Swamp Thing 2 - The Return of Swamp Thing

by Peter David

  “Consider it caught. Now catch this: Save your little sojourn for tomorrow. Stay away from it tonight.”

  He walked slowly toward Alan, blinking in confusion. “Why? You think there’s going to be some kind of little trouble up there?”

  “That depends.”

  “Depends on what?”

  “On how you define ‘little trouble.’ For example, would you consider when God, in his wrath, smote the cities of Sodom and Gomorrah, that was ‘little trouble’?”

  Beaumont considered that a moment. “That was big trouble.”

  “Indeed. Well, then . . . tonight the Arcane Mansion can expect—”

  “Big trouble?”

  “Major trouble.”

  “Fine. I’m going home and watching TV.”

  “Sound idea.”

  He turned to leave, then stopped and asked, “How do you know about all these things that are happening in the swamp, anyway?”

  Alan smiled beneath his beard. “Heard it on the grape vine.”

  Abby closed her eyes a moment, praying when she opened them, the scene would change. She did. It didn’t.

  She was still down in Arcane’s lab, strapped to a chair that seemed as if it were from the office of a rather sadistic dentist. Next to her was a large, rotating device that looked like some sort of mixing device, glistening metal and ugly. On the other side of the device was a chair identical to the one she sat in.

  Lana came into the operating room from the lab section. She stopped, taking a deep breath as if to compose herself.

  “Please,” Abby said in a low voice, “help me. I know you hate my guts, but—”

  “I don’t,” Lana said quietly. “I’m too tired to hate anymore. There’s nothing further I can do. There’s simply no escape from here.”

  “What will he do to me?”

  What point was there in mincing words? “The same thing he did to your mother.” She came closer and in a harsh whisper said, “I’d set you free if I thought you’d get farther than the front door.”

  “I’m game if you are,” said Abby, trying to keep her flagging hopes up.

  Then came the sound of the elevator arriving in the other room, the door opening, followed by the rapid footsteps Abby had already come to know and loathe.

  Arcane entered, dressed in shimmering white. He stopped, surveyed the scene, and smiled. He moved closer to Abby. “You know, my dear, I’m very glad you and Holland got along so well. Very soon you’ll be very, very close to each other.”

  She said nothing, glowering at him with pure venom. Almost longingly he touched her hair. She twisted her head away as far as she was able.

  “Let me explain. Genes. Yours,” and he held out one hand, fingers outstretched, “Holland’s . . .” and he held out the other, then interlaced the fingers. “. . . coupled . . . and man’s oldest dream may come true.” He smiled. “Immortality.”

  “You’re sick,” shot back Abby. “What did you do? Sell yourself to the devil?”

  He inclined his head slightly. “Let’s just say he has a lease with an option to buy.”

  In a cage in the corner of the lab, something stirred.

  In the swamp, near the edge of the fence, something stirred.

  Farther back in the swamp, deep in the rushes, something stirred.

  “I’m going stir-crazy waiting around,” snarled Gunn as he and Points stalked into Arcane’s study. He glanced around at the shelves and shelves of books, but his attention was held even longer by the assortment of antique weapons, the sabers, the daggers, the elegant pistols and such. “Damn,” he continued. “I was wrong. I was sure we’d find Rochelle lost in his books here again.”

  “Gunn,” said Points in bemusement, sitting on a table and swinging her legs insouciantly, “your ignorance is exceeded only by your incompetence.”

  “Thanks, Points. And your IQ’s exceeded only by your bra size. Or maybe it’s even-steven, I can’t be sure.”

  “Make all the smart-ass remarks you want,” she said. “Some head of security. You’re not smart enough to be a head of beer. Real soon now, I’ll have your job.”

  “No way. You try to take my job,” said Gunn, “all you’ll get is a scar,” and he drew an imaginary line from ear to ear, “from here to here.”

  “You can’t scare me,” replied Points, her eyes flashing. “See this?” She lifted up the hair from the back of her neck, exposing a scar from side to side. “The guy who did this to me—I got his job, too.”

