Marvel Novel Series 11 - The Hulk and Spider-Man - Murdermoon

by Paul Kupperberg

  “What’s up?” Peter wanted to know.

  “Seems somebody broke into an office at the Johnson Space Center in Houston, Texas about an hour ago,” Robbie said, looking up. “The only thing they took, according to this report, was some new data having to do with an upcoming unmanned flight.”

  “Sound familiar, Parker?” Jameson asked, blowing a stream of blue, pungent smoke toward the young photographer.

  Peter coughed, nodding in agreement as he turned red. I’ll be . . . two robberies involving NASA materials on the same planned flight taking place on the same night. Maybe coincidence does stretch pretty far at times . . .

  But if it does, how come my spider-sense is tingling like the Kingpin was breathing down my neck?

  Four

  He felt cold.

  He could not understand how that was so.

  His last thoughts, seen through an emerald haze in his muddled consciousness, were of great heat. A sea of shimmering gold stretched endlessly before him.

  And rage.

  But now the heat was gone, the yellow sea receded.

  And the rage spent.

  He wrapped his thin arms around his narrow chest, shivering in the bitter cold. He could feel the hard, frozen ground against his back, the chill of metal against his neck. With a moan, he drew his knees up to his chest. But the biting cold would not go away.

  And then he awoke.

  It took Dr. Robert Bruce Banner several seconds to pry his tired, bloodshot eyes open. The lids felt like lead, his whole body heavy with fatigue as if some sort of parasite had drained the last iota of strength from his frail body.

  And in a way, of course, that was exactly what had happened.

  The cold winter sun sent a stab of pain through the handsome young scientist’s dark eyes. He groaned miserably. But it was always this way, he thought. Always the same painful weakness, the same fear and uncertainty.

  Where had he been?

  What havoc had he wreaked this time?

  And where, in God’s name, was he now?

  Bruce Banner rose slowly, leaning against the brick wall for support. He saw he was in an alleyway. He had been asleep against the wall, curled in the fetal position with his neck pressed against one of the many trash cans that shielded him from view from the street. As usual after one of these episodes, the young scientist was clothed in nothing but the tattered remains of his trousers, worn and stretched out of shape about his waist.

  He staggered from the alley onto what was obviously the main street of a small town. The two-lane thoroughfare was clean, the stores that lined it neat and homey looking. Across the street from where he stood, Bruce could see a drugstore, an insurance agent and real-estate office, a dress shop, a small movie theater, and an ice-cream parlor. He was somewhere in the midwest, he decided.

  Bruce leaned against the cold wall, shivering. He had to get some clothes, get into something warm before he froze to death. He didn’t know the exact date, he seldom did anymore, but he was sure it was sometime in late December, probably just after Christmas. Time had little meaning to Bruce Banner these days. It merely represented an extension of torment to the young scientist; that many more times it would happen, his curse. That many more times that anger or frustration would build in him, causing the change to take place in his body until he was no longer Bruce Banner.

  Until he became the awesome Hulk!

  Bruce shuddered in a chill wind. Forget all that now, he told himself. It’s over—if only for the time being. For now, I’ve got to get organized and get my hands on some clothing!

  He shoved his hands into his ragged pockets and felt around for the small wad of paper he knew was pinned there. He pulled it free and brought the five twenty-dollar bills out. It was money he tried to keep on him at all times for just such situations. He never knew where he would wind up after a spell as the Hulk, but he was always sure he would need the money.

  The street was empty. From the position of the sun in the sky, Bruce could tell it was just after eight in the morning, at least an hour before the townspeople would be up and about in the streets of the small town. He rubbed his goosefleshed skin as he hurried up the street. As he suspected, there was a men’s clothing store between the post office and green grocer. Hand-printed signs in the window advertised professional tailoring, dry cleaning, and several brands of blue jeans. It also noted that Fletcher’s Men’s Wear opened its doors to the public at nine each morning. A big red “Closed” sign hung in the window. Bruce could not wait an hour.

  He began pounding on the glass door, hoping the proprietor was either in early or lived in the rear of the shop.

