by Peter David
The guards had split up into teams of two, and Points and her partner were fortunate enough to be there when the Swamp Thing emerged from the bathroom in Arcane’s own bedroom.
She had the test tubes ready and, realizing this might be her only shot, hurled the entire rack against him.
The Agent Orange by-product ate away greedily at the Swamp Thing’s body. He staggered under the assault, but had no chance at all. He lurched to one side, his legs giving way as the corrosive acid burned away all support. He tried to speak but his jaw dropped off.
“Don’t get too close!” shouted Points as she drew her automag and started firing at his head.
Abby . . . they won’t let up . . . and I’m failing you. Where are you? I need to find you.
There . . . I feel it now.
I’m coming . . . Abby.
The other guards arrived just in time to see Points blow apart his skull. Bits of him were still sizzling on the carpet, and his lifeless eye sockets stared up at them.
“That’s it,” said Points. “That’s gotta be it. Where the hell else is he going to go?”
Arcane, having unstrapped himself from the chair, was now standing and staring into the lab mirror suspended overhead. Slowly he nodded in admiration, running his fingers across his flesh.
“Not bad,” he said. “Not bad at all.”
He stretched out his hands, admiring the backs of them . . .
And they began to wrinkle . . .
And large pieces started to peel off . . . and the pieces fell to the floor and crumbled into dust . . .
Arcane could not believe it. Would not believe it.
“What’s happening?” It was a hoarse whisper, then a high-pitched scream of alarm. “What’s happening?!”
He dashed to the machine, skidding on the highly polished floor, and began checking the readings. Fine.
He checked the couplings. Fine.
He grabbed up the container that held the Holland mixture.
Not fine.
Now the faintest of whispers, he read the label. “Subject #3-11-459.”
With slow, deadly menace he turned toward Lana. “You switched the vials,” he said incredulously, unable to cope with the reality. “You switched the vials.”
Lana started to back away slowly, drifting toward the secret exit from the lab that only she, Arcane, and Rochelle knew about. “It was the only way,” she said, fighting to keep panic from her voice. “You were going to kill me . . .”
“Am going to kill you,” he corrected, and with a swift, sure movement he pulled a revolver from inside his beautiful white jacket and fired at Lana.
The bullet struck her just above the heart, spinning her back and away from him. She fell to the floor, clutching at the bullet hole, trying to stanch the blood fountaining from the wound.
“God will forgive me,” he intoned. “That’s his job.” He advanced on her, shaking his head in disappointment. “Without the biorestorative formula from Holland’s body, there’s no stopping the deterioration.”
Then a low, taunting laugh from Abby brought him up short. “You . . . idiot . . .” she said.
He turned on her, Lana momentarily forgotten. “What do you mean?” he said in a deadly voice.
“I should . . . have realized,” Abby said weakly, her strength ebbing. “Even if it had been the right stuff . . . it wouldn’t have done any good. Alec . . . has regrown his body over and over . . . The precious formula isn’t in his body anymore . . . He’s moved beyond that.” She smiled, content in Arcane’s failure. “That’s the difference . . . step-dad—good grows and evolves . . . while evil just feeds on itself . . .”
“No.” He shook his head slowly. “It . . . it couldn’t have been for nothing.”
“How about that?” she said. “I’m starting to see things . . . like Alec does.”
I find it.
Abby . . . I’m here.
The rose that had fallen to the floor began to grow.
From one stem grew a hundred; from a dozen thorns sprang a thousand.
Arcane watched in dull terror as the Swamp Thing took form, fashioning a body from the rose. The stems intertwined, the thorns grew long and dangerous and, incongruously, petals blossomed all over him.
Within short moments he was standing there, staring at Arcane with all the hatred in his being.
“That’s a good style for you,” said Arcane calmly.
All but forgotten, Lana Zurrell had gotten to the secret passage. She dragged herself up the stairs one agonizing step at a time, leaving a trail of blood behind her.
