The Dark Knight Rises: The Official Novelization (26 page)

Rā’s passed sentence on Gotham, as he had so many years before.

“It must be allowed to die.”

Winter came to Gotham.

Snow blanketed the deserted street as a tumbler patrolled the city, its thick tires carving deep tracks in the soggy white accumulation. Pools of dirty brown slush drowned the street corners. Icicles hung like stalactites from eaves and cornices. A bone-chilling wind howled through the concrete canyons. Feeble sunlight fought a losing battle against the cold.

Shivering, Blake crouched behind a parked SUV, holding his breath until the combat vehicle rounded the corner. Melting slush trickled down a storm drain. Blake hoped Ross and the other entombed cops were collecting the icy water. Nearly three months had passed since Bane had sprung his trap, and the buried officers had been living on scraps and captured vermin ever since. It was a wonder that the buried officers hadn’t yet completely given up hope.

Hang in there, buddies,
he thought.

He fed a kite string down through the grate until he felt a tug on the other end.
Ross,
he assumed, although his former partner was too far down to see. He could only imagine what it was like for the poor
cops trapped in the underground all this time, away from their families and loved ones.

Three months in the dark.

Three months stuck in a hole while Bane and his followers ran roughshod over Gotham.

It must be getting damn cold down there
.

Blake pulled up the string, and there was nothing there. The note he’d attached to it had been removed. It was a crude way to stay in contact, but it was something. At least Ross and the others knew they hadn’t been forgotten.

If only there was something more we could do for them
, he thought.
Someday.

A breeze kicked up, and the biting air stung his face. His breath frosted in front of his lips. It was time to get out of the cold.

A red plastic gas container sat on the sidewalk beside him. He picked it up and hurried away, promising himself that he would deliver another message soon. He made a mental note to check in on Ross’s family again—they were having a hard time of it, too.

Avoiding the major boulevards, he stuck to back alleys and secondary streets as he cautiously made his way across town. Even though it was broad daylight, the streets and sidewalks were largely deserted. Law-abiding folks were huddled in their homes, trying to ride out the occupation.

Bane’s “army” of mercenaries and miscreants appeared to be staying indoors, as well. Blake found
himself grateful for the harsh winter weather, which reduced the odds of running into any roving bands of troublemakers. He just needed to keep an eye out for the more dedicated enforcers. Otherwise, he’d end up on trial just for being a cop.

The subway would have been faster, but all lines had been shut down by the cave-ins. The monorail and buses had stopped running, too. Taxis were as scarce as law-abiding citizens—driving a cab was like asking to be carjacked. All of the schools, libraries, and post offices had been closed for months. Most had already been looted. Heaven help you if you needed a doctor or dentist.

The temperature continued to drop. By the time he made it to St. Swithin’s, he could barely feel his toes anymore. His cheeks felt red and raw. He stamped the snow off his boots before slipping into the building via a back door. He locked it carefully behind him.

No longer just a home for orphans, the shelter was packed with homeless refugees, either driven from their homes or hiding from Gotham’s new masters. Men, women, and children huddled in every corner, camping out even in the halls and stairwells. Many still had the shell-shocked look of disaster victims.

Blake spotted Father Reilly consoling a weeping family in the lobby. He took the priest aside and handed him the gasoline can.

“For the bus,” he said, “in case there’s a chance to evacuate. Keep it in here. People are siphoning parked cars.”

The priest looked grateful, but exhausted.

“Really?”

Blake smirked.

“How do you think I got it?”

“Right.” Reilly didn’t scold Blake for the theft. They both knew that these were desperate times for the good people of Gotham. The elderly priest had more important issues on his mind. “Any news? Is the commissioner—?”

Blake cut him off.

“Less you know, Father.” He glanced around to make sure no one had been listening. “How’re the boys?”

“Power’s been on more, so they get some TV.”

Blake was glad to hear it. That probably made Reilly’s job a little easier. He took a moment to warm up a bit, toasting his hands over a rusty radiator, before heading back toward the exit. He had another long, frigid hike in front of him.

The priest stopped him before he reached the door.

“Blake, be careful out there,” Reilly warned. “They’re hunting down cops like dogs.”

Tell me about it
, Blake thought.

He went back out into the cold.

* * *

Selina prowled through the trashed apartment, which looked more like a crack house than a penthouse. Empty bottles, cigarette butts, pizza crusts, discarded tins of caviar, and other garbage were strewn upon the hardwood floors, attracting mice and cockroaches. Hungover partygoers slept it off on the sofas, in comfy chairs, and on carpets. Someone vomited loudly in the master bathroom.

At least he made it to the toilet
, she thought.
This time.

She was half-tempted to go back to her cramped digs in Old Town, but, no, that was the first place Bane would come looking for her—if she was still on his hit list. Chances were that she was safe, now that Bane no longer needed to tidy up any loose ends. Still, there was no point in pushing her luck. Better to keep her head down and blend in with the other strays.

Besides,
she reminded herself,
I always wanted a Park Boulevard address.

A glint of broken glass caught her eye. She bent to pick up a shattered picture frame. A torn photo showed a happy family smiling for the camera. Selina wondered what had become of them.

A hand fell on her shoulder.

“What’s that?” Jen asked.

A sparkly Versace gown—one size too large—hung on her petite frame. Tasteful jewelry glittered on her neck and fingers. Selina was surprised that nobody had taken the bling from her yet. Maybe it was because
people knew the girl was under Selina’s protection.

That would be helpful.

