Marvel Novel Series 03 - The Incredible Hulk - Cry Of The Beast

by Richard S. Meyers

  Curtiss finished the last crumb on his plate. As he pushed himself away from the table, he suddenly realized why the supper was so good. Even the doomed were always allowed a last meal.

  “Bruce . . . Bruce, please wake up.”

  Banner felt like tiny sheets of flypaper were stuck onto his eyes. With an effort, he tore them open.

  “Oh, thank heavens. Are you all right?” the voice asked.

  His body felt like a sack of dirty socks and his head felt like the wicker hamper they’d been thrown in.

  “Sampasumb,” he replied with lips of lead.

  His entire body ached with a wet heat. He had never felt this bad waking up from the Change. It seemed like he was wrapped in a taco, but the yellow glare that had been filling his vision cleared somewhat when a cool cloth wiped his face. Holding the cloth was a delicate, dark hand, and attached to that was a smooth shapely arm. The arm led to a torso of tight, feminine beauty, and perched atop all the preceding was the concerned face of Rosanne Wittenborn. Her hair was pulled back from her face by a rag tied around her now loose black curls. Because of the heat, her gauze top clung to her skin, creating a very attractive, if somewhat humid, package. To Banner at that moment, she was more than a beauty—she was something out of a dream. He reached up and felt her face.

  “Bruce,” she said, “it’s been more than three hours . . .” On the word “three” a powerful image slammed into Banner’s consciousness. It was him with a rope around his neck sinking in a black pit, surrounded by bear-like faces laughing. The Russian . . . the boat . . . the spears . . . the knife at his throat—all came pouring back in a jumble. Banner leaped up in fear and ran two steps.

  “The General!” he said.

  “Don’t worry, Bruce,” the girl soothed, coming up behind him and putting her hand on his arm. “We’re safe . . . for now.”

  Banner looked around clearly for the first time. They were standing in a small patch of clear ground on the banks of a muddy river. On all other sides of them was a massively dense collection of trees, vines, and other related growths. This was nothing the doctor had ever experienced. He put his face in his hands.

  “Whew!” he gasped.

  “It’s an African forest,” Rosanne explained, sinking to her knees on the riverbank. “We’re in the General’s domain now.”

  Banner turned to her. “But the boat . . . the Russian captain . . . how . . . what . . . ?”

  “I’m not sure. All I remember are those men taking you away and their stink as they . . . fought for me.”

  Banner tried to order his mind as he kneeled next to the woman. “Uh, did they . . . I mean . . . are you . . . all . . . I mean . . .”

  Surprisingly, Rosanne laughed. “Bruce, you’re blushing!” Then, gently, she explained, “No, some ruckus on the deck drew their attention elsewhere. The next thing I remember is the room filling up with water.” Her face clouded over. “Bruce . . . what happened? How did we get here? Where’s the banana barge?”

  Banner turned away and looked at the calm river, flowing peaceably beneath a blazing morning sun. He rose and put his hands on his waist. His palms touched sun-burned flesh. He looked down at himself. All he had on was a tattered pair of blue pants. The heat had shrunk the waistband back into a semblance of fitting. He could make an educated guess as to where their captors went.

  “The boat is gone, Rosanne. So’s the Russian. So’s the crew,” he intoned like the voice of doom. “Probably dead. I got them killed . . . or maybe killed them myself.” He stared across the placid water. The girl watched in wonder as his face downshifted into a look of pure hateful hopelessness. She could hardly believe it. She rose and approached.

  “No offense, Bruce, but I don’t see how . . .” She stopped, then tried again. “How could you have killed all those . . . and sank . . .” She tried to frame the right words one more time. “Bruce, you’re confused . . . tired . . . oh . . .” Finally, she put her hands on his shoulders. “Even if you did, you did us all a favor. Those terrible men deserved to die.”

  “It’s not like that,” said Banner, still staring off in the other direction. “It’s . . . it’s just not like that.”

  Rosanne took her hands away. She looked at the back of Banner’s head. She looked at the river. She looked back at the jungle. Then she sank to her haunches and began to cry.

