Hulk (35 page)

Once more Banner’s mind informed the Hulk as they thought,
What the fu—?

“Go on, son,” David Banner said defiantly. “The more you fight me, the more of you I become.”

The Hulk was more confused now, and kept his distance—ready to strike but holding back. Then he crouched down and, scooping up an enormous boulder, lifted it and crashed it down on David. Instantly it caused his father to transform into stone, which would have been daunting . . . for anyone who was incapable of shattering stone. But that definitely wasn’t the Hulk’s problem, as he pounded away, again and again, his rage growing and his strength escalating. With a final blow, he reduced his father to a pile of dust and rock fragments. They fell on the Hulk, and he pushed them off in what he thought was the end of the problem.

But in doing so, he transferred energy back to his father that David Banner was able to reshape his body so that he once more mirrored the physical makeup and endurance of the Hulk.

. . . killer . . . murderer . . . smash, kill, tear, rend limb from limb, kill . . .

In a white-hot fury, the Hulk lashed out once again with his fists. The two of them, locked in a struggle, made their way to the lake’s edge, wildly pounding away at each other. With each blow, the air around them seemed to grow cold, vacant. Even the water began to turn opaque and icy. The two of them seemed almost to merge as the lake’s water began to freeze around them.

Having their subjects targeted via long-range signals bounced off satellites, Ross and Betty stood at the monitors back at the hangar. Betty’s mind was racing, trying to come up with some means of stepping in without getting herself or Bruce or both of them killed. Nothing was occuring to her.

“Strange,” said Colonel Thomas at one of the monitors, zooming in on one of the satellite images. “We’re reading a phenomenal drop in temperature there but a simultaneous radiological activity.”

Ross looked blankly at his daughter. “The ambient energy,” said Betty matter-of-factly. “They’re absorbing it all. That’s where the additional mass comes from. They’re literally converting energy into matter.”

“Can they convert it back?”

“If they can,” Betty said softly, “we’re all dead.”

Fighter jets flew overhead, passing by the two enormous figures, locked in a death grip, upon a lake that was now completely frozen. Sparks of energy, neural charges, spiked through the frozen water.

And as the Hulk struggled in that frozen grip, the mind and thoughts of Bruce Banner struggled against the Hulk’s, seeking something, grabbing at something, and there were
Thousands of images, bits of memory and desire, suddenly coalesced into a moment of absolute calm and clarity in the Hulk’s frozen eyes, and he knew right where to look, right when to look; it was right there, right there, Christmas, David Banner sat on the floor playing with his son, fighting, except it was in play, each of them holding a stuffed toy, one of those two toys, and Bruce said, “This one can fly, he’s faster,” and David replied, “But mine will eat yours right up!” and the way he said it caused momentary panic in Bruce, and his little features tightened, and he said, “No! He won’t, mine is flying away,” and David smiled and said, “Yes, you’re flying away!” and he threw the doll down and it was

right

there.

Right where it had always been, the knowledge he needed, the obligation upon him, the way to beat him, the way to defeat himself, right there in the pointlessness of the dolls battling and giving up and flying away, and when he spoke it was to his father or to himself, it didn’t matter. It was all the same as he wondered if he’d ever even had a father, or just another incarnation of himself, and his voice was utterly calm as he said, “I know how you plan on winning, Father,” and his father said, “Do you know?” and Bruce told him, “By harnessing my rage,” and there was the approving laughter of a father who was finally proud of his son for making an intuitive leap, and he said, “Yes, I will take it from you,” and Bruce replied, “But you won’t—because I will take it from myself,” and the father, genuinely interested, asked, “And how will you do that?” to which Bruce answered, “By forgiving you. Take him. He’s yours.”

And the ice was cracking beneath their feet as David Banner rose up from the melting ice, lifted the Hulk’s fist, and held it to his stomach. The Hulk struggled, but he was bewildered and unfocused, as if he didn’t know what to do with his rage—or no longer possessed it at all.

“Come to me, my son,” said David Banner.