I will live, she told herself. If I can just stop the bleeding, I’ll live.
She found the door, the door, which, from the outside, fitted so smoothly with the exterior of the house, it was impossible to distinguish. She shoved it once, but it didn’t budge. She threw herself against it a second time, and this time it opened.
She staggered out into the night, the exertion causing the blood to flow even faster.
She fell to the concrete, ripping her skin, and lay there, praying the bleeding would stop.
She heard a footfall near her.
I’m saved, she thought.
She twisted herself around and looked into the inhuman eyes of a blackened and broken mass that at one time had been Wong Sing Bernstein, psychiatrist and acupressurist.
The Leech had refused to die, had clung on stubbornly to life in order to find, one final time, that beautiful image that had sprung to its mind.
“Oh, God . . . no,” she said.
Its maw moved, making unholy noises, and it finally found its voice.
“Lawww . . . naaa . . . I. . . luhhve . . . yoouuu.”
She closed her eyes and surrendered as it brought its mouth to her wound.
The bleeding stopped.
Swamp Thing turned his gaze on Abby’s unmoving form and went berserk.
He grabbed up a chair and hurled it at Arcane. It smashed into the scientist’s chest, driving him back toward the darkened corner of the lab. He fell directly in front of the specially reinforced cage Rochelle had created.
The Swamp Thing let out an inhuman roar, which was met by a challenging roar from within the cage.
The door exploded outward, landing on Arcane and pinning him underneath.
What had once been Dr. Rochelle emerged from the cage.
His head was now hairless and huge, the sides pulsing. His eyes were no more than large black pupils. He swung a long-fingered hand around, inadvertently hitting the volume switch for the caged “manimals.” Then he uttered incomprehensible noises and charged at the Swamp Thing with incredible speed.
Swamp Thing took a glance at Abby, saw she was sinking, and then had no more time as he met the charge of the mutated Rochelle.
Now all the other mutated creatures began to scream and shout and bellow in excitement from their cages, sensing distantly that one of these creatures had been their tormentor . . . sensing, perhaps, that at last he was overmatched.
Rochelle smashed himself into Swamp Thing and let out a scream. He leapt back, blood flowing from a dozen cuts.
For a moment the Swamp Thing didn’t fully understand what had happened, and then he looked down and did understand. He was covered with thorns. He was a devastating weapon.
Rochelle tried a feint.
No chance.
He tried to come in fast. He tried bobbing and weaving.
No chance.
Every time he came anywhere remotely within striking distance, Swamp Thing lashed out with those deadly fists. He didn’t even have to connect directly. A sideswipe with his arm was enough to leave huge gashes in Rochelle’s body. And, unlike Swamp Thing, Rochelle couldn’t grow anything back.
He started grabbing equipment, his strength at least tripled, and hurled it all at Swamp Thing. The swamp creature knocked each piece aside, never slowing his advance, never lessening his anger.
Slowly, her strength starting to return, Abby opened her eyes weakl
y. She saw Alec, but she saw something else: a creature wearing Rochelle’s clothing, but completely different; something never before seen.
“How about that . . .” she whispered. “New Rochelle . . .”
Rochelle grabbed up the door that pinned Arcane and held it up as a desperate shield. Swamp Thing slammed into it, thorns snapping off against it, and Rochelle felt a brief surge of hope.
It was, however, extremely brief. Swamp Thing shoved the door back, back toward the wall, and within seconds had crushed Rochelle against it. The mutated scientist tried to shove back, grunting and moaning in desperation, and then suddenly Swamp Thing had lifted both the door and Rochelle over his head.
He turned, looking for someplace to hurl his cargo.
And a low, bemused voice spoke up. “How about over there?”
Swamp Thing swung around to stare at the speaker: Arcane. He lay there, legs hopelessly crushed. He was pointing and saying, “Over there is a disintegration chamber. Throw him there. I never liked him anyway, you see.”
