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

by Richard S. Meyers

  “Bruce, I can’t understand. Why is all this happening to me? How could this happen to you? I’m just so confused,” she finished weakly.

  Uncharacteristically, Banner laughed. Rosanne looked up at him in surprise, momentarily chilled by the thought that he might have gone mad. But his face held only a tired sort of mirth.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, “but you sounded just like a cartoon I remembered. You ever see the Popeye cartoon where he and Bluto are digging for gold? Bluto hits this dead end with a big stop sign and this billboard saying ‘NO GOLD HERE.’ Well, he just turns to the audience and says, ‘You know, sometimes I get so depressed.’ Then he starts bawling.”

  The memory was so incongruous, and it reminded Rosanne so much of her own almost forgotten childhood, that she found herself laughing. Spinach was, after all, green.

  “So what are we going to do, Popeye?” she asked.

  “Well, Olive Oyl, let’s see if we can’t find someplace to spend the night safely.”

  Curtiss was dressed in someone’s idea of a diaper. It wrapped around his waist and crotch in an uncomfortable bunch. He wanted to spread it out a little bit, but his hands were shackled together and attached by a chain to a metal collar around his throat.

  That, in turn, was attached by another chain to the metal collar of the person in front of him and by a third chain to someone behind him. Their legs were not shackled, but still, there was little danger of escape. Six people latched together by their necks and wrists weren’t going to go far in the tropical forest. If one got attacked by a tiger, they would all have to hang around for dessert. And if one fainted, they would all choke. Besides all that, lugging around twenty-five pounds of metal wasn’t fun at a flat run.

  It wasn’t even fun at the pace he kept up now, which was a steady shuffle. Well, the one good thing about it was that he was not too inclined to tap his left forefinger fingernail, throw a karate kick with his right foot, or pick his ear and nose.

  Curtiss had been led along with sadistic regularity by a team of tall dark men for what seemed like several weeks, but which was actually less than a day and a half. But with no sleep, little rest, and even less sustenance, it just seemed like ages. Thankfully, Curtiss’s training held him in good stead, and the rest of the captives, who had been traveling a lot farther before he was “recruited,” were used to it.

  In front of him was a broad, red-haired man, and behind him was a slim, tall girl with short blond hair. They had made rudimentary introductions when he was linked to them on the outskirts of the Cameroon. He was Morry and she was Kelli. They were both single and had few relatives—in the case of Kelli, none. In other words, they would hardly be missed. And if they were, their disappearance would be rationalized away. They, like everyone else, were wearing tribal versions of underwear. For modesty’s sake, the women were allowed tops. It would probably be the only vestige of dignity they would ever be allowed.

  All together, the group numbered thirty: five groups of six, with roughly a two-to-four male-female ratio. White women were the number-one commodity here.

  Curtiss was beginning to look forward to meeting the General on his own terms. He was thinking about that when thirty slaves were roughly stopped in their tracks. Then several solid swings of a stout stick convinced them all to sit down.

  “Quiet,” an accented voice hissed. “Silence or death.”

  All the slaves took the easy route. Their wardens had gathered in a group. Curtiss took note of their short-sleeved bush outfits with the two belts of ammunition and the large holstered pistols. They had several other holsters, but those held the likes of whips, clubs, handcuffs, and other delightful treats. He also took this opportunity to count the guards. For the two and a half dozen of them, there were fifteen guards—actually, only fourteen, since one slaver was on Curtiss’s side. He had kindly arranged this nifty infiltration.

  The guards broke up and some of them moved back to their captives. The ten remaining wardens huddled together, talking in low tones. The C.I.A. plant moved up and down Curtiss’s row, ostensibly checking the chains. He kept up his cover by insulting the men and offering all manner of rude suggestions to the women.

  When he reached Curtiss, he said, “We’ve spotted a campfire. They’re going to investigate.” Curtiss reacted characteristically by seething in a threatening manner. He got a choking tug at his collar as reward for his acting. Then he watched as the fifteen guards began to pull out their guns and whips. He certainly pitied anyone who was caught around that campfire tonight.

