The Dark Knight Rises: The Official Novelization

by Greg Cox

  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.

  Scrambling up the sides of the shaft, the child reached the fatal precipice that had killed the hopes of so many other climbers. Determined eyes glanced down at the protector, who was losing ground against the horde of maddened prisoners. They were swarming over him. Knives drawn, they fell upon the protector just as an equally bloodthirsty mob had attacked the child’s mother, years before.

  For an instant, the child was tempted to turn back and fight beside the outnumbered champion.

  The child stared down at the masked warrior. Their eyes made contact.

  Go, the man ordered silently. Now.

  The child jumped over the abyss. Desperate hands grabbed onto solid rock. A small body swung up onto the ledge.

  “A child born in hell,” the white-haired prisoner said. “A child forged by suffering. Hardened by pain.”

  He shook his head sadly at Bruce.

  “Not a child of privilege.”

  Defeated, Bruce staggered back to his cell.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Supply trucks approached the checkpoint on the bridge. Armed mercenaries inspected the trailer of an idling eighteen-wheeler, finding only crates of emergency rations. A guard helped himself to an energy bar before giving the driver the go-ahead.

  The truck drove through the snow-covered streets, which were badly i
n need of plowing, until it pulled up in front of a dimly lit supermarket. A long line of Gothamites—stretching all the way down the block— waited miserably along the sidewalk, braving the frigid winter weather for a chance to replenish their dwindling stores. Hungry children cried impatiently.

  Inside the truck, hidden from view, the lid of a crate opened just a crack. Captain Mark Jones, US Special Forces, peered out to make sure all was clear. Finding the trailer compartment free of hostiles, he climbed out from beneath several bags of rice and rapped the sides of four other crates.

  A quartet of Special Forces operatives, wearing nondescript civilian clothing, emerged from the boxes and checked their automatic weapons before concealing them once again.

  We made it, Jones thought. We’re in Gotham.

  “Now for the hard part,” he muttered aloud.

  The back door of the truck rattled open and he and his men began to unload the supplies. A nervous-looking store manager met them at the door and guided them into the back of the store, then down a flight of stairs into a storeroom in the basement. There they were greeted by four plain-clothes cops.

  “You have ID?” Deputy Commissioner Foley asked.

  Jones recognized Foley from his briefing.

  “Of course not.”

  Foley eyed the newcomers warily.

  “How can we trust you?”

  “We don’t have any choice,” James Gordon said. He and a younger man stepped out of the shadows at the rear of the room. They wore heavy coats to protect them against the chill of the basement. Both were carrying.

  “Commissioner Gordon?” Jones was glad to see the wounded man up and about. There had been conflicting reports about his status. He held out his hand. “Captain Jones. Special Forces.”

  “Captain,” Gordon replied. “Glad to have you here.”

  Jones glanced around the storeroom, anxious to assess the situation.

  “How many of you are there?”

  “Dozens,” Gordon said cautiously. “I’d rather not say exactly. But the men trapped underground number almost three thousand.”

  Jones whistled softly. That matched with what he had heard.

  “What kind of shape are they in?”

  “They’ve been getting water, food,” Gordon said.

  “Could we break them out?”

  “Yes, sir.” The younger cop stepped forward. “Take out the mercenaries guarding the outflow pipe south of Ackerman Park, blow the rubble, you’ve got a hole big enough for ten at a time. I’m in contact with my partner—they’re waiting for the day.”

  Jones was skeptical, but it was one of his men who voiced it.

  “Men who haven’t seen daylight for three months,” the man said.

  “Men with automatic weapons,” the young cop stressed, "who haven’t seen daylight for three months.”

  Good point, Jones acknowledged silently. That has to count for something.

  “What about the bomb?” he asked. “The satellite can’t see any radiation hot spots.”

  “They keep it on a truck,” Gordon reported. “It must have a lead-lined roof. They move it constantly.”

  Jones nodded. The brass had suspected as much.

  “But you know the truck?”

  “They’ve got three of them,” Gordon said. “The routes don’t vary much.”

  A shell game, Jones realized.

  “What about the trigger man?”

  “No leads,” Gordon said. He paused, then offered his own theory. “It’s a bluff. Bane wouldn’t give control of that bomb to someone else.”

  “We can’t take that chance,” Jones said. “Until we have the triggerman, we just track the device, smuggle men over—”

  That clearly wasn’t enough for the young cop, who spoke up.

  “Meanwhile Gotham lives under a warlord,” he said irritably, “like in some failed state.”

  “Dial it back, officer.” Jones sympathized with the man’s frustration, especially after nearly three months, but they needed to keep cool heads where that nuke was concerned. “This situation is unprecedented. We can’t do anything that might risk millions of lives.”

  The young hothead turned to his boss.

  “Aren’t you going to tell him?”

  “Captain,” Gordon began, “things are more complicated than you think. There’s somebody you need to meet.” He addressed the young cop by name. “Blake?”

  Blake nodded and gestured for Jones and his men to follow him. Puzzled, Jones trailed Blake back upstairs. Weapons in hand, they departed the supermarket via a rear exit and stealthily made their way down a series of back alleys and side streets.

