Run Rabbit Run

'Once upon a time there were four little Rabbits, and their names were – Flopsy, Mopsy, Cotton-tail, and Peter. They lived with their Mother in a sand-bank, underneath the root of a very big fir-tree.'

Merle was reading Peter Rabbit to a small crew of children, by the last light of the setting sun. The youngest, affectionately known as Flopsy, giggled and nuzzled into Merle's scarred leg.

The city glowed in the distance; a city of feasts and good health. A full-bellied community of souls dancing and chatting and sleeping on the concrete and tarmac, carpets and furnishings, jumping from surface to surface like a giant game of 'the floor is lava'. The new normal.

'Now, my dears,” said old Mrs. Rabbit one morning, “you may go into the fields or down the lane, but don’t go into Mr. McGregor’s garden'

The floor is not lava, but it can burn you. Toxic and flooded. The gas companies did not 'frack off' as we demanded. They dug with one hand and built their city with the other.

'your Father had an accident there; he was put in a pie by Mrs. McGregor.'

Munch Nibble Crunch! The little ones salivated as Beatrix Potter's bunnies gathered blackberries in the story book. 'I would eat one hundred blackberries', squeaked Pottsy. 'I'd have one thousand and one! And THEN I'd go to MacGregor's and eat all his cucumbers!' boasted Bobbin. 'Well then, he would catch you with his rake and hoe' Another little one chirped up. 'Ho ho ho noooooo he wouldn't I'm too fast!' Merle loved listening to the kind of banter that could only come from innocence and she was proud of how the Warren protected the youngest generation from the harsh realities outside their small protected world. She was too aware of the Mr MacGregors of the world. She remembered the lies before the deaths became common. The soil was safe, the water was filtered, the procedures were for the benefit of all and for the future of everyone. They raked in the profits on their private uncontaminated land.

'Noone would catch me for their pie!' Pottsy finished off and the children became a rabble of tickles, noshing, and blackberry-eating heathens.

...

The Northbound tunnel narrows around us, the earth's coolness enters our atmospheres as we crawl farm-ward. Familiar to us though, this part is a doddle. In 300 metres, the tunnel will start to decline, it gets hotter and smaller. I know I am the leader but that doesn't mean I'm not scared. We jokingly call ourselves Benjamin's Bunnies on these raids, entering MacGregor's farm. Jemima, Benjamin and myself are pros now. Before Benjamin trained up, Sylvester had been the faster burrower, the sharper thinker, a stud among our crippled crew. He was remembered well in the stories we told the little ones. We didn't share the details of what the Farmers did to him when they caught him emerging from his newest tunnel. Perhaps his pride at a job well done distracted him momentarily. But it shut us down for months and it was a painfully hungry time. I miss him. I used to think bunnies were so soft and cute, but they are hardcore. Fast and decisive. Survivors. The suits we wear to protect ourselves from chemical burns is more like moleskin than rabbit though. Softer than one might think for the hard job it has. Underneath it I feel my scars stretch taut with each movement.

In our locality life is dismal indeed. We had found our home some way away from the city from which we were forcibly driven out. The Fir Tree Garden Centre, found nestling off the main roads, had had enough uncontaminated food at first to see us through the initial period. Nothing grows now though, the poison rises up through the earth, and rains down from the skies. Whilst we had sheltered from the initial acidic downpours, we found our entertainment in the farm gift shop. Favourite amongst all the books were the Beatrix Potter collections. Timeless and motivational it turned out. Of course, of all of them, Peter Rabbit and Benjamin Bunny were loved most. Refusing to give in entirely to dismality, us grown ups used to joke that all new arrivals would be called Warren. Luckily we have bred, so our colony has grown. New hope fires our heart. Unscarred bodies and unscarred minds need our nourishment, need us to keep going. So here I am running our tunnels, to find food so the babies can live as is their birth-right, with a chance of good health.

Above the ground in Mr MacGregor's farm, the irrigation waters run, recycled and protected. It had been designed for space ships to become self-sufficient off-planet, then they were commandeered for more urgent matters closer to home. Funnels and troughs for miles and miles. In our raids we have mapped the fields nearest to us, peas, lettuce, broccoli. They have even managed to grow some types of potatoes in synthetic soil. I neither understand how nor need to. It's Life in any form. Tonight we eat a feast, tomorrow we pickle and store.