  Banner turned, stared at her quietly for a moment, then moved over next to her. He put his arms around her waist and they leaned back. In a matter of minutes, they were both asleep in the shade of a tulip tree.

  “All set, buddy?” asked agent Blondie Matthews.

  “Yeah, I guess so,” said Curtiss.

  They were both back in their completely self-reliant outfits aboard their supposedly prototypal aircraft, readying for takeoff. Once they got into the air they would maintain total radio silence. This would mean that they couldn’t speak at all, since normal conversation meant setting up a common link between the two pressurized uniforms. In a matter of a few hours, Curtiss would be automatically ejected, and his parachute would lower him into the forest eight hundred miles from the General’s kingdom. Then he would have to move through a bit of desert, a chunk of semi-arid land, a wide expanse of tropical cities, and on into the heart of the jungle.

  “How does it feel to you?” asked Matthews. He wasn’t talking about the weather.

  “Not great,” said Curtiss.

  “I’ll be waiting to get you out when you’re ready,” said Matthews.

  “Hey, well, you were always accommodating, you know. Thanks.”

  “Brad, you’re one of the best. You’ll make it.”

  “Yeah. Yeah, well, so are you. I’ll see you, then.”

  “Yeah, well, right. Ready?”

  “Yeah. Let’s go.”

  “Was it that hidden reserve of strength you were talking about before?”

  “It was. It must’ve been.”

  Banner and Rosanne were sitting a little way into the forest. When they woke up again, night had nearly fallen and both were ravenously hungry. Thankfully, they were able to find dozens of bananas which had washed ashore from the boat wreck. After gorging themselves on the fruit, they found an almost dry spot and settled in to try to figure out what had happened. Even though it was still oppressively hot, Rosanne lay comfortably on Banner’s stomach and he held her while they spoke.

  “And you can’t remember anything?”

  “Things come in fits and starts. It certainly doesn’t help that everything’s so alien here. I just don’t have anything to compare my visions with.”

  “Please, Bruce, try. What happened after they threw you off the boat? How did I get out? Did you see Tony? Did you see what happened to anyone else?”

  “I’ve tried. I’ve spent my whole life trying to remember, but nothing comes! Oh, Lord. I don’t know, Rosanne; the tribesmen could have taken the men away. The river could have swept them downstream. I just don’t know!”

  She brought both hands to his chest and looked into his eyes, searching for a memory that wasn’t there. “It’s all right. It’s all right. I’m just so confused, too. It’s so dark and frightening.” She sank down against him again. “Oh, Bruce, will it be all right again?”

  Banner looked down at the petite, civilized creature in his arms. Her body was still and her gaze never wandered. Even in these totally hostile and hopeless surroundings, she did not succumb to hysteria. He realized that she was trying to calm him, as well as herself, with the questions. She was trying to build him up after his shattered behavior during the whole horrible escapade. He vowed to move with certainty from that point on, regardless of his fear of the Change.

  “It will be all right,” he heard himself say, not completely believing it. “It will be all right. I swear it.”

  Suddenly Banner saw a savage reptilian head laughing in his face. The next moment the huge, oily, coiled thing fell upon him. Banner heard Rosanne’s scream. Then he was covered with a living, wet tubing which wrapped it
self around his face. His arms flailed under the multicolored beam of sinewy muscle, and then a pressure unlike any he had ever experienced nearly crushed his head and chest.

  Rosanne saw the boa constrictor slap across Banner’s face before she rolled away in horror. She screamed and cried as it drew its heavy body across him. Desperately trying to help, she hurled rocks, twigs, and bananas at the thing as it calmly encircled Banner’s every limb and squeezed, hissing. Finally, she found a heavy stick and she ran forward, pounding at the snake with all her might.

  Her ears filled with an otherworldly snapping sound and the boa suddenly leaped at her as if propelled by a giant slingshot. She screamed once more and fell to the ground, writhing to avoid its grasp. She heard it crash in the underbrush beyond, then hurriedly got to her feet and tightened her grip on the branch.