Alec paused a moment. If Arcane wanted it, it wouldn’t be the truth. On the other hand, what did he have to lose? He turned and threw the massive door, along with Rochelle, toward the indicated chamber.
Rochelle smashed into it, the impact setting off the device into a dazzling display of pyrotechnics. Electricity arced through Rochelle, and he screamed as his body sizzled and fried into nothingness. Arcane watched with rapt attention, like a child at a Fourth of July celebration.
The explosions spread to the other machines, one after the other, like dynamite dominoes. The cages of the mutations caught fire and burned, and the elephant creature and the hippo man and all the others started to go up in flames.
Alec paused to glance at them briefly, but it was too late for them. Perhaps that was fortunate, although it was not for him to judge. Abby, on the other hand, could still be saved. With the sharp thorns he sliced right through the straps holding her down.
She tried to stand up, and he reached out to help her. She shrieked in pain.
“Watch that!”
“I . . . am sorry. I did not have . . . a thing to wear . . .”
Sagging against the chair, she looked up in astonishment. “Alec . . . you actually tried to make a joke.”
“The operative word . . . is ‘tried.’ ”
The lab now rocked with explosions. Fire erupted all around them, and Swamp Thing fought down a surge of panic.
Through the haze he saw Arcane. Arcane’s face was lined and wrinkled beyond comprehension, the breakdown occurring faster and faster. And he was pointing . . .
Pointing toward what? Abby turned and saw a door, the door Lana Zurrell must have gone through. It was open just a bit, but they could see it and get to it.
“Alec!” she shouted. “This way!”
He followed her out, frustrated that Arcane was clearly beyond his capacity for vengeance.
“Holland” came the fierce whisper. He turned and looked down at the rapidly withering Arcane. “Tell me . . . will you please tell me . . . what it is like to be immortal?”
Perhaps there could be vengeance after all. He said, “No.”
Arcane shrieked in frustration, and the Swamp Thing’s last view of him before turning away was of Arcane’s nose falling off.
He took the lead up the stairs, a still-weak and stumbling Abigail finding a safe place to keep a grip on him. He saw beneath his feet a trail of red. A severely wounded person had clearly used these steps, and only moments before.
“Are you with me?” he asked.
“Forever,” she replied.
He felt fresh air filtering down to him and, just ahead, a crack indicating an exit was near. Seconds later they emerged outside the mansion, Abby feeling stronger with every passing moment.
She let out a shriek.
Lana Zurrell lay there, dead white, dead dead. Next to her, wrapped in a perverted lover’s embrace, was the Leech. He, too, was dead, a small trace of blood trickling down the side of his face.
“Oh, God . . . Alec . . . what . . . ?”
“Do not ask. It would merely be . . . unpleasant.”
“Right.”
They started to run from the mansion, concerned that the explosions would spread and possibly take the entire place with them.
The Swamp Thing was in the lead, Abby holding on where she could next to him, and she was saying, “When we finish this business . . . I’m going back to the tree . . . and I’m going to sleep for a year and a ha—”
An explosion interrupted with a loud blast, and at first Swamp Thing thought it had come from the house.
It had not.
Abby released her grip, and he started to tell her to hold on when he saw her pitch forward and land with a sickening thud on the concrete.
He couldn’t believe it; it wasn’t happening. He rolled her over, certain she was pulling another one of her bizarre jokes. But he looked into her eyes just in time to see the life light disappearing from them. She didn’t even have time for a final word.
About thirty yards away from the mansion stood a very singed but very much alive Gunn. Smoke trailed upward from the barrel of his rifle, while a dozen other security guards, including Points, stood nearby.
Blood was beginning to pool on the ground beneath Abby. Swamp Thing looked down at her, then back at her murderer.
“Hey, Green Giant,” sneered Gunn. “What’s new besides ho-ho-ho?”