  “Hello,” he shouted. “Anybody here?”

  “Coming, coming,” a man called from inside. “Don’t break down the door.”

  Bruce huddled in the doorway, slapping his thin arms for warmth. Hurry, damn you, he thought angrily.

  The shade was lifted from over the glass and a round, red face peered out at him. The little man started at first sight of the ragged young man. “What’d you want, mister? I don’t open for about an hour yet.”

  “I need to buy some clothes,” Bruce called through chattering teeth. “It . . . it’s an emergency.”

  The face looked him up and down. “Look, I’m sorry, but . . .”

  Bruce pulled the hundred dollars from his pocket and waved it in front of the man’s face. “I’ve got the money to pay,” he cried.

  The little man, obviously Mr. Fletcher, pursed his lips and looked the half-naked young man over one more time. At last he nodded, disappearing behind the shade. In seconds, the lock clicked and the door swung open.

  “You’re sure a mess, mister,” Fletcher said, shaking his balding head. “What happened to you?”

  Bruce stepped quickly inside, the warmth of the small, dark shop enveloping him like a thick, comfortable blanket. He closed his eyes in relief.

  “Mister?”

  “Mmm? Oh, I’m sorry.”

  “I said,” the man repeated in a slow, midwestern drawl, “that you look awful. Been in an accident?”

  “Yes.” Bruce nodded. “Yes, you could say that,” he muttered softly.

  Fletcher frowned. “Well, have you been to the police?”

  “There’s nothing the police could do.” He laughed bitterly. “I don’t think there’s anything anybody can do.”

  Jim Fletcher stared hard at the young man. He had always felt he was a fairly shrewd judge of character, that he could size up a man in a glance. But this time . . . well, maybe he’d been a bit hasty letting this one in.

  Banner sensed the little man’s shift in reaction to his strange appearance and even stranger manner and smiled quickly to compensate. “Listen,” he said lightly. “It really wasn’t anything serious, though it didn’t do my clothes any good as you can see.” He laughed. “But nobody was hurt.”

  Fletcher nodded slowly. “Sure. What can I do for you?”

  “The works, I guess. Nothing too expensive, though.” He held up the money. “I’m on a fairly tight budget.”

  Within minutes, Bruce Banner was stepping from a dressing room in the rear of the shop, dressed in a blue-denim work shirt, blue jeans, and warm, heavy hiking boots. Just being dressed again made him feel better, almost forgetting that mere hours ago he had been a rampaging engine of destruction, doing things he would only find out about if he chanced on a newspaper article or television newscast recounting his activity.

  Bruce selected some extra underwear, socks, and a spare shirt, as well as a small overnight bag which, along with a warm, down parka, he bought. The purchases left him with less than twenty dollars in his pocket.

  Mr. Fletcher directed Bruce to the drugstore up the street when the young scientist asked him about a place to eat. Thanking the little man, Bruce left the clothing shop. He was warm now, and his mind and body both felt better for it. The horror of his other self did not seem as nightmarish with the simple addition of warm clothing. Maybe, he thought, the clot
hes do make the man.

  Or maybe they merely served to hide the truth and make the façade more presentable.

  A small bell tinkled over the door as Bruce stepped into the drugstore. The word that sprang immediately to the young scientist’s mind as he looked the store over was “quaint.” Against the far wall stood an old, well-used display counter behind which worked the white-coated pharmacist. A long display rack with magazines, newspapers, and comic books shared another wall with a cosmetics display. Opposite that was a lunch counter with six of the eight stools filled by men eating breakfast. Through the center of the store ran racks filled with toiletries and household items. Old signs still hung on the walls, signs advertising products Bruce remembered from his childhood but that had long since vanished or changed over the years, and signs for soft drinks and patent medicines that would have been familiar to his parents.

  The young scientist smiled genuinely for the first time that day. He recalled a drugstore much like this one from his childhood, in the small town his grandparents lived in. Memories of hot summer afternoons spent reading crisp, new comic books while sipping a huge ice-cream soda in the cool of the dark little store flooded his mind. That was a simpler time—a better time.