  “Bruce,” she rasped, “Bruce, are you all right?”

  A deep growl behind her was her answer.

  She felt the blood drain out of her face. Dreading the thought of what she might see, she turned toward the new sound. Standing before her was a gargantuan green man, his body and face twisted in a magnificently muscled pose of defiance. With a great show of willpower, she managed not to faint. With even greater restraint, she resisted running into the jungle screaming. Instead, she stood perfectly still and stared.

  The monster stared back, and relief covered the initially angry expression. He had awakened to his angel. He must have been reborn to help his angel get out of more trouble. Broadening his shoulders, the Incredible Hulk smiled. Rosanne watched incredulously as the crater-marked face magically took on the innocent expression of a baby being tickled. The effect was stunning. This eight-foot, two-ton creature was just a little boy in a huge body.

  Rosanne forgot about the snake. She forgot Banner. She forgot the heavy club in her hand. She stared at the gigantic green creature with peaceful awe. But the boa’s movement was not lost on the Hulk. He saw a slimy motion beyond the girl’s foot and he moved slowly forward. Effortlessly, he picked the girl up and put her behind him, then watched the huge snake coil back into the tiny clearing, its evil head raised high.

  The Hulk was fascinated by its rippling movements and the rhythm with which its head moved slowly back and forth. He was enjoying the first moment of peace he had experienced since coming into existence so many years ago. The area was warm and wet, a natural womb, and the young woman’s energy and lack of fear added to his inner calm. The Hulk put out his huge paw, and the undulation of the snake stopped. Once again the Hulk smiled in innocent wonder. But then the boa bit his hand, and suddenly, without warning, the Hulk smashed the snake’s head a foot and a half into the African dirt.

  Rosanne didn’t move as the giant screamed his displeasure, grabbed the snake’s vibrating body, and began bashing it against a tree. She instinctively ducked, however, when the Hulk hurled the dead carcass far across the river. She was stunned that even after such a display of anger and strength, he turned to her with a sheepish grin, shaking his bitten hand like it had been accosted by a pesky fly.

  “Let me see,” she said, holding out her two hands.

  The Hulk looked at his hand, then over at the two of hers. He grunted, as if saying, “It’s nothing.” Then he looked out over the river, turned back, and nodded, silently expressing his opinion that the snake wouldn’t bother them anymore.

  “Please,” said Rosanne quietly, “I’d like to see your hand.” She motioned again with her own. The huge green man approached shyly and brought his hand up to the two of hers.

  It was at least two and a half times the size of a large human hand, and it was heavily lined. A palm reader could have had a field day on the grooves and canals covering almost every inch of the surface. Even after the snake’s attack, there was no evidence of a wound. To top it off, the muscular, textured skin was soft to the touch: a baby’s skin, but immeasurably stronger, and stretched across a body which would make an Adonis blush.

  Rosanne looked up to see the brutal green face studying her as intently as she was examining him. Slowly, and with purpose, he turned his hand over and took one of hers in a gentle, but firm, grasp. She stared at his face and somehow knew that, as impossible as it seemed, this creature was Bruce Green. It had to be. He wore the doctor’s pants and even held a passing resemblance to him in his own livid way. It was the only way to explain Bruce’s mysterious utterances and theories, and his attitude, which could be kindly described as “friendly reticence.”

  The Wittenborn girl had sensed Bruce’s reluctance to make any clear-cut decision, or attempt any action, and now she knew why. Once he pulled the trigger on his hidden reserves, his “inner strength” would blow everything all out of proportion.

  The Hulk let go of her hand and began touching her head. She let his iron beam of a finger trace her nose, her eyelids, her mouth, and her neck. The creature gaped in surprise at every new human discovery. Rosanne smiled, honestly liking this Hulk, but knowing also that her life was in his hands. One wrong move and he would lash out like a hurt child. One wrong move and he would leave her there to suffer certain death. One wrong move and both she and Bruce would never see civilization again. She felt the Hulk’s hand drop from her body. She glanced at his face and saw that the creature was fighting to stay awake. The lack of an adversary was sapping his energy.

