Commit 08a0f74

<title>The Bunny Butcher</title>

<h2>Act 1: The Hunter's Final Payment</h2>

<q> TRI-COUNTY CHRONICLE

VOL. XCIV No. 114 — TUESDAY, OCTOBER 14, 1997

PRICE: $0.50

THE BUNNY BUTCHER STRIKES AGAIN!

Fourth Victim Found Flayed in Industrial District; Police Baffled by "Mascot Slasher"

BY ARTHUR PENDLETON

NEWARK : The city is gripping its children tighter today as the psychotic predator dubbed "The Bunny Butcher" by local tabloids has claimed a fourth victim.

Late last night, transit workers discovered the body of 24-year-old mechanic Thomas Miller behind the abandoned Sector 4 rail yard.

Investigators confirm the signature, nightmarish hallmarks of the killer: Miller was dispatched with a weapon coroners describe as an "impossibly large, industrial-sized cleaver," before perfect, geometric patches of skin were systematically harvested from the torso.

Eyewitness accounts from a nearby watchman describe a surreal, towering silhouette fleeing into the midnight mist, a slender, form-fitting rabbit costume moving with an eerie, mechanical grace.

"I thought it was a sick prank," the anonymous watchman told reporters, his hands visibly shaking.

"It looked like a mascot from a distance. But it was carrying a blade nearly as big as a grown man. It didn't run. It sort of... pirouetted into the shadows. Like it was taking a bow."

Police Chief Marcus Vance urged citizens to stay indoors after dark and report any suspicious behavior, particularly anyone matching the bizarre, patchwork description of the suspect.

"We are dealing with a deeply disturbed individual who treats these horrific acts as a theatrical performance," Vance stated in an emergency press conference. "We will find whoever is inside that suit."

(Continued on Page A4 — See 'The History of the Abandoned Sector 4 Facility')

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<p>The fog rolls over the industrial district tonight, it’s humid and a bit sticky, it would make anyone feel a little nauseous.</p>

<p>The ink on the newsprint is faded, the paper yellowed and crumpled.</p>

<p>I blink, drawing my tired eyes away from the yellowed clipping clamped to the old, beat-up clipboard in my hand.

My fingers, marked by the tremor of age and obsession, trace the headline a relic that reminds me of good times, hard times, and the primal thrill of the hunt.

I have spent years following the trail of the Bunny Butcher, tracking the phantom through archives and shadows until the path finally led me here.

The shine of my flashlight cuts through the heavy, damp darkness of the elevator shaft.

" It's gonna have to do" I say in a low voice.</p>

<p>I reach out, my trembling finger pressing the rusted call button of the industrial lift. For a long, breathless moment, nothing happens.

Then, a violent, deep-chested shudder rattles the very foundation of the shaft. From the lightless depths below, the elevator begins its ascent a labored, agonizing climb marked by the high-pitched squeak of unlubricated pulleys and the rhythmic, guttural groaning of strained cables.

It sounds like a dying beast dragging itself toward the surface, every foot of progress a protest of ancient, oxidized iron.</p>

<p>The surface world thinks the Bunny Butcher disappeared decades ago, but I know better; I have followed the whispers and the blood until the trail went cold beneath the earth. I wrote that article nearly forty years ago.</p>

<p>As the heavy industrial elevator groans, plunging me deeper into the bowels of the earth.

There is a sinking feeling that maybe deep down, I don’t really want to know. But it’s too late to turn back now.

</p>