The Hulk seemed to dissolve, but Bruce Banner could be glimpsed briefly inside the falling shape as it dropped into the lake. His father, victorious, towered above the mountains. He saw on the horizon a fleet of puny Stealth fighters and jets making their way toward him, and he laughed and laughed, and his laughter resounded like thunder.

Then he paused, and looked down at his stomach. Swirling energy radiated into his whole body making it bigger, bigger. He thrashed about, looking for his son or the Hulk, and began to scowl.

“You!”
he shouted to no one. “The reaction—you tricked me! Take it back! It’s not stopping!”

Nor was it. It spun out of control, the different energies colliding, his body absorbing everything, the moonlight, the air, the wind, and when there was nothing else, his body—seeking new energy sources—found the largest one around: itself. His body literally began to devour itself, the effect flowing from the middle and surging outward, and as the father clutched at himself and screamed and howled, a voice sounded in his head, and it might have been his own, but it sounded like his son’s. And the words—the parting words from his offspring—burned into his fevered consciousness.

. . . things fall apart . . . the center cannot hold . . .

David Banner stumbled to the top of the mountain, and this time he didn’t notice the fighters swiftly approaching from behind.

And in the far, far distance, Thunderbolt Ross looked at his daughter as he gave the final order. “Gentlemen, release.”

The thermonuclear missile took off from one of the planes, heading straight for the father who continued to grow and distend in an agony of energy. Something warned him at the last moment, and he turned and saw it coming. For a half-second a grin split his face as he anticipated more energy to absorb, but then he realized,
Too much! Too much!

. . . the center cannot hold. Best wishes from this rough beast . . .

The missile struck him and his center shredded and blew apart, unable to contain it, as a massive explosion—an explosion evocative of that which had haunted Bruce and Betty’s dreams for as long as they could remember—engulfed the sky.

On the monitors, they watched the explosion grow larger and larger, and Thunderbolt Ross, grim, lowered his head and put his face in his hands.

And bridging the barrier of years and resentment, Betty reached across and put a hand on his. “It’s okay,” she whispered as, on the monitor, the planes pulled back and away and the winds rose to the heavens. “It’s okay.”

the cross of red

It was several months later that Betty Ross, studying twisted strands of DNA under the lens of a microscope, answered the ringing phone that was to her immediate left. These days she never positioned herself far from a telephone. She never knew who might finally call . . . or when . . . presuming he could . . .

So lost in thought was she that it took a few moments for it to penetrate that her father’s voice was saying repeatedly, “Betty, is that you?”

She sighed. “Hi, Dad.”

“I’m glad I caught you,” said Ross.

She looked at the materials she was deep in the middle of researching, and smiled to herself. Catching her was never a problem; she was in the lab practically all the time. She didn’t have much of a personal life; then again, at this particular point in time, she wasn’t all that interested in pursuing one. Her father, of course, knew all that. Nevertheless, they had this little ritual they pursued every time he called, and she went along with it. “I’m glad you called,” she replied, and she genuinely was.

“Betty—” He hesitated, which was unusual for him. He was usually the king of coming straight to the point. “You and I, we both know, of course, that Banner, well, he couldn’t have survived that, that explosion and all . . .”

She’d been slouching a bit, but now she straightened. “Dad, what’s up?”

“You know, the usual loonies,” said Ross with a sigh, “thinking they’ve spotted big green guys.”

“They have,” she replied, relaxing slightly. “On the side of their frozen bean packages.”

“I know this goes without saying,” her father began, and she hated that phrase, because naturally if something went without saying, it wouldn’t be necessary to say it. Ross continued, “But if, and I say
if
, by any chance he should try to contact you, try to get in touch, you’d tell me now, wouldn’t you?”

