Free Bunnicula Strikes Again! by James Howe Page B

of pitiful mew I’d heard coming from the closet only—was it possible?—the day before. This time it was not a sickly mew, but a frightened one.
    â€œThere!” I heard Mr. Monroe call out. “Let me have that flashlight!”
    A beam of light bounced off the walls and floor and fallen pieces of plaster and concrete and wood, and then suddenly it caught something. Something alive! It was Chester, wide-eyed and panting!
    Howie and I bounded across the room. “Chester!” I cried. “You’re all right!”
    He didn’t respond, but just kept staring at all of us. “What about. .. What about Bunnicula?” Howie asked.
    Chester did the strangest thing then. He howled. Or so it seemed. He lifted his head high and let out the most piercing cry. Was he hurt?
    â€œChester, it’s all right, boy!” Mr. Monroe said, brushing against me as he extended a hand to Chester. “Come here, boy,” snapping his fingers. “Come on, it’s all right, Chester. Everything will be fine.”
    But Chester didn’t go to Mr. Monroe. On the contrary, the closer Mr. Monroe got, the more Chester hissed and spat.
    â€œMaybe he’s been injured,” another man said. “He might be in shock,” said Mrs. Monroe. “That’s possible, isn’t it?”
    I felt Toby’s hand stroke my head. “Is he going to be all right?” he asked his parents. “Is Chester going to be all right?”
    A big man who looked like he might have been a member of the wrecking crew worked his way through the small crowd that had followed us inside. “I’ll take care of this,” he said brusquely.
    He walked up to Chester and started to grab him. “Come on, kitty,” he said, “you’re coming with me now.”
    He didn’t know who he was messing with. Chester swiped him with his claws.
    â€œYeeouch!”
the man said. “Hey, what gives?”
    Chester turned to me. “Help me, Harold,” he said. “You’re my friend, aren’t you?”
    â€œI never stopped being your friend,” I said.
    â€œThen help me save Bunnicula.”
    â€œSave
Bunnicula?” I repeated.
    â€œYou heard me,” Chester said.
    And then I understood. Bunnicula was somewhere in the pile of rubble Chester was sitting on. And Chester wasn’t moving until Bunnicula had been found.
    â€œCome on, Howie,” I said, “we have one more job to do. A dog’s job.”
    We moved toward the pile of rubble and sniffed. It didn’t take long to catch Bunnicula’s scent. Once we had it, we began to bark.
    â€œThe dogs are trying to tell us something,” a woman said. “There’s something else in there.” Turning to the Monroes, she asked, “Do you have any other pets?”
    â€œA rabbit,” said Mr. Monroe, “but why would he be here?”
    â€œThere’s something strange going on, Robert,” Mrs. Monroe said to her husband, and then she said to the others, “Our vet called us this morning to tell us Bunnicula—that’s our rabbit—wasn’t in his cage when he arrived this morning. And soon after that Chester escaped.”
    â€œWell,” said the big man Chester had lashed out at a few minutes earlier, “it looks to me like there may just be a rabbit in that rubble.”
    All at once, everyone began to dig.
    â€œI see eyes!” someone called out. “Red eyes!”
    â€œBunnicula!” Pete shouted when the bunny came into view at last. “This is so crazy! What are the animals doing here?”
    I don’t know if the Monroes ever got that question answered to their satisfaction. I don’t know if they really cared. All that mattered was that we were all safe and sound—even Bunnicula, who had miraculously survived because of a large beam that had fallen in such a way as to create a little cave in the debris where he had hidden. He