  He took a step toward her and whistled. “That is a nasty scar. But it’s nothing compared to this.” He pulled down his shirt from the shoulder, displaying an angry-looking wound. “Grenada, 1983. Friendly fire.”

  Points snorted. “That’s bush, compared to this—” She raised her shirt to reveal a whiplike red scar on her lower back. “Falkland Islands, 1982. Shrapnel.”

  Gunn paused and then cracked his knuckles, as if engaging in major battle. He yanked his shirt to one side, showing an ugly rip across his chest. “Nicaragua—spring break ’87.”

  In retaliation in what was rapidly escalating into Scar Wars, Points posed sexily revealing a wound between her armpit and back. “Beirut—summer vacation ’88.”

  Gunn paused, suddenly realizing he’d run out of battle scars. In desperation he displayed his belly and pointed to what had become the faintest of white lines. “Appendix—Haight-Ashbury General Hospital—1967 . . . the summer of looove.”

  At that Points suppressed an outright laugh, and ripped open the seam of her leggings, revealing bite marks on her thigh. Her voice defiant and triumphant, she declared, “Motley Crue tour—1989!”

  They were now inches from each other, major portions of their flesh displayed, their blood pumping both from the nonsensical showdown and the thought of imminent battle, and they started to reach for each other.

  Hugo smashed in through the doors.

  “Doesn’t anybody knock around here?!” yelled Gunn.

  “We’ve spotted the Swamp Thing, sir! He’s headed this way!”

  “Put everyone on full alert. And next time knock for chrissakes!”

  Abby, still strapped in her chair, watched fearfully as Lana assisted Arcane in activating a massive bank of electric and biomedical systems. Liquid pumps and electromagnets pulsed to life. Several clear hoses networked out from the side of the large machine near her, and ended at a clear canister resting between two receptors.

  Arcane stepped past Abby and, insanely, tipped an imaginary hat. He sat down in front of a video monitor and flipped more switches as, nearby, Lana lined up readings on several gauges.

  The machine next to Abby started to pulsate.

  Suddenly Arcane jumped in alarm at the sound of running feet. Seconds later Points ran in.

  “Problem,” said Points. “The creeping crud is headed our way.”

  Behind him, Swamp Thing had left a torn fence. In his left hand he carried a large chunk of the chain link. In his right hand was a six-foot-long fence post.

  He walked with slow, measured strides, his moist feet making plopping noises on the alien concrete. He surveyed the territory in front of him, the vast, plain expanse, and if he could not sneak up on them, the advantage was that they could not sneak up on him.

  The problem was that he was not standing on dirt, and therefore could not draw bodily replenishment from the earth. What he had would have to do.

  He heard the bullets before he saw the people, shouts of “There he is!” and “Get him!”

  Bullets began to pepper him, pierce his body harmlessly but taking with them clods of dirt.

  There were half a dozen of them bearing down on him. Fine.

  He started to pick up speed, heading toward them like an avalanche, and he let out an inhuman scream that chilled them to the bone. Then he drew back his arm and hurled the chain link at them.

  They scrambled to get out of its way but were not terribly successful. It dropped down on them, pinning several of them underneath. By the tim
e they managed to pull themselves together, Swamp Thing was in the midst of them, swinging the fence post like a knight wading into his enemies with a broadsword.

  There was no mercy in him for those who had aided in Abby’s abduction. He crushed the skulls of two, caved in the ribs of a third, and when he slammed the jagged bottom of the post forward, came close to disemboweling a fourth. A fifth man, thinking range would have some effect, came in tight with his automatic and fired point-blank into Swamp Thing’s chest. The creature’s response was to crush the gun, along with the hand holding it.

  The sixth man backpedaled furiously to get some distance as he pulled a hand grenade from his bandolier. Swamp Thing picked up one of the fallen security men and hurled him at the retreating one. They went down in a tangle of arms and legs, the grenade rolling away with the pin unpulled. The man tried to scramble to his feet, but a casual swing of Swamp Thing’s massive fist snapped his head around, knocking him out.

  A fwooof sound came from a distance, and suddenly Swamp Thing darted to one side as a round of bazooka fire landed right where he had been standing.