  “The fire will keep any wild animals away,” Rosanne explained to a slightly paranoid Banner. “If we slept in the dark, we might make some leopard’s meal.”

  “It just seems to be an unnecessary attraction,” said Bruce. “Lord knows it’s hot enough as it is.”

  “I know.” Rosanne smiled. “But that’s the way it is in the wild kingdom.”

  Banner smiled in return and leaned back against a tree trunk. It wasn’t a casual movement. He had carefully checked the entire area for snakes before they had settled down. Rosanne finished tending the fire and came to sit down next to him. She cuddled up against him and Bruce put an arm around her. They stared at the fire for a while.

  “What are you thinking?” Rosanne finally asked.

  “Nothing,” Banner said automatically.

  “Wrong question,” the girl replied. “I know what you’re thinking—the same thing I’m thinking.” She paused for a second, then asked lightly, “So what do you think? Do you think we’ll ever get out of this?”

  “Well,” Bruce mused just as lightly, “I think, I think. And my thoughts lead me to think that you think that I think that you think I don’t think enough about that. But I don’t think you are right. You want to know what I think?”

  “I think so,” she said, deadpan.

  “I think . . . I think, mind you, that all this thinking is giving me a stinking headache.”

  Rosanne laughed with delight, but Banner suddenly leaped up, tore a flaming log from the fire, and hurled it into the woods.

  Rosanne didn’t even get a chance to exclaim before she heard a scream and Banner pounded after the thrown torch. A moment later, she was standing up and he came tearing back out of the brush holding a large gun. He stopped on the other side of the fire and pointed it at her. With a little shriek she ducked and he pulled the trigger. A boom tore across the campsite. Then she felt her hand being grasped and Banner pulled her up. They started running.

  “I saw a flash,” he gasped in between deep breaths. “I knew it must be more of the General’s men. It was. I shot one,” he said, waving the pistol before her face.

  Then she heard the shouts of the other men and the noises of pursuit. In a panic, she ignored the stones and branches punching at her feet and the shadows that assailed her vision. She took her strength from Banner’s arm which was locked in hers. The two of them raced through the forest.

  But the darkness and their pursuers conspired against them. Banner’s foot got caught in some sort of log pile and as he went down, Rosanne felt a cord wrap around her neck with a stinting bite. She heard Bruce curse, and then she was being pulled back with a steady strength.

  Thankfully, her feet got tangled and she fell before the whip could draw her into the slaver’s clutches. Banner’s newly acquired weapon spoke again and the girl felt the constriction loosen. Bruce’s hand gripped her and they were off again. The next moment, the reports of other guns began their chorus behind them. There was a whistling in her ears, but Banner’s voice drowned it out.

  “Don’t stop,” he warned.

  Her legs moved with an energy she didn’t know she possessed. She kept pace with Bruce even without hanging onto his arm. For he had released her now and they ran side by side through the forest. They ran until the branches had stung lines of welts across their ankles. They ran across fallen trees that knocked them down. But they rolled to their feet and kept going.

  Their breath burned lik
e fire in their chests; their legs felt like sacks of sand; their arms ached from swinging back and forth. They ran until stinging tears coursed down their faces. They ran until sweat made their clothes into second skins. Their running became second nature. It was something they both did to keep alive. They ran until they had both been doing it so long that they wouldn’t know what to do if they weren’t running.

  There was one last, far-off boom. Just before she stopped thinking, Rosanne heard the heavy whine of the bullet ricocheting off a tree. Then it grazed her temple and she went down.

  Banner pulled himself up short and dropped across her. He listened intently for any clue of further stalking. When he was sure they didn’t know they had hit her, Banner hurriedly rose to his knees and turned her over. Although she was unconscious, she moaned. Banner felt a shudder rise from deep inside him. She was alive, thank God.