She had traded her own orange prison togs for a practical black sweater and slacks. The look had attracted a few squatters, but their new roommates had quickly learned not to mess with her.

Selina contemplated the photo.

“This was someone’s home,” she said. But Jen just shrugged.

“Now it’s everyone’s home.”

A tumbler rolled by outside. Selina peered out the window at it. She frowned at what Gotham had become.

“‘Storm’s coming,’ remember?” Jen said, looking confused at her friend’s somber mood. She toyed with the jewels around her neck. “This is what you wanted.”

“No,” Selina realized. “It’s what I thought I wanted.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

The European cautiously untied the rope, ready to catch Bruce if he fell.

The delirium had passed, taking the ghosts with it, and Bruce could think clearly again. But that wasn’t enough. He had to know if he was still broken.

Bracing himself for the pain, he took a deep breath and placed his weight upon his bare feet.

A wave of dizziness assailed him, and he tottered slightly, but the light-headedness was only momentary and he steadied himself. His legs felt weak and rubbery from disuse, but at least he was standing on his own power again. His bad knee still bothered him, but he wasn’t going to let that stop him.

“That’s enough for today,” his caretaker said anxiously. He came forward to offer assistance. “You should rest.”

Bruce shook his head. He had rested enough already. Gotham needed him.

He took a step forward.

And another.

Days passed as Bruce rebuilt his body. His caretaker watched in wonder as Bruce did pushups against the floor of his cell, working until sweat dripped from his pale, unshaven face. Breathing hard, he pushed himself to his limits—and beyond. His back still ached, but it was bearable now, and getting better over time. Or so he wanted to think.

He paused for a moment before trying for another fifty reps.

The European sat on a bench a few feet away. He watched Bruce with a puzzled expression. “Why build yourself?”

Bruce pushed himself up off the floor again.

“I’m not meant to die here.”

The decrepit television set played in the background. A caption running beneath the latest news coverage read,
“SIEGE OF GOTHAM: DAY 84.”

“Here? There?” The older prisoner indicated the TV screen. “What’s the difference?”

Bruce ignored the man’s fatalistic attitude. That was the pit talking. He couldn’t afford to let his spirit weaken, even for a moment. He had work to do.

So he pushed himself ever harder.

One…two…three…

Finally, it was time to climb for the sun.

Bruce emerged from his cell and walked out to the base of the colossal shaft that led to the surface. Glancing down, he saw that a large pool of stagnant green water waited at the bottom of the pit. Greasy scum floated on top of the pool. Inmates waded through the water, which did not appear nearly deep enough to cushion a fall, at least not from a great height.

He lifted his gaze. He intended to go up, not down.

The tattooed prisoner wrapped the safety rope around Bruce’s chest, as he had for that other climber, months earlier. A crowd of curious prisoners gathered to watch, the European among them. Money changed hands as the inmates wagered on how high Bruce might get. He stared up at the distant sunlight, hundreds of feet above his head. Then he approached the wall.

If Bane can do it, so can I.

He found the first handhold and began his ascent. Rock-climbing was nothing new to him, although he found himself wishing for high-quality crampons or even the sturdy bronze spikes on Batman’s gauntlets. He climbed slowly, conserving his strength for the more arduous challenges he would encounter further up. Excited voices rose from below as the crowd observed his progress.

The chanting began anew.

I wonder how the betting is going.

The climb grew steadily more difficult as the bulges became less frequent and the gaps between the crumbling ledges grew wider. A throbbing pain pulsed along his spine, but Bruce pushed it aside. Pain he could deal with. All that mattered was getting out of this pit—and back to Gotham.

At last, he came to the precipice that had defeated the strong man. He stood on the brink of the ledge, gazing up at the next stone shelf, which was at least twelve feet away. Back in Gotham, he would have used his gas-powered grappling gun, but that was hardly an option here. He would have to make the jump the old-fashioned way, the way Bane had.

The chanting of the prisoners urged him on. He paused to make sure the safety rope was secure before backing up as far as he could in order to get some semblance of a running start. His bad knee felt like it was on fire, but he willed himself to ignore it.

He took a deep breath.

Here goes nothing.

He leapt for the upper ledge, stretching out his arms as far as they could reach. He arced upward, wishing for actual batwings that could carry him up and away from the pit. His outstretched fingers brushed against the rugged stone edge of the ledge…

Then slipped away.

Gravity seized him and he plunged toward the shallow pool below. He fell at least a hundred feet,
accelerating every second, before the rope brutally broke his fall, jolting his already aching spine.

A scream died behind gritted teeth. He swung into the hard stone wall, barely turning his face away in time. The bone-jarring impact knocked the breath from his body. His ribs felt as if they’d been hit with a hammer.

The chanting fell away and the crowd dispersed now that the day’s entertainment was over. Only a handful of inmates watched as the tattooed man gradually lowered his dangling body back down into the pit. Bruce collapsed onto a steel gantry.

The European sighed, unsurprised by the outcome of the climb. The blind doctor listened attentively, then turned away.

“I told you it could not be done,” the European said. He helped Bruce to his feet.

Bruce winced with every step, and his ribs felt freshly bruised.

“You told me a child did it.”

“No ordinary child.”

Older now, the child approached the climbing wall even as the protector fought off the other prisoners
—
those who sought to halt the climb. Did the crazed inmates wish to prevent the child from escaping, or did they simply want to keep the youngster from dying in a foolhardy bid for freedom? The child didn’t care. All
that mattered was seeing what lay beyond the pit
—
and wreaking his vengeance on the rest of the world.