  Many yards away, an SP7 mounted on his massive shoulder, Hugo howled with joy and took aim again. He let fly, and this time Swamp Thing literally had to hit the deck to avoid the hurling missile. It struck the fence behind him and exploded.

  To his left Swamp Thing spotted the unused grenade. He grabbed it up.

  “A pineapple. How appropriate,” he rumbled as he pulled the pin and hurled it.

  From his great distance, Hugo saw the muck monster make the distinctive throwing gesture of someone heaving a grenade. He laughed to himself. No way was it going to make it all the way to where he was: it was way too far. No one could throw it that distance: one needed a grenade launcher.

  He thought that up until the moment the grenade landed at his feet. It was also the last thought he had.

  “Lana . . .” Arcane pointed toward a rack of clear canisters filled with different samples of liquids and oozes. “The Holland specimen. Put it in the receptor.”

  As Lana moved toward it, Points said urgently, “I’m telling you, Swamp Thing’s coming.”

  “No one appreciates the gravity of the situation more than I do. You must stop him. We need more time.” He moved toward a large carrying rack with glass vials. “Use these. It’s a by-product of Agent Orange.”

  The words CORROSIVE ACID were all Points had to see. She smiled.

  As Points walked out with the tubes, Arcane flipped open a panel next to the transformation device, revealing a row of lighted switches. Within moments he had started the two chairs, Abby’s and the unoccupied one, rotating.

  Desperately Abby said, “Think about what you’re doing.”

  “Believe me, I am.” There was a momentary gleam in his eyes. “Abby, you’re about to experience a unique feeling. You’re about to be part of what brings life.”

  “To you!” she cried out.

  He nodded. “To me.” Then he smiled that mirthless smile. “It’s for a good cause.”

  Now the mansion was in sight, and Swamp Thing seethed with frustration at the amount of time it was all taking.

  There seemed to be no further obstructions. It was simple. Too simple.

  He arrived at the front of the mansion, started up the steps . . .

  The porch exploded.

  The Swamp Thing was hurled back, bits of him scattered all about. He lay on the ground, dazed, looked up at the rapidly disappearing sun, and then rolled over and began to literally pull himself together. He grabbed up pieces of dirt and stuck them back on, gathered up fistfuls of leaves and mud.

  What had caused the explosion?

  He didn’t have long to wait for an answer. There was a jubilant war cry behind him, and he spun in time to see Gunn, driving a Jeep full tilt in his direction. An unlit cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth, Gunn was cackling furiously.

  It was easy to see why: A powerful rocket launcher cannon was attached to each fender, one of which had just been fired and was still smoking. Not only that, but an imposing M60 machine gun was mounted next to the driver’s side, allowing Gunn to maneuver with one hand and target Swamp Thing with the other.

  “Have some croutons!” he shouted, blasting away with the machine guns.

  Swamp Thing staggered under the barrage, dodging some bullets, getting hit by more. As Gunn sped by, Swamp Thing sank to his knees, shaking his head and trying to reorient himself.

  “No so tough without plants around, are ya!” shouted Gunn. The brakes screeched as he slammed the Jeep around and started back toward the Swamp Thing once more.

  The muck monster looked up with his blazing red eyes, looked at his enemy closely, reached out with his mind.

  Gunn was about to start firing again when Swamp Thing spoke, and he held off a moment to hear what the creature said.

  “Don’t you know . . .” he rumbled in a voice from beyond the grave, “that cigarettes . . . are bad for you . . . ?”

  Gunn didn’t have the faintest idea what he was talking about. Then his cigarette came alive.

  The tobacco grew wildly, stretching out and breaking through the paper. In seconds the tobacco had spread, covering Gunn’s face, blocking his vision, shoving its way up his nostrils, into his ears, and down his screaming mouth.

  Totally forgetting he was in a Jeep barreling along at better than fifty miles per hour, Gunn frantically clawed at the berserk cancer stick. He lost control of the Jeep and, for good measure, the Swamp Thing kicked it as it shot by.

  The force of the blow sent it spinning toward the mansion and, seconds later, the Jeep erupted into a fireball.