  Bruce scooped up a copy of the only newspaper in the rack and went over to the counter. He hung his new parka on one of the hooks against the wall and took a seat next to a small, nervous-looking man wearing a gray suit several sizes too large for his bony frame. He was the only man seated there not clad in overalls and muddy, battered work shoes. He glanced up quickly when Bruce sat down next to him. He snubbed out the nonfiltered cigarette he was smoking and concentrated on his cup of coffee.

  “Good morning,” Bruce smiled pleasantly.

  The man stopped his coffee cup halfway to his mouth and snapped his head in Banner’s direction. “Oh?”

  “Relatively so, at least,” Bruce conceded, extending his hand. “Name’s Banner. Bruce Banner.”

  The nervous little man slowly replaced his cup and took the proffered hand for a brief, limp shake. “Oh. Ernest Hughes.” He took a loud sip of coffee. “I own the insurance place down the street.”

  “I’m just passing through myself.” Bruce glanced down at the masthead of the newspaper on the counter. The MacDermont Chronicle-Eagle, he read. MacDermont Point, Kansas.

  Kansas?

  Last he remembered, he had been in Nevada.

  The Hulk really gets me around, he thought bitterly.

  “Oh?” Hughes reached for another cigarette from the pack in his jacket pocket and lighted it.

  “Yes,” Bruce said. “Although I have been thinking of finding a place to settle down for a while. And this town, well . . . it seems to fit the bill pretty nicely.” Now what made me say that? Bruce thought. He’d never had any such thoughts, but even as he heard himself say it, he realized it might be what he was looking for after all. How long had he roamed the country seeking a cure from science for his curse? Maybe it was time he sought a cure in himself. In a town like MacDermont Point, Kansas, there could be little to cause the dreaded anxiety that triggered his metamorphosis.

  “Oh. Yes, Mr. Banner. We’ve quite a friendly community in MacDermont Point,” he said, his voice full of either civic pride or professional interest in the young man as a potential customer for his real-estate office. “Very neighborly, very peaceful.”

  “Peaceful.” Bruce Banner savored the word. “That’s what I’m looking for.”

  The waitress came hurrying over from the kitchen through a door behind the counter with a plate full of fried eggs, sausages, and home-fried potatoes. Bruce Banner watched with hungry eyes as she passed him and placed it before a burly man in overalls. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was until he saw the food.

  The waitress wiped her hands on the seat of her yellow uniform and looked up the counter. She saw Bruce and smiled. She was a pretty girl in her early twenties, tall and slim and quite beautiful. Her long, striking red hair was tied back in a ponytail. Her pretty green eyes sparkled.

  “Hi,” she said, full of cheer. “How’re you today?”

  “Fine,” he smiled back. “And you?”

  “Great. Can I get you something?”

  He laughed. “Food.”

  She laughed with him, a bright, sweet sound. “Should I bring out one portion or should I keep it comin’ until you tell me to stop?”

  “That’s not a bad idea,” the young scientist grinned. “But first, let’s see how I do with a couple of scrambled eggs, bacon, and heaps of home fries and toast.”

  She nodded and went to the kitchen to place his order and then came back to fill his coffee cup. “You from around here, mister?” she asked.

  He shook his head and gingerly tasted the hot, black liquid. Bruce couldn’t remember anything ever tasting so good. “No,” he said at last. “I suppose you could say I’m on the road.”

  “Really?” She brightened. “I love to travel,” she said, leaning on the counter. “Not that I get to do all that much of it, mind you. You been to a lot of places?”

  “I get around,” Bruce admitted. “Er, by the way, I’m Bruce.”

  “My name’s Shannon. You staying in town, Bruce?”

  “Maybe,” he shrugged. “It all depends on whether or not I can find a job and a place to stay. Actually, it all depends on the job, otherwise a place to stay is out of my range.”

  A bell rang in the kitchen. “Be right back,” Shannon said. She disappeared into the back room and was back in a moment with Bruce’s breakfast. He dug in.

  Shannon watched him eat with a bemused smile. “Looks like you don’t get to eat all that often.”

  “It’s been a while,” he said between mouthfuls.

