The white rabbit - Voyage of HMAT Tyche

HMAT Tyche— Lower Decks — 15 September 1946 — 1453 Hours

Al Little lay on his bunk, boots still on, giggling into a battered copy of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. The pages were water-stained, the ink smeared in places, but he didn’t care. He ran a slow finger under the words, mouthing along like a schoolboy. Then he thought about Mary, lifting that bloody refrigeration crate — thought about her lips too, maybe. Another giggle slipped loose. He’d love to shag that prim and proper doctor. He undid and pushed his trousers halfway down, hand working himself lazily as he stared at the cracked ceiling. His head swam with leftover opium haze and half-drunk dreams of Doctor Mary Protandry — her strong arms, her crisp voice, her legs, God, her legs. He ass. Her breasts.

He could practically see her. In fact… was she here with him? No… that was just a hallucination.

He was horny but the opium tended to hinder rather than help his masturbatory intents. Chasing the dragon was so true. His erection sagged and he sighed.

Damn this was strong stuff. Should’ve saved the last of the good stuff. The opium tea was all gone. Nothing but stubbornness, cigarette smoke, and a scheming thought about Doctor Mary’s laudanum stash to keep him going. She must have some opium in that fridge, right? There was also the ships medical supplies. Under lock and key but…

He absently looked at his wristwatch. “Fuck, fuck! I’m late for the game!” he barked, pulling ip his trousers. He rolled off the bunk, legs buckling.

The poker game. Chits and maybe a vial of tar on offer. Couldn’t miss that. He was clomping in his worn boots, the frayed cuffs of his uniform smacking against his ankles. His pockets jangled with coins, nails, and bits of junk he’d pocketed from the deckhands. A day’s wages for some, a nervous habit for Al.

All he could think about was getting the hell off this damn boat. Back home to Victoria. Back to the family farm — cattle, barley, and a nice pliant wife when he got around to picking one. He had plans. Big ones. Land to buy. A woman to fuck like a bunny. He was still horny and frustrated.

Al rounded the corner at a dead sprint — then it hit. The air shivered. Something prickled against his skin, like a thousand invisible needles. A pressure wave shoved into him, deep into his bones, and for one dizzying second, he thought he’d had a stroke. He slammed into the bulkhead, wheezing. His heart skipped, stumbled, thudded hard. The world spun.

And then the changes began.

It started with his feet. His boots ripped open as his toes fused and lengthened, massive, powerful paws splitting the leather like wet paper. Thick white fur burst from his calves, racing up under his trousers like a brushfire.

“What the fuck—?” Al gasped, grabbing at his legs — but his hands were changing too. Fingers shortened, pads formed on the palms, and fine snowy fur spread to his wrists. His nose twitched uncontrollably, bones crunching, skin stretching outward. His face pushed forward, cracking and reshaping into a blunt, twitching snout.

Panic swamped him. Was this a bad trip? It must be! Had to be. His gut churned, his mind reeled — but he couldn’t stop it. Al’s ears exploded from the sides of his head — huge, absurdly long, flopping once against his skull before perking up straight and alert. His hearing sharpened so violently he could hear every rivet in the hull groaning. His chest compressed, muscles reconfiguring into a lean, wiry frame. He tried to scream, but all that came out was a series of frantic yelps.

He slammed his new paws against the wall, breathing in short, **** bursts. He caught sight of himself in a cracked mirror bolted above a lifeboat station.

A rabbit — a goddamn white rabbit, upright on two legs, wearing his army slacks and a filthy T-shirt that now hung loosley off his now wiry frame. His eyes were wide, pink, and bloodshot, and his front teeth jutted forward awkwardly, gleaming. Surely he was hallucinating!

“No—no, no, no!” he barked, voice the same at least. “What in the hell his this?!” Was he seeing things? He grabbed an ear an pulled. It sure felt real!

Al exprimentally tried to hop and hit the ceiling. He landed and heard a crunch. His now broken gold pocketwatch, battered and cracked, slipped out of his pocket - stopped at the time of his transformation. He scrambled for it instinctively, clutching it to his furry chest. The face was stuck at two minutes to three. The second hand ticked in place but never moved forward.

Al stared at it, his new heart hammering, realization blooming in his small, terrified brain. Stuck. Changed. Broken. Like his fob watch.

And he realised that he really, really wanted a shag… and he was coming down off the opium already… but why were there animated stars floating around his head?!