  Swamp Thing stepped back, shading his eyes, and tried to make out whether or not Gunn had been thrown clear.

  At that second he was assaulted by machine gun fire.

  More security guards, with Points in the lead, were pouring from the door of the mansion.

  They are worse than locusts . . . these humans . . . multiplying at phenomenal rates . . . and eating away at me . . . and at the time.

  Abby is in danger . . . and I am wasting time . . . thinking in two-dimensional terms. Fighting the humans . . . is clumsy and inefficient. There must be a better way.

  I reach out . . . seeking some means of entry . . . into the mansion.

  I sense plant life . . . microscopic, bacteria . . . traces of mold . . . millions of infinitesimal organisms . . . individually so humble . . . beneath the notice of all . . . but me.

  They are beneath my feet . . . flowing into the mansion . . . where I wish to be.

  I am coming . . . Abby.

  Points watched in astonishment as the Swamp Thing’s body crumbled in a heap.

  Someone shouted, “We did it! He’s dead!”

  “Like hell he is!” shot back Points. “He must have gone somewhere. What’s right beneath us?”

  “Nothing! Well, maybe pipes, but that’s—”

  “The plumbing!” shrieked Points. “He’s in the goddamn plumbing! Back in the house, quick!”

  And as they dashed back in after the elusive swamp creature, a hulking, broken form huddled back by the fence and began to make its slow way across the compound.

  I flow with the water . . . riding it to my destination . . . and seek out some outlet . . . through which I can emerge.

  Within seconds . . . I have located a dripping faucet . . . and I begin to draw together components . . . to grow a body. The water turns thick with sludge . . . slowly filling the bathtub . . . not the most aesthetic body . . . but certainly serviceable.

  I am . . . piping myself in. Certainly Abby would appreciate . . . the humor in that.

  Abby . . .

  It was as if he were in a giant centrifuge. With each turn of the chair into which he was strapped, Arcane began to feel healthier, stronger. The skin began to smooth out and become strong and vibrant; the gray in his hair disappeared, replaced by youthful black.

  He had been concerned when Rochelle had
misplaced himself, but he now knew his worries had been needless. Lana was handling matters with thoroughly professional aplomb.

  Lana, for her part, was not watching Arcane at all. She could not take her eyes off the whirling figure of Abby whose eyes were half-closed, her skin visibly wilting.

  Through cracked lips she called out in a voice barely above a whisper, “Please . . . don’t let him kill me . . . like he did my mom . . .”

  “He did not kill your mother,” Lana replied briskly. “Rochelle did that. Dr. Arcane was merely the temporary beneficiary.”

  Arcane was paying no heed to what was being said. He was busy reveling in the power and strength flowing into him. “I feel very good,” he whispered, “very good. The energy . . . the energy . . . it’s extraordinary.”

  “Dosage up to 2 ccs per minute,” Lana called out. “Temperature holding at 98.2. Heartbeat at 98. Nervous system showing improvement.”

  “Increase the dosage,” he called, and then more forcefully, “Increase the dosage! How beautiful!”

  Abby closed her eyes and felt her life being drained away.

  I lose . . . some of myself . . . down the drain . . . but quickly reconstitute more . . . and within moments . . . I step from the bathtub . . . and look around . . . at the ornately tiled room.

  I look down at the toilet . . . and consider that I could have emerged . . . from there. Oddly . . . that would have seemed . . . undignified somehow.

  I go to the door . . . open it . . . and watch my body begin to burn away.

  The canister containing the mixture of Abby’s blood and the distillation of Alec Holland was nearly empty.

  As Arcane watched with anticipation, Lana heard shouting from overhead. “We’ve got to hurry,” she said urgently.

  “Not yet,” said Arcane.

  In her chair, Abby tried to raise her head at the noise. “Alec?” she said weakly. Then she slumped back, unable to move.

  The rose the Swamp Thing had given her, what seemed a lifetime ago, fell from her hair and dropped to the floor, where it lay forlornly.

  “Alec,” she whispered again. “Oh, God, Alec . . . where in hell are you?”