The Dark Knight Rises: The Official Novelization

by Greg Cox

  * * *

  “And cast into the cold world the rest of us have known and endured…”

  At first, the terrified apartment owners thought that they themselves might be spared, that the rioters were only after their possessions. But then men with guns descended upon them and herded them roughly out into the street, where they were rounded up along with the rest of their scared and affluent neighbors. Despite the cold fall weather, and not even given a chance to dress for the outdoors, they were marched at gunpoint away from their former homes.

  Raucous laughter followed them down the block. Thrown rocks and garbage pelted them. An empty bottle hit the banker in the face.

  “Courts will be convened…”

  The stock exchange, site of Bane’s first assault upon Gotham’s wheelers and dealers, was converted into a mock courthouse attended by crowds of jeering spectators. An escaped convict who had traded his orange prison jumpsuit for an ill-fitting black robe presided over the trial of the banker and his wife. They found themselves accused of high crimes and treason against the people of Gotham. They clung to each other, shivering in the dock, as Jonathan Crane, a convicted killer who had once terrorized the city, pronounced sentence on them.

  He pounded his gavel upon the trading floor’s elevated bell podium.

  The mob roared in approval.

  Bane watched silently from an upper gallery.

  “The spoils will be enjoyed…”

  A once-exclusive apartment became Party Central. Dozens of squatters occupied the penthouse, helping themselves to whatever the first wave of looters had left behind. Winos, addicts, prostitutes, and homeless runaways cracked opened bottles of champagne, spraying one another with the foam while trampling over broken furniture and heirlooms. Hookers and crackheads put on an impromptu fashion show, modeling liberated furs and jewelry. A drunk peed in a corner.

  Selina kept to herself, frowning as she watched the revelry.

  “Blood will be shed…”

  Officer Ross peered up at the daylight, high above his head. The light penetrated a narrow storm drain partially clogged with shattered concrete. A basket full of supplies was lowered into the ruins of the tunnels, where he and hundreds of other cops found themselves buried alive.

  At first, he had expected the city to launch a full-scale rescue, employing heavy machinery and teams of workers to dig their way down to the trapped personnel, but apparently that wasn’t happening anytime soon. They remained stuck in the sewers.

  He remained stuck in the sewers. Away from his wife and daughter.

  Ross grabbed onto the basket, which contained stale bread, moldy fruit, and dented cans of lunch meat. His stomach growling, he handed them out to the other officers, hoping it would be enough, but knowing that it wasn’t.

  He shivered, trying to remember what it was like to be warm.

  “But the police will live, until they are ready to serve true justice…”

  The reactor core glowed brightly, and lit gauges crept toward the red zone, as the large metal sphere was loaded into the back of an unmarked black truck. Mercenaries made sure the bomb was secured within the vehicle.

  “This great city will endure. Gotham will survive.”

  Inside the truck, a digital counter ticked toward zero.

  Bruce couldn’t bear to watch the news coverage any longer. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he rocked back and forth on his cot—until he rolled over the edge and landed on the hard stone floor. A harsh grunt escaped his lips as he placed his palms against the grimy floor and pressed against it.

  His caretaker stared at him in confusion, as if fearing that his charge had fallen by accident. Not until Bruce managed to lift his face a few inches from the ground did it become obvious that—insanely—he was trying to do a pushup.

  Just one rep, Bruce ordered himself. You can do it!

  His screaming spine thought otherwise.

  The blind man barked next door. Sightless eyes turned toward Bruce as the man strained his ears to hear the exertions. Despite his handicap, he seemed to grasp what was happening.

  “He says you must first straighten your back,” the European translated. He helped Bruce roll over onto his back. Every motion sent a bolt of searing pain up his spinal column. The rough stone floor felt like a bed of nails.

  “How would he know?” Bruce asked.

  “He was the prison doctor,” the other prisoner revealed. “A morphine addict who incurred the displeasure of powerful people. Including your masked friend.”

  “How?”

  The prisoner sighed, perhaps realizing that Bruce would only keep asking. Or maybe he simply hoped to distract Bruce with a story. In any event, the European spoke softly, his voice hushed and doleful.

  “Many years ago, during a time of plague, Bane was attacked by the other prisoners. The doctor’s fumbling attempts to repair the damage left him in perpetual agony. The mask delivers a gas that holds his pain at bay.”

  Good to know, Bruce thought. “Is Bane the child you spoke of? Was he born here?”

  The prisoner nodded.

  “The legend is that there was a mercenary working for the local warlord, who fell in love with his daughter. They married in secret.” He retrieved a rope from the hall and tied it under Bruce’s arms. “When the warlord found out, he condemned the mercenary to this pit. But then exiled him instead, dropping him at the side of a barren road.

  “The mercenary understood that the warlord’s daughter had secured his release, but he couldn’t know the true price of his freedom. She had taken his place in the pit.”

  Bruce shuddered at the thought of a woman in this awful place. So far all the prisoners he’d seen had been men. There did not appear to be any guards. Apparently, they weren’t needed. The prisoners had been left to police themselves.