17
The Swamp Thing’s body began to shake. Great, racking sobs that had no tears gripped him. He crouched down next to Abby, moved her hand, touched her face. The warmth was fading; he could see the light disappearing from her.
A moan began somewhere from within him,
and grew louder
(not the light)
and louder
(bring back the light)
and emerged
(PLEASE!)
as a sound
none of the humans present would ever forget for the short amount of life they had remaining.
It was the sound the first creature made when the first death was ever felt, the death of every tree ever cut, the death of every animal senselessly slaughtered and butchered, the death of nature, the death of a world, his world—
He screamed, and it carried and echoed and reechoed, and all through the swamp the creatures stopped making noise and the plants stopped growing and the water stopped flowing, and the swamp joined in mourning and became as one a high, ululating cry of anguish.
The humans shrank back, and they were afraid, or thought they were. Actually, they didn’t know what real fear was, not true terror, not the kind that makes you lose complete control and reduces you to a state of mewling infant helplessness. That kind of fear.
But they would learn.
Abby . . .
I have failed you.
I thought like a human . . . and fought like a human . . . and now have only to show for it . . . the human emotion of grief.
I have not begun . . . to tap my true potential . . . to let humanity see . . . what nature can do . . . in its full fury.
A good man died . . . long ago . . . and begged forgiveness for his murderers . . . for they knew not . . . what they did.
But yours . . . knew exactly what they did . . . and there shall be no forgiveness . . . from me.
Alec Holland left his body with such force that it blew apart.
Thorns flew everywhere, ripping through clothes and tearing skin of the guards. Only Abby, lying there like a fairy-tale princess, remained unscathed by the barrage.
Slowly the guards pulled themselves together and looked around at one another, sharing a common surprise that it had been that easy.
“We’ll hunt him down,” said Gunn. “Wherever he is, we’ll find him and finish him. Soon as we get Arcane squared away and see what’s wh—”
Points spotted it first.
She pointed, her finger quaking. “LOOK!”
The lesson in fe
ar had begun.
Down in the lab, Arcane endeavored to reattach his nose. Ultimately he decided he was better off without it. No doubt the lab was thick with the stench of frying meat anyway.
He tried to crawl toward the exit, but suddenly the rock walls of the lab began to crack apart. He looked around in shock. Grass was growing out of them, beginning to fill the entire lab.
“Holland,” he whispered.
I am the swamp.
I am the land.
It is time . . . they all learn . . . just exactly what that means.
Deep within the green . . . I send out my mind . . . and create a body for myself . . . as none before.
My shoulders are vast . . . my fingers miles long . . . the tallest trees are but specks . . . upon me. My head is majestic . . . and all-seeing . . . and terrible. All the rivers are my veins . . . all the land my body . . . all the vengeance . . . mine.
The mountaintop overlooking the Arcane Mansion now had eyes.
That was what Tasha was pointing at, trembling with fear and terror. Gunn looked up as did the others, and Gunn started to shake his head. “No . . . no, it’s a trick. It’s gotta be a trick.”
The peak reshaped itself, the contours of the trees forming the lines of the Swamp Thing’s face. From deep within the mountain were twin glowing red sockets, glaring down at the ants that had presumed to take Abby from him. Boulders and rocks fell away as the mountaintop sculpted itself, creating an avalanche, and within moments it was completed.
It spoke.
“You . . . dare!”
The ground began to rumble beneath them. Concrete broke into huge, jagged shards. Trees and massive vines broke through, climbing upward, twisting together, and forming hands twenty stories tall.
For the first time they comprehended just who and what it was they had transgressed against. But now, of course, it was too late.
Gunn tried to run as a great hand of mud and dirt and stone reached around and grabbed him up. He had time for one shriek of terror before the hand closed, crushing him between its fingers.
They tried to run, but he was everywhere. Some fell beneath great slabs of concrete. Others were suffocated by cascades of rock and dirt. One died of a massive heart attack, and the rest were crushed in the grip of those incomprehensible hands.