She actually laughed at that. Once upon a time, what she was about to say would have annoyed the hell out of her. Now she just found it funny, having surrendered to the Big Brother absurdity of her life. “No, I wouldn’t. You know as well as I do, I wouldn’t have to. My phones are bugged, my house is under surveillance, my computers are tapped. So contacting me is the last thing I’d ever want Bruce to do, because—” Betty hesitated, her voice choking slightly. Suddenly this had become a good deal harder than she thought. “—because I love him; I always will. And I pray to God every night and every morning that he never tries to see me or talk to me again for the rest of my life.”

There was a long pause, and her father, whom she had thought for so long didn’t give a damn about her, said, with utter sincerity, “I’m so sorry, Betty. I am so sorry.”

“I know you are, Dad. I know,” Betty said.

And as she looked out the window, the phone still against her ear, she looked out at a couple of trees in the parking lot, swaying in the wind.

She didn’t believe he was dead. Not for a moment. As corny as it sounded, she would have felt it if he’d died. Then she turned and looked at the framed photo she’d taken from his office, the one of them up in the woods, at the cabin. She hoped, wherever he was, there were trees. Tall, strong . . . and plenty of green.

He’d probably relate to that.

In the jungle clearing palm trees thrashed around in a stiff wind that lashed against a makeshift canvas covering the shelter. Three white-clad Red Cross workers tended to a few rural families; kids, their parents, grandparents. One of the Red Cross workers was a man wearing longish hair and a beard. The other two were fairly new to the job and a bit tentative in their actions, but the man with the hair and beard moved with an ease that underscored his confidence.

He examined an eight-year-old boy being held lovingly by his father. The child looked feverish, glassy-eyed and slack-limbed. The worker looked at the boy’s father and pulled a pill bottle out of his kit.

“You need to give him this three times a day, for ten days, okay?” the Red Cross worker told him in flawless Spanish.

“Gracias,”
said the father. “Thank you.”

The worker turned to the boy and said with mock severity, “You listen to your father when he tells you to take this medicine, okay?” The boy bobbed his head and said he would. Then he exchanged glowing smiles with his father, secure in the knowledge that all was right with the world, and that all would be right with them. The bearded man looked from one to the other and sighed in a manner that might have been seen as wistful, or envious, or just a bit sad.

Then he heard a gasp from another Red Cross worker, a pretty young local girl named Anita. He glanced in her direction and his brow furrowed. He saw what she did: a group of heavily armed men coming out of the jungle. A look of concern crossed her face. The bearded man saw her gesture to the next child on line and smile reassuringly. But it was a very forced smile, and the bearded man knew it, just as he knew that this had the potential to develop into a situation.

The armed men came into the tent, driving the locals out. They began rifling through the supplies.

Without hesitation, the bearded man approached the fellow who was clearly in charge of this little paramilitary organization. It was always easy to tell who was in charge, for some reason. Speaking quietly but firmly, he said, “We need these medicines for the people who live here.”

The soldier glowered down at him, towering over him by at least a head. “Who are you to say what is needed, foreigner?” he said disdainfully. “These people are helping our enemies. And maybe so are you.” With the implicit threat that the bearded man wouldn’t want to be considered an enemy, the intruder grabbed the medicine kit and snarled, “
We
need these too. They are now the property of the government.” And just to show what a big, tough guy he was, the paramilitary soldier pushed a child into the rain and raised his AK-47. His men stood up and gathered around menacingly.

They expected him to back down. Why wouldn’t they? He looked like nothing.

He felt a distant thudding in his head. And he did nothing to restrain it. “You shouldn’t have done that,” said the bearded Red Cross worker. “Now say you’re sorry and get out of here.”

The paramilitaries raised their eyebrows and chortled. “What?” said one.

The pounding increased, growing in strength and intensity. He wondered how no one else could hear it. Then again all that mattered was that
he
heard it.

He closed his eyes, took a deep breath. “You’re making me angry,” said the Red Cross worker, and the men were laughing, and then they heard a growl from his throat that sounded like nothing human as his eyes snapped open, glowing a deep shade of green as the voice within his head intoned,

. . . smash . . .

And the last words he spoke before the screaming began were, “You wouldn’t like me when I’m angry.”

Hulk
is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.