  “And she was with child,” the European continued. “The mercenary’s child.” He gestured toward the blind man in his cell. “The doctor delivered the child, back when his eyes were still young and could see the light. But one day, years later, he forgot to lock the cell behind him.”

  * * *

  Years ago:

  A Madonna in hell, the mother wore a native shawl over her slender shoulders. She backed against an unyielding stone wall as a crew of lustful prisoners, seizing the opportunity, barged into her cell. Muslin masks concealed the men’s faces.

  She reached for the child, wanting to protect her offspring.

  But instead the child charged at the invaders, knife in hand. The blade slashed at the men, drawing blood…

  “Innocence cannot flower underground,” the European said. “It was to be stamped out. But the child had a friend. A protector.”

  A sinewy figure, his face also veiled by muslin, came to the child’s rescue. Threadbare garments hung on his frame. Deflecting a knife blow with his arm, he pulled the furious child away from the invaders. A snarling inmate, his face sporting a bloody gash, grabbed for the child, but the protector intercepted the man’s arm and, with a deft move, broke it at the elbow.

  Bone snapped loudly. The man dropped to his knees, clutching his arm in agony.

  The other prisoners lunged at the woman. Making a brutal choice, the masked man held onto the frantic child and dragged the youngster into the shadows, away from the attackers, who fell upon the woman like a pack of ravening wolves.

  Her screams finally trailed off into silence.

  “The child’s guardian showed the others that this innocence was their redemption. To be prized.” The European shook his head mournfully. “The mother was not so lucky.”

  The blind doctor shouted from his cell. Bruce’s caretaker nodded in understanding.

  “This is Bane’s prison now,” he said. “Bane would not want his story told.”

  He knotted the rope securely beneath Bruce’s arms, and then hurled the end over the open door of the cell, running around to take hold of it. Tugging on the rope, he pulled Bruce upright against the bard.

  Bruc
e screamed as if he was being tortured upon the rack.

  Which—in a sense—he was.

  The pain was like nothing he had ever known. Worse than the time the Scarecrow had set him on fire, or when the Joker had stabbed him in the side. Worse than the time he had hauled Ducard up over the edge of that cliff with just one arm.

  He convulsed in torment, praying to pass out. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could endure it, even after everything he had already been through. Oblivion would have been a mercy.

  But there was no such luck.

  The European tied the rope to the metals bars of the door. His fingers explored Bruce’s spine, which only increased the torture. Razor-sharp spasms of pain rocketed up and down his brutalized body. He bit down on his lip as his caretaker located the source of the pain.

  Bruce tasted blood.

  “You have a protruding vertebra,” the man said. “I’m going to force it back.”

  “How?” he asked, and he braced himself.

  Without warning, the man punched him in the back, hard enough to rattle the door’s rusty hinges. Bruce howled like a damned soul, suffering the most excruciating torment of hell, before finally sagging against the iron bars. Only the unforgiving rope, digging into his armpits, kept him from collapsing onto the floor. He hung limply.

  “You stay like this,” the other prisoner said. “Until you stand.”

  Bruce finally lost consciousness from the pain.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Days and nights blurred together as Bruce hung within the cell, drifting in and out of delirium. Noises came and went from the pit outside. The tantalizing light of hope retreated and returned, over and over again. Only the pain in his back was constant, giving him no relief.

  The ghosts of his past tormented him.

  “Did you not think I’d return, Bruce?”

  He looked up to see Rā’s al Ghūl standing before him. His long-dead mentor appeared just as he had the last time Bruce had seen him. He was a tall, bearded man wearing a stern expression and a severe black suit. Bruce had originally known him as “Henri Ducard,” and had only later realized that Ducard was merely a convenient alias for the true master of the League of Shadows.

  Icy blue eyes regarded Bruce with wry amusement.

  “I told you I was immortal,” he said.

  No, this is impossible, Bruce thought. He vividly recalled a speeding monorail crashing to the street in a fiery explosion. “I watched you die,” he gritted.

  Rā’s did not deny it.

  “There are many forms of immortality.”

  A memory surfaced from the past, of the two of them sitting before a campfire beside a frozen lake. The older man had spoken tersely of his own tragic history.

  “Once I had a wife,” he said. “My great love. She was taken from me.”

  The tapestry came together in Bruce’s mind. Returning to the present, he stared at Rā’s.

  “You were the mercenary,” he said. “Bane is your child. Your heir.”

  Rā’s nodded.

  “An heir to ensure that the League of Shadows fulfills its duty to restore balance to civilization.”

  Bruce knew what that meant.

  “No…” But Rā’s continued.

  “You yourself fought the decadence of Gotham for years—with all your strength and resources, all your moral authority. And the only victory you could achieve was a lie. Finally, you understand. Gotham is beyond saving.”

  “No!” Bruce shouted. He strained against the rope holding him up. The pain in his back was nothing compared to the agony of knowing that his city was in peril—and there was nothing he could do about it.

  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 glanc
ed 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.