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omnivores, like humans, and you know how dangerous they can be.Yessirree, come spring, the BunRabs hunger for blood and meat. Nothing moves upon the face of the earth that they won’t devour. No human, no bovine, no fat croaking toad, nor stampeding rhinoceros is safe from the BunRabs when the taste rises with the new spring moon. But it’s us they crave, us they most seek out to devour. ‘Tastes like chicken,’ they say to each other wistfully when snacking down on a stranded motorist or a water buffalo cut out from the herd or even one of their own fallen in the fray. ‘Tastes like chicken,’ they say, their fur matted with blood and veins caught between their ungodly huge gnawing teeth. ‘Tastes like chicken, but, boy, I wish I had me some real chicken instead. Ain’t nothing like real country chicken, maybe with a side of . . .
    “ ‘... eggs!’ ”
    Doris screamed and fainted straight away.
    When she awoke, she knew her life would never be the same. She was a believer now.

    “When did it start?” she asked.
    “No one knows for sure,” clucked Clementine. “The killer BunRabs, they’ve always had a taste for our ancestors, far back as anyone can count.”
    “At least that means that there is hope for us . . . I mean for all of us collectively, as a species.”
    Clementine cawed sadly. “I wouldn’t count on that, dearie. It’s only when the promiscuous beasties are kept in check that we have reason to feel safe, as a species even if not individually.” She pecked absentmindedly at a piece of straw clinging to her breast. “They hump anything that moves. I saw one mount a groundhog once—it did ugly, unspeakable things to that poor, fat rodent. All they do is eat and breed, like the virus that they are. Some say . . .” Clementine trailed off, her eyes glistening with tears.
    “What? What do they say, Aunt Clementine?” asked Doris in a quiet, trembling voice.
    “They say . . . they say that killer BunRabs are what drove the dinosaurs to extinction. BunRabs are a bigger threat than avian flu and fast-food restaurants combined,” sniffed the old biddy.
    Doris let that sink in. Once her distant ancestors had ruled the world, roaming the steppes and marshes, bellowing their dominance for millions and millions of years, until the BunRabs came. She had to know more.
    “You say they always come from the east?” she asked. Suddenly it made sense why Aunt Clementine’s young stud stood looking east in the darkest hours before the dawn and heralded each new day with a triumphant crow of survival and joy.
    “In New England, they sometimes come from the east northeast—no doubt you’ve heard tell of the killing Noreasters up that way. But hereabout, they always
come directly from the east . . . the dreaded easter BunRabs, close to the new moon just before the vernal equinox, although the hare-y beasts can’t be trusted any time or place.”
    She had to ask. “And what do they do? You say they come for the children?”
    “They take the children, yes,” sighed Clementine, “but they don’t simply take them. Those rabid little BunRabs are a damn sight more perverted than even that. They come into the coop and start chasing and terrorizing the youngest of the youngsters, herding the peeps until they run in circles in panic. Then they just snatch a poor defenseless peep up, biting off its head, and put it back down to run around in circles headless amongst its terrorized siblings, until it falls down. Then the BunRabs will snatch it up again and drink its blood, before crunching down on the lifeless feathers and bones and spitting the beak at those still running. Those, those are the lucky ones . . .”
    “The lucky ones?” peeped Doris, afraid to ask more.
    “They pluck the hens alive, plunging metal rods into them and roasting them over an open fire of burning corncobs.”
    Doris’ teeth would have been chattering, if she had had any, she was so afraid. “And the eggs?”
    Clementine’s old