oranges and pinks: for before Zebulun stood the pillared gates of that grand chamber, the doors secured fast and wide, a more welcoming sight than any encountered thus far in the long, dark night.
Beyond the gates, another marvel: a great host of figures, all well-bespoke and hushed, each enrapt in a sermon being given by the host of the host. Why, it was James Cottontail himself, standing before a throne, addressing the assembly! But how could such a thing be? They had barely been apart for moments, hadn't they?
Perhaps it had been longer. Zebulun felt uneven, and worried that he had lost more time than he imagined. What was Dr. Cottontail talking about? Had this all been arranged for his benefit, his initiation? What a fine gesture it would be, if it were so. What was Dr. Cottontail saying? An introduction?
Zebulun could not hear the words, drown out as the host stood and applauded, raucous applause, like terrible beasts, hollering, angry; and from the mob and their pews, Zebulun's eyes drifted to the cracking granite, the overladen dome, flickers of decay spreading into splinters. Pounding, pounding, pounding. Where was the sound coming from? It felt as if it were coming from right behind his ears, against his skull, but, no, deeper. His own heart beat again.
Quickly he looked back to Cottontail, surprised that old doctor so casually settled back into the throne, becoming nearly inanimate, as if he were just a waxy feature melting into place. With uncommonly heavy, hesitant steps Zebulun Hare approached to the throne, climbing the steps of the raised dais. With each step closer, the throne seemed to be further, higher, and higher still, an intense feeling of vertigo nearly overwhelming. In trying to steady his footing, nearly stumbling and falling over as he did, Zebulun by chance noted the appearance of a small crevice behind platform, thick with bursting pustules, all leaking their gooey contents into the chamberspace. A sickening sight to be certain.
Closer, and Zebulun now saw Cottontail himself was covered in the same goo leaking from the crevice. What horrors were being committed in this place? All seemed well, but why now the pressure? Pounding, pounding, pounding. Closer, and Zebulun carefully, so carefully, collected a sample from Cottontail's sleeve in a plastic egg-shaped container: it had to be a poison, an infection, something to be studied and cured. How had this happened? He had scarcely been separated from Cottontail for more than a moment, but so much had transpired. Elasticity of space, fragmented time. Was this all a dream? Had he never left Yoni's chamber? Or, worse, had he never awoken from the accident?
Before the thoughts could be properly mulled, Zebulun's attentions were again distracted: approaching to the stage was a slender, lissome lagomorph, fitted in a glossy black tuxedo, almost gleaming, with a top hat to match. A true gentleman in all bearing and look, despite an injury that saw his head beneath the hat wrapped with a thick bandage, extending down over the face to cover the right eye. There was a pleasing and familiar look about him, reassuring, and Zebulun was contented by the sight after so many trials.
As the gentleman came closer to him, Zebulun's eyes were drawn to an orange-brown and reddish coloured brooch of a semicircular shape on the left breast of the gentleman's coat, the edges defined by thin border, and the whole surface divided in half, each side with a black circular spot covering the lower part: it looked for all the world as if it were a great ladybird beetle. Indeed, it would not have surprised him if it fluttered its wings and took flight. There was no doubt it was the sign of his great importance to this company of learned scholars.
"Ah," the gentleman spoke, his voice aged but strong, "I had thought it my turn to speak, but you, perhaps, are scheduled before me?"
"Oh, no. I'm sorry," Zebulun answered quickly, most apologetic. "I had just recognized my friend, the previous speaker, and..."
Zebulun trailed off, wondering what exactly he was forgetting.
"He is an esteemed fellow, assuredly," the gentleman said, filling the silence. "I am myself a Doctor of the Zagre, and will be presenting some astonishing results today."
The gentleman smiled hard, revealing too few large, blackened teeth lining his thin gums. Zebulun was shaken by this sight, and now saw the gentleman, where he was uncovered by suit or bandage, was virtually hairless save for sharp, short whiskers, with skin pallid and tight, like a concealing gauze pulled over a deformed skeleton. The familiarity remained somehow, though startling and grotesque, and lent itself not to kindly assurance, but to fears of mortality and the grave.
Zebulun's eyes drifted back to the brooch, and he wondered if this sense of foreboding, and the apparent turn in the gentleman's appearance, wasn't simply a figment of this fever coming over him. Was he seeing things? The poisoned water the woman had given him may be influencing his vision, even his thoughts. It would explain the lapses in his memory, how events seemed to lose their very linearity. Stress. It had been a very trying night thus far.
"And your name?" Zebulun asked, trying to come back around.
"My name?" the gentleman croaked back, a haunted look coming over him. "I am Dr. Zebulun Hare."