  “Bruce!” she cried, gripping his arms. “Bruce, can you run?”

  The sleepy eyes met hers in confusion.

  “Run!” she repeated. “Like this.” She moved back a step, and ran in place.

  His face immediately brightened and he mimicked her action, shaking the jungle for hundreds of yards around. Rosanne herself was knocked down by the vibrations. The Hulk immediately stopped moving and grunted inquiringly.

  “I’m all right,” she replied quickly, making sure she smiled.

  She found her footing and approached him once more. “Could you carry me, please?” He looked at her, seemingly trying to make pictures out of her words but failing at it. “Carry me,” she repeated, taking his arms and moving them around her.

  Remembering the banana boat, the Hulk grunted in sudden discovery and lifted her up. Rosanne moved up him and settled comfortably in his arms.

  “All right,” she said. “Now, run. Run!”

  The Hulk smiled wide and, like before, ran in place. It took Rosanne almost half a minute to be heard above the violently rustling underbrush.

  “No, no, no,” she called, tapping his chest with her open hand. “Run. Escape. You know, run!” The beast stopped leaping about and watched the angel in his arms gesticulating wildly. What was she trying to tell him? He saw one of her arms point one way. He looked in that direction and saw only dense foliage. No snake there. Nothing there. What could she want?

  The Hulk wanted to understand, but he was too tired to really try. He had smashed the snake, but now he was just standing there. Whenever he stopped fighting he got tired and went back to sleep. When he was awake, he fought. Now his eyes began to close.

  “No, Bruce, please!” Rosanne shouted, slapping his upper torso with all her might. He didn’t feel it. When he didn’t fight, he was asleep. His eyes closed.

  Rosanne stopped yelling and the green-silver eyes sprang open again as the air was filled with the sound of buzzing. Without thinking, the Hulk charged toward the spot the girl had initially pointed at. He moved his shoulder down to protect his angel, then pounded through the underbrush without even looking for the source of the sawing sound. He had to get his angel to a safe spot; only then could he face the new threat. Rosanne marveled at his immediate reaction to the sound.

  Neither of them had seen anything, but his response had been instantaneous. How did he know that the sound represented a danger to them? What Rosanne didn’t know was that, to the Hulk, almost anything was a threat.

  The Greek pulled at the right epaulet on his shirt. The entire garment had stuck to his torso hours ago from the humidity, and this constricted his arm movements.
With the amount of machinery stuck in the cockpit of the jet copter, free movement was essential.

  He shrugged the shirt into a semblance of comfort and leaned back against the steaming-hot seat. He adjusted his headphone, then pulled up the small attached microphone.

  “Anything?” he asked, looking over at the black-garbed pilot.

  The pilot shook his head. The Greek cursed fluently in his native language. If he didn’t hit paydirt on this particular effort, his reputation would be severely soiled. Face meant everything at the General’s mansion, but, unfortunately, the rules kept changing. The despot’s whims could turn three hundred sixty degrees, depending on such variables as the weather, what he had for lunch, what he would have for dinner, or how clean his shoes were. One thing was certain, however—if the Greek didn’t find the Russian’s ship and the Wittenborn girl, the General would be terminally displeased. The Greek tapped his microphone.

  “JH 2, report,” he called.

  “JH 1, this is JH 2, nothing,” came the message over his earphones.

  “JH 3, report.”

  “JH 1, this is JH 3, nothing.”

  “JH 4, report.”

  “Uh . . . JH 1, this is JH 4,” said an unnaturally breathless voice. “We’ve spotted something, but, uh, you’d better come over here yourself. It’s . . . uh . . . a little hard to believe.”

  The pilot for Jet Helicopter 4 resisted reacting to the Greek’s pointed questions concerning his sanity and drinking habits and simply gave JH 1’s pilot his coordinates. The JH 1 pilot banked at a sickening degree and sped off in his companion’s direction. The Greek, holding onto his stomach, recommended that the remaining two jet copters follow at a discreet distance.