  He quickly checked the wound on her forehead, then pulled her body up across his shoulders in a fireman’s carry. He wasn’t about to desert her after all this. The Hulk wouldn’t, so he wouldn’t. She was more than special now. She meant something to both sides of him. As he began to trot quickly away with her limp form on his back, he began to understand how things had changed.

  The rational part of him had accepted the Hulk’s existence, but only as a challenge. It might be a savior to others, but it was still a beast to him—that uncontrollable, unreasoning rage that existed in everyone, but somehow in him, manifested itself as another being.

  Well, he would not succumb to it. He could not. If he allowed the monster to control his life, it would prove that he was less than a man. The animal side of him, being irrational, chose not to fight him; it would appear only when Banner could not control it. But he swore that he would control it. It would be Bruce Banner who would be the master. Nothing could stop him now.

  Banner drove himself as he never had before. The girl on his shoulders stopped being a human and became a weight he had to bear. His brain stopped channeling ideas and simply served to push his muscles on. His eyes stopped taking in details. They merely picked out landmarks and possible dangers. His ears shut down almost completely, letting in only the most rudimentary of sounds.

  Banner’s legs moved, and the moon moved across the night sky. He kept moving while the stars slowly faded and while the sun crossed the other half of the sphere. He moved until his mind could no longer force his ragged nerves forward. The mind knew that with any more the body would begin to burn outward from the heart. The organs would boil, the blood would crash through the veins, the bones would shatter—all as a result of the man’s determined, maniacal, furious, despairing energy.

  The mind chose to shut down.

  Banner’s legs faltered. He stumbled, then, slowly, fell, the day’s first rays of sun caressing his exhausted head. Rosanne slid silently off his back to fold onto the ground. She had slipped from unconsciousness into a troubled slumber. She mumbled in her sleep, her expression concerned. Banner watched her unthinkingly while diagnosing himself in a separate part of his subconscious.

  The eyes and lips showed signs of dehydration. The arms, legs, and back were suffering muscle spasms. The internals were on the verge of heat stroke. The soles of his feet and the palms of his hands curled with muscle cramps. The brain displayed evidence of delirium. Prescription: food and rest, lots of it, immediately.

  Banner’s tortured head arose. His agony-ridden eyes opened. Before him, between two bushes, was a fence. The aching hands reached out. The tortured legs gained leverage. The doctor began to crawl. His brain cried out words like “sanctuary” and “safety.” He reached the metal bars only to find metal links just beyond them. His pain-racked neck turned and he spied a hole in the wall. Banner pulled himself up and stumbled to the hole. He half-crawled, half-fainted through the small opening.

  He tumbled through, climbed to his feet and took three more steps before collapsing again. His eyelids snapped shut and sprang open like a camera’s shutter. As they created a visual strobe, two dark shapes slid into the developed picture. Banner’s irises opened wide, letting in all the early morning light.

  He was staring at two boots. His parched, split lips opened after a struggle, as if they were soldered together.

  “H . . . e . . . p,” was all he could say.

  A deep voice replied. A voice that came from a huge head. A voice that a part of Banner had heard before.

  “Oh, my,” said the General, “how good of you to come.”

  Eleven

  Banner was dumped, with little ceremony, into a well-kept, extensive, and carefully guarded dungeon. His every need was cared for and his every whim was ignored. Sustenance and rest he had plenty of, for the next week, but little things like sunshine, exercise, company, and freedom were non-existent. In twice the time it took him to collapse, he recovered, and in the remaining few days he was able to regain some semblance of strength.

  While his body recuperated, his mind descended into the realm of paranoid fantasy. His wardens always seemed to have a special interest in him. His food always seemed more ample than the other servings he saw lining the cook’s tray. He sometimes awoke suddenly at night hearing Rosanne’s cries. He thought that the guards knew English, but that they remained silent on purpose. And quietly, he seethed over his preferential treatment.

  He saw the others from his cell window by standing on his cot. He watched them handling the menial jail work, scrubbing floors, hauling supplies, and entertaining the employees all while chained at the neck, wrists, or ankles. It was a deepest, darkest African movie come true. Banner spent many hours with his own slightly warped psyche. He thought about depression, anxiety attacks, acute frustration, and even considered the nature of suicide.