  Jones let Blake take point. They were on his turf now.

  What’s this all about? he wondered.

  Several blocks later, they crept through the back door of what turned out to be an empty bank. The teller booths were deserted. The vault and safety deposit boxes had already been looted. Their footsteps echoed throughout the lifeless building as they crossed the lobby and rode the elevator to the top floor offices—which proved to be home to several displaced refugees.

  Sleeping bags and makeshift cots lined the carpeted corridor. Homeless people camped out in the hall and offices. Trash cans were overflowing with empty food containers and wrappers.

  “I was up here looking for a vantage point,” Blake explained tersely. “Found the people who run the corporation that owns it living here.”

  Jones regarded the huddled survivors.

  “Which corporation?”

  “Wayne Enterprises,” a distinguished-looking black man answered. He came forward to meet them, accompanied by an attractive brunette several years his junior. His collar was unbuttoned and his sleeves were rolled up. She wore a belted plum tunic and black leggings.

  “Captain, meet Mr. Fox,” Blake said. “Mr. Fox, I’d like you to brief the captain.”

  “Hold on,” Jones said. He cast a pointed look in the woman’s direction.

  “Miss Tate is fully aware of the situation,” Fox assured him.

  “And as CEO of Wayne Enterprises,” she said, “I have to take responsibility for it.”

  Jones gave her a closer look.

  “Why?” he asked.

  “Because, captain, we built it.”

  “You built the bomb?” He didn’t understand. This hadn’t been in his briefing.

  “It was built as a fusion reactor,” Fox said, keeping his voice low. “The first of its kind. Bane turned the core into a bomb, then disconnected it from the reactor.”

  “And here’s the important part,” Blake prompted.

  “As the device’s fuel cells decay,” Fox said, “it’s becoming increasingly unstable, until the point of detonation.”

  Blake spelled it out.

  “The bomb’s a time bomb.”

  “And it will go off,” Fox stated gravely. “In twenty-three days.”

  Jones couldn’t believe his ears. An already hellish situation had just gotten infinitely worse. He reeled at the news.

  “Bane’s revolution’s a sham,” Blake explained. “He’s watching Gotham rearrange its deck chairs while the whole ship’s going down. Your appeasement plan might not be as practical as you thought.”

  Jones scowled at Blake. The young cop was right, but that didn’t mean he had to like it. He looked again at Fox.

  “Could you disarm it?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” Fox said. “But I could reconnect it to the reactor. Stabilize it.”

  That was something, at least. Jones considered his next move, adapting to this distressing new intel.

  “We have to let the Pentagon know.”

  “They’ll be monitoring our frequencies,” one of his men cautioned.

  “We have no choice,” Jones said. Washington had to know that there was a ticking clock in this scenario. “Let’s move away from this location, then call it in.”

  Blake didn’t disagree. Taking leave of Fox and Miss Tate, he escorted Jones and his m
en back to the elevator. Jones wanted to put at least four or five blocks between them and the bank before he broke radio silence. He waited impatiently for the elevator to reach the ground floor. All of a sudden, every moment counted.

  A chime sounded. The elevator door slid open and Jones led his team out into the vacant lobby. They were halfway across the floor when all hell broke loose.

  Mercenaries sprang up from behind desks and counters, wielding machine guns, opening fire on the ambushed soldiers. Bullets tore apart the lobby’s ornate walls and furnishings. Caught in a crossfire, the soldiers cried out and jerked like malfunctioning marionettes before dropping to the floor. Blood spilled across the polished tiles.

  Dammit! Jones thought. How’d they find us already?

  He swung his assault rifle toward their attackers, but the enemy already had the drop on them. Hot lead tore through his meat and bones. Pain exploded like miniature neutron bombs all over his body.

  Crap!

  Blake dived back into the elevator. Bullets blew through the door as it slid shut behind him, and he flattened himself against the wall. He waited a second to see if any of Jones’s men had survived the ambush long enough to join him, then he hit the button for the top floor.

  Gunfire, and the cries of dying soldiers, rang out from below.

  Sorry, captain, Blake thought. I wish your mission had ended differently. You and your men deserved better than this. But he couldn’t worry about the murdered soldiers now. Fox and the others were still in danger. They needed to get out of there, pronto!

  The elevator hit the top floor. Blake rushed out into the corridor.

  “Fox!” he hollered. “Somebody sold us out!”

  * * *

  Fox and Miranda were already in the hall, trying to herd everyone toward the fire exits. They had all heard the gunfire downstairs. Terrified refugees screamed and shouted. Pandemonium spread through the corridors and offices.

  “Take Miranda,” Fox urged Blake, putting her safety first. Blake grabbed the woman by the wrist and hurried toward the back stairs, even as the elevators chimed once more.

  Mercenaries burst out, firing high. Overhead lights exploded. Sparks and broken glass rained down on the crowded hallway. More screams came from the cornered refugees. People scurried into the nearest offices or threw themselves flat.