Tequila's Sunrise by Brian Keene

even worse. Susan had been crying all morning, looking at pictures of Jack. He couldn’t deal with that right now. Couldn’t handle her pain. He was supposed to fix things for them, and this couldn’t be fixed. Gary couldn’t stand to see her hurting. Had never been able to.
    He decided to mow the lawn instead. Even though he dreaded mowing, sometimes it made him feel better—the aroma of fresh cut grass and the neat, symmetrical rows. He went into the garage; made sure the lawnmower had enough oil and gas, and then rolled it out into the yard. It started on the third tug.
    Gary pushed the lawnmower up and down the yard and tried not to think. Grasshoppers and crickets jumped out of his way, and yellow dandelions disappeared beneath the blades. He’d completed five rows and was beginning his sixth when he noticed the baby bunny.
    Or what was left of it.
    The rabbit’s upper half crawled through the yard, trailing viscera and blood, grass clippings sticking to its guts. Its lower body was missing, presumably pulped by the lawnmower. Gary’s hands slipped off the safety bar, and the lawnmower dutifully turned itself off.
    Silence descended, for a brief moment, and then he heard something else.
    The baby rabbit made a noise, almost like a scream.
    Daddy?
    He glanced around, frantic. A few feet away, the grass moved. Something was underneath it, hiding beneath the surface. Gary walked over and bent down, parting the grass. His fingers came away sticky and red. Secreted inside the remains of their warren were four more baby bunnies. The lawnmower had mangled them, and they were dying as he watched. Their black eyes stared at him incriminatingly. The burrow was slick with gore and fur.
    Gary turned away. His breakfast sprayed across the lawn.
    Despite their injuries, despite missing limbs and dangling intestines, the bunnies continued to thrash, their movements weak and jerky.
    “Oh God,” he moaned. “Why don’t they die? Why don’t—”
    The half-rabbit dragging itself across the yard squealed again.
    “Please,” Gary whimpered. “Just die. Don’t do this. Not today. It’s too much.”
    Daddy? Daddyyyy? La la la la, lemon. La la la la lullaby…
    Gary stumbled to his feet and ran to the driveway. Without thinking, he seized the biggest rock he could find, dashed back to the rabbit hole, and raised the rock over his head.
    “I’m sorry.”
    He flung it down as hard as he could, squashing them. Their tiny bones snapped like twigs underfoot. Swallowing hard, Gary picked the rock back up again, ignoring the sticky, matted blood and fur that now clung to its bottom and sides. He stalked across the yard, tracked down the half-bunny and put it out of its misery, too.
    Gasping for breath, he let the rock lay in the grass, concealing the carcass. His bowels clenched; then loosened. Kneeling, he threw up again. When it was over, he washed his hands and face off beneath the outside spigot.
    This time, the tears didn’t stop.
    Gary wailed. One of his neighbors poked their head outside, attracted by the ruckus. When they saw his face, saw the raw emotions etched onto it, they ducked back inside.
    Eventually, when he’d gotten himself under control, Gary went inside. He poured a double scotch, and gulped it down. The liquor burned his raw throat. He called out for Susan, but there was no answer. He found her in Jack’s bedroom, sitting on their son’s bed and holding one of his action figures. Her face was wet and pale. He sat down next to her, put his arm around her, and they cried together for a long time.
    ***
    That night, Susan said she’d like to try again; she’d like to have another child. She murmured in his ear that it had been a long time since they’d made love, and apologized for it. Said it was her fault, and she’d like to try and fix things. Make them like they used to be, long ago, when they’d first been married. Every party of Gary stiffened, except for the part of him that could have helped