  Thus, it was a disguised blessing when he was pulled out of his solitary cell and brought into the very bowels of the prison. There, in large metal cages, sat coed lines of slaves. Each face was marked with a new education in subservience. The men stared gloomily at the hay floor. The women were more hasty and nervous about averting their eyes. Some backs, legs, and shoulders bore lash marks. A select few were even tattooed, or, more harshly, branded with their masters’ designs.

  The sobering company of these human beings did much to dry Banner’s soggy mental outlook. He was pushed, pulled, and prodded into a tall stone room, lined on three sides by rusted metal bars. Five other prisoners were inside, and his appearance evened the score to three men and three women. The females were uniformly young and slim, and their hair was cropped short. They shared a mutual expression of despair.

  In comparison, the men were veritable work-horses. One, a redhead, had broad shoulders and solid legs. The other was a lithe specimen. Banner was the “ninety-eight-pound weakling” among them. The auburn-haired man’s face showed that he had not yet fully accepted his captivity, but the other man exhibited a calm craftiness. There was a smug secret knowledge behind his eyes, like a cat’s, but it only showed when no guard was in sight. He knew something, but he wasn’t talking.

  Banner made the awkward introduction. It was hard to shake hands when they were chained to each other. The blonde girl was Kelli, the mousy brunette was Jackie, and the smaller blonde was Beverly. The red-haired guy was Morry, and the clever man with the Cheshire grin was Bradford.

  “Does anyone know what’s going to happen to us?” Bruce asked cautiously once night had fallen for the eighth time since his capture.

  There was silence for about fifteen seconds. Then the blonde named Kelli laughed nervously.

  “I think, uh, one of the guards has been watching me and, uh . . .”—she bit her lip—“. . . I think he wants to ask whoever’s in charge . . .” She choked and started sobbing. The red-haired man put one strong arm around her.

  Banner, looked from face to face. Jackie was scowling in quiet rebellion. Beverly looked sick. But Bradford looked rock-steady, like he had just decided to prosecute a rapist.

  “Naw,” said Morry in his gruff voice. “All the guards do t
hat to the girls to make them feel like garbage. In addition to the regular treatment, it breaks them down faster.”

  Kelli looked up at him in supplication, hoping that what he said was true. He smiled reassuringly.

  “He’s right,” Brad said evenly. “Simple terror is not what our wardens are after. They’re keeping us all on pinhooks for some secret reason. I’ve seen groups moved out of here in a minute flat. But we thirty . . . pardon me, thirty-one”—he nodded at Bruce—“we’re special for some reason.”

  Banner looked at them all. Their faces glowed in the moonlight that was streaming in the one-barred window. He thought about fate, destiny, a large moss-colored monster, and Dr. Maxwell Wittenborn. What could he be working on? And would it need guinea pigs?

  The General’s laughing face appeared in his mind. Where had he seen it before? Suddenly, the whole story formed itself like a jigsaw puzzle instantaneously solved. He hadn’t seen the General before. Or, at least, one part of him hadn’t.

  Sudden bright light flooded the large pen. Kelli shrieked quickly as the beams swept them all into silhouette. Banner started, but Brad’s strong hand on his arm kept him from inadvertently choking his chain-mate.

  “Everyone,” Brad said, “get up on my count of three. Get ready.”

  The group shifted to the balls of their feet. Banner followed suit.

  “All set?” Brad inquired.

  Jackie rebalanced herself.

  “All right. One, two, three.”

  The group rose as one.

  “Very good.” Brad smiled. “Practice makes perfect.”

  He moved over to the window, put his unshackled hand on the sill just above his head, and lightly pulled himself up.

  “What is it?” Bruce asked.

  “I’m not sure,” he answered. “The light’s right in my eyes. Wait a minute. A spotlight is shifting . . . wow!”

  The six others began talking at once.