  “I’ll bet. Hey, what kind of work is it you do anyway?”

  Bruce put the last of the potatoes into his mouth and washed it down with a swallow of coffee. “Just about anything, actually. Farm work, construction, handiwork, small repairs. I’m what you might call a jack-of-all-trades, master-of-none.”

  “Can the jack jerk?”

  “Come again?”

  “Do you think you can handle soda jerking?”

  “Sure. I mean, I don’t see why not,” he shrugged. Mixing an ice-cream soda, he thought, had to be easier than mixing chemicals. “Why? Do you know of a job somewhere?”

  “Yeah. Here.”

  “Here?”

  “Sure. It doesn’t pay much, but you get all the banana splits you can eat,” she grinned. “What d’you say, Bruce?”

  “What else can I say? You’ve got yourself a soda jerk, lady.” They shook hands across the counter. “Shouldn’t I talk to the boss about this?”

  “Don’t have to do that. He trusts me to do all the hiring.”

  “Oh yeah? You manage the store for him?”

  “Kind of. The boss is my father.”

  “Ah,” Bruce smiled. “The boss’s daughter.”

  “That’s right, buster,” she snarled playfully. “So don’t get any ideas about trying your city-slicker ways on me.”

  “Don’t worry, ma’am. I’m just a country boy at heart.

  “Hey, Shannon,” Bruce said. “I really appreciate the job. That’s half my troubles down.”

  Shannon smiled. “How’d you like me to make that two out of two?”

  “An apartment?”

  “Well, not exactly an apartment,” she laughed. “More like a room, but it’s in a good boardinghouse not far from here. And I know there’s an available room that I’m sure you can get.”

  Bruce raised an eyebrow. “Really,” he said. “I suppose it’s run by your grandmother, right?”

  “Don’t be silly, Bruce,” she said. “Mom owns the house.”

  Five

  The plain red-brick house on Warren Street stood behind a white picket fence in a yard shaded by two large, stately elm trees, bare now of their leaves. Bruce swung open the gate and walked to the front door after checking the address against the one Shannon
had scrawled on the back of a paper napkin.

  He rang the doorbell.

  A grayer, heavier, and older version of Shannon answered after the first ring. “Yes?” she inquired pleasantly.

  “Mrs. O’Neal?”

  “Yes.”

  “My name’s Bruce Banner, ma’am.”

  “Oh, yes,” the woman stepped back from the door and gestured for Bruce to enter. “Shannon called me and told me about you, Mr. Banner.”

  Bruce followed Shannon’s mother into the warm, pleasant house. They passed through the parlor, a room full of overstuffed, antique-looking chairs and sofas and little bric-a-brac scattered on shelves and atop the grand piano that stood in front of the window. They went down a narrow hallway to the stairs with Mrs. O’Neal chattering away a mile a minute about the splendor of MacDermont Point the whole time. She asked the young stranger any number of questions but did not seem the least bit interested in waiting to hear his replies before rushing on with her commentary and gossip.

  Bruce Banner liked her immediately.

  “There are four boarders living here, Mr. Banner, along with Shannon, Mr. O’Neal, and myself,” she said showing him the second-floor room.

  Bruce nodded, looking around the room. It was large enough for one person, with a bed, a chest of drawers, a small writing desk, and a closet—with just enough space left to move around. The oriental rug on the floor was worn threadbare in some spots from too many years of feet, and the furniture was old, but well kept. In all, the room was comfortable and, like the rest of this Kansas town, very warm.

  “Do you like it, Mr. Banner? The rent’s twenty dollars a week and that includes breakfast and dinner. And I’m sure you’ll like our other boarders. There’s Mr. Abernathy, the retired dry-goods man; Miss Pritchard, the grammar-school teacher; Mr. Walsh, the young law clerk; and Mrs. Taylor, Andy’s widow. A fine group of people.”

  “It’s wonderful, Mrs. O’Neal. I’m sure I’ll be very comfortable here,” Bruce jumped in when the woman paused for a breath.

  “I’m so glad,” the woman beamed. “Shannon said you were a nice young man.”