MacGregor's giant Golden M sign over-looks The Fir Tree garden centre-as-was. M for Murder. The Gateway to Gluttony. We are now just about to cross under it, travelling as far deep as the sign is high. The air was hot and close in our lungs as we crawl along, our airways tight and dark. My cheek muscles are pulled up into a tight grin, thinking of us here in the soil, whilst the veg grows in cities above. Sneaky. I clasp the heart-shaped locket which hangs at my chest. Merle had sidled up as we readied ourselves to enter the warren. 'Hey I have something for you,' she had said. My nose had wrinkled warmly at her. 'Oh yeah, what's that then?' She had produced locket. 'What's this for?' I asked with a grin. 'Well, it'd be weird to give you a rabbit's foot for good luck, right?' In the dark, remembering, a little giggle of air snorts out. We had gently touched noses then the deep warren had beckoned. Still crawling, I notice my breaths are getting short.

We reach the junction in good time. There is a pit where the routes split to store the produce. When I stand up in it, it reaches my shoulders and all 3 of us can fit into it comfortably. Me, Jemima and Benjamin. We don't talk down here and can't see each others faces. Reaching for one another's hands, we stamp our feet three times. Three tunnels, three raiders, many mouths to satisfy. Protocol dictates that we grab food and roll it down quickly into the tunnel, gathering as much as possible without exposing ourselves or the entrances for too long. We can unload back up to the Fir Tree in our own time. Get some of the youngsters to help.

My tunnel, the 'West Wing' as it's come to be known, emerges closest to the water reservoir; a gargantuan man-made monstrosity held off the earth's surface with constructions that boggle the mind. I feel the judder of the pumps through the walls. Carefully placing my hand on the dirt overhead I tune in to the subtler sounds. Footsteps, regular and slow. No sense of danger from the guards. Nothing else. I inch closer, and sweet moisture joins the air in my nostrils, spray from the farm channels. Sure I risk contamination from the earth on these trips, but my senses live so fully. Fair exchange is no robbery. Ears, nose, hands, feet fully engaged. Next my eyes start to adjust to the increasing brightness. The flood light creeps in around the panel which covers the vent where I can emerge into the farm. Through the slats I peer but nothing shifts. Slowly, I undo the vent and creep out, foot touching the concrete, but body crouching low under the immense trough, the channel full of good healthy veg.

All is going to plan, vitamins and good health roll down the tunnel and I move quickly. Then a shout. 'Stop! Thief!' One of us is spotted. By the sound of it, it's Benjamin, about 500 metres to my right. Lights shift in that direction, the earth judders with pounding feet and radios click into angry growls.

I follow protocol. Back to my tunnel immediately. Retreat. Give nothing away. Benjamin will have to find shelter. Whatever we do, don't reveal our tunnels.

'What's this?!' An angry voice rolls down the tunnel. 'It's a shoe!' 'Thieving outlanders. They will contaminate our crops. Find them.'

At the junction we wait. Me and Jemima. Come on Benjamin. Waiting in the dark with our hands against the dirt, feeling the anxiety of the farmers footsteps along with our own hearts' dances. After a thousand beats or more the atmosphere changes. The earth calms and silence came again. They have either caught him or given up.

We are grimly beginning to move the vegetables back up the long slope to home, when we notice a subtle change in pressure. Three beats move through the earth. Benjamin is thudding his message that he is ok and on his way. Back at the junction we put our faces together and nuzzle. Our close breath being a comfort, sweet life blowing on our cheeks, before the walls start closing in as our adrenaline wears out. We all scurry back up the long slope, laden with goodies.

Round the fire that night, after we have removed our gear and taken some precious sips of chamomile tea and eaten our fire-baked potatoes, Benjamin recounts his story.

'I dropped a tatty on the ground and immediately a farmer heard me. BAM! He turned. I chucked my shoe down the channel right quick, and legged it the other way! I hid under the water tower, quiet as a mouse, with a bucket over me head as they searched. Like a gaggle of flapping idiots, they were!' Gleefully Benjamin mimes the events, whilst various youngsters scatter; hiding, giggling and throwing items of clothing.

I nestle into the blankets with Merle, my right hand holding the locket, my left gently massaging her palm. I can feel the rhythms of her pulse soothing and fulfilling and I let my own body release the day back into the earth.