It was only then that Cottontail roused suddenly, lunging forward from his repose, stabbing the decrepit vision of Hare with a long, thin poker. The Doctor of the Zagre fell backward, making a most horrific sound as he did, as gas escaping from a puncture. And the sound became a coarse, thick laugh, gargling, phlegmy.
Dr. Cottontail, having nearly spent himself, fell over onto the table, groaning and coughing; and all around the chamber, the host was roused, nearing frenzy, all hissing and howling. Pounding, pounding, pounding.
"I do not know if you are real or phantasm," Zebulun murmured to Cottontail, taking him under arm and pulling his heavy form from the throne, "but I would not leave even the vision of you to this place."
Space again contracted, and the two ran down, down, down the stairs, Zebulun dragging Cottontail in tow, and so hastily they found their way out through a thin doorway marked only by a black rayed orb. Ever forward, never back, but into what new dangers, they knew not.
And behind them, that voice followed after, taunting: "I am only what you desire to become!"
The pair bounded, foot over foot, perfect leaps throwing them. Each found terrible vigour found in the existential fear that possesses all beings in times of high crisis: for Zebulun, of uncertainty; for Cottontail, of entrapment.
The spark of energy lasted them each for some uncounted while, but then, without sign or warning sense, it failed them, and both collapsed immediately, panting, gravely exhausted. How far had they gone now? How many flights of these endless stairs, which offer no hope of re-ascension in their heights? From the dull shadows and smoky gaps, they found themselves restored into damp, cool depths, but somehow deeper, somehow murkier. It was as soft malaise had been given shape in the outer spaces, projected out from Cottontail's own psyche.
The waters of the underground soon touched their feet, and rose to their ankles, and knees, and tails. And from it, there was a splashing.
"What can be done now, I wonder?" Cottontail wondered aloud, wading to his chest. "I'd not thought to bring a swimming suit."
Zebulun snorted audibly, though he was quietly relieved: this had to be his own Dr. Cottontail, and not another marauding phantom or trickery of his addled mind. Properly reunited, they could surely now make it through, together, peers, even brothers in this hellish place.
"I had," Zebulun answered, his usual boastfulness returned, the water now up to his shoulders. "That is, I always dress in water-proofed undersuits."
Cottontail did not reply, only gasped suddenly, deeply inhaling, before being pulled under with great force.
"James!" Zebulun yelped, hastily drawing himself toward the disturbance, the waters still churning violently in the wake of the sudden undertow, and himself took a deep breath, diving down after.
Zebulun blinked under the murky waters. He could barely see Dr. Cottontail being pulled, spinning, into a downward-angled branch of tunnel, and so acted immediately for fear of losing sight, kicking out hard, his rabbit strong legs slicing through the water, and darted after his rapidly descending friend. Both were twisted and slammed against the curving tunnel walls as they were pulled ever down, faster, all above them the waters rushing. It was only by some miracle that neither saw their bones broken or heads crushed by the terrific collisions.
It had only been moments, but, when one is drowning, time has a different quality, and so it seemed that it had been many minutes when Zebulun finally managed to push himself close enough to grip on Cottontail's trouser ankle. Feelings of nearly overwhelming panic. The end was too near, but it could not be! And so Zebulun hastily scaled his friend's body, as if he were a short ladder, and forced the doctor's head above the rushing flow of the waters.
Furious kicks of Zebulun's legs managed to keep both above water, each thrust feeling heavier, strength being sapped away by the seemingly endless power of the undertow. There was a gasp, a long, heavy breath, a look of recognition shared, almost relief, as if escape was a certainty.
And so they were truly surprised when they were both drawn down, spiralling into complete darkness.
Spinning, spinning.
No air now, only the struggle not to inhale the stagnant waters.
Spinning, spinning.
No air, just darkness.
Spinning, spinning.
Just darkness.
That they must have survived the ordeal of drowning was never a doubt, but the how of the matter is the intriguing question. Be it fate or random chance, the how seemed to stick out, and it was this question that James Cottontail was left to ponder, eyes focused on the spinning pool of water that dominated the room, extending out wide, with only the barest stone walk-about at the edges, where he sat, stiff, his lungs aching... but alive!
Next to him laid Zebulun Hare, who was also alive and fit, much to the relief of Cottontail, and who was resting himself in anticipation of whatever next horror should come upon them. But how had they gotten here? How had the tunnels spat them out in this place? Were they closer to the surface and home, or had they just been left to the depths of this unending labyrinth?
And then... the shock appearance of a great figure, rising out the pool! MUTANT CUTTLEFISH! Egads!
(Which they either escape from, or negotiate with, to move them along into the Unpleasant Company that follows.)