by Peter David
He knew in an abstract way that children were in their mothers’ stomachs before they were born, but he’d never actually seen such vibrant evidence of it before. The bizarre concept had stuck in his head, and even as an adult, he marveled at the sangfroid routinely displayed by even the most novice of expectant mothers. They never seemed the least bit disconcerted by the notion that their bodies had been usurped by something else entirely, that everything they’d known about their bodies was out of date as they underwent massive changes. “It’s the most natural thing in the world,” they’d say, but Bruce was never able to comprehend it. All he knew was that he was glad that he wasn’t a woman, and never had to worry about his body experiencing such odd transformations.
And yet here he was in exactly the same predicament, except it wasn’t the most natural thing in the world. No, it was entirely unnatural, and the more he studied the results of the tests done on his own blood, the more his head began to hurt and flashes of pain lanced through his skull.
He checked and rechecked, stared at the cells dancing about under the electron microscope, combining and recombining in a manner that simply didn’t track with anything that he’d ever studied or experienced. His thoughts were disjointed, confused, trying to make sense of it. The cells . . . chemical bonds in the DNA . . . storing . . . too much energy. Impossible . . . impossible . . .
His lower back was stiffening up, his temples were throbbing, and from somewhere that seemed a great distance away, he heard a phone ringing, and then Betty’s voice. But he was barely paying attention, for exhaustion and fatigue were playing havoc with him. It seemed as if the shadows were moving.
Maybe it was that crazy janitor. Yes, that was it. The lunatic with the dogs was lurking about somewhere, lying in wait, preparing to . . . to . . .
He should have gone to personnel. Why hadn’t he gone to personnel? Why hadn’t he had the man investigated, rounded up, fired? Why?
Because you’re afraid of what you’ll find out if you do. You’re afraid.
I’m not afraid.
You are. You are afraid. Of us . . . of yourself. Of . . .
Betty’s voice.
It sunk in that Betty was calling him, leaving a message on the answering machine. What was she talking about? Something about her father saying things about him . . . suspecting him of something . . . planning something.
He jumped up from his workstation, carelessly knocking over a rack of tubes as he did so. He lunged for the phone, heard crashing behind him as something else was knocked over, and then he stumbled, fell, landed badly on his knees, then scrambled to his feet, thrusting his hand toward the phone like a drowning man, Betty’s voice promising salvation.
But she hung up just as he grabbed the phone, and he moaned. His salvation had vanished into the ether, was gone just like that.
He tried hitting redial but got a recording stating that the person he was calling was unavailable. She’d called from her cell, obviously, and now she was probably on the move again and the signal wasn’t getting through.
Bruce heard another crash, turned, and saw a tube of his blood tumbling to the floor, knocked over by one of the other falling racks. It seemed to be happening in slow motion and he just sat there, transfixed, knowing he was too far away to catch it but unable to take his gaze from it. The tube fell end over end, and then struck the floor and shattered, creating a puddle of dark red liquid that oozed across the floor. He looked down, horrified, frozen, and was certain that he could hear his own heart pounding, getting faster and faster.
There was a sound in the hallway. The dogs? The janitor? Betty’s father? Talbot? Or maybe monsters lurching to darksome life, spat out from the shadows.
He ran into the hallway but found nothing and no one. Yet that fact wasn’t good enough for him. He sprinted through the deserted halls, around corners, looking, searching. He collided with an equipment cart and the knees, which he’d hurt earlier, flared with even more aggravated pain. But that didn’t stop him. He kept running, tripped, hit the wall, and bloodied his lip, and the world began tilting around him at a forty-five-degree angle.
He was losing all sense of who he was and where he was, and as he lifted himself up, an animal cry emerged from within him. The scream echoed in the halls, images cascading through his mind, the old man and the snarling dogs and Betty’s face, except it was twisted in contempt and suspicion, and there were army men with rifles aimed at him at the orders of a man Bruce had never met but instinctively knew was Betty’s father . . . and pouring copiously through all the images is blood, his blood, thick and viscous and red, except it’s glowing and shifting from red to a dark shade of green . . . and fury, huge, smashing, rending, through the wall, feel it collapse, feel resistance vanish beneath strength, fury pounding animal snarl muscles knotted power surging bottled up exploding release, yes, good smash pound smash smash smash . . .
. . . and high through the air outside the lab flew the gammasphere, ripped right out of its housing, propelled by animal fury and impossible strength. The gammasphere arced skyward for a moment, hung there as if trying to defy gravity, and then plummeted. It struck the roof of a parked security cruiser and crunched right through, causing the entire vehicle to sag on its springs. Miraculously the car’s alarm system was still functioning, and lights began to swirl as the car howled as if it were an injured living creature.
. . . smash walk no walk move faster stop man small man kill man kill smash man no yes no smash destroy rip rend tear no can’t no . . .
The eyes of the monster focused on the old man who stood at the far end of the lab, unblinking, unafraid. They froze there, predator and prey, except it wasn’t entirely evident at first which was which. The old man smiled in the face of certain death, didn’t waver under the glower of those frightening green eyes. He stepped forward, stretched out his hand
. . . rip hand smash break smash tear into pieces no no yes no no yes YES YES . . .
and the monster swiped at the hand, took a step forward, and the old man stumbled back, suddenly far less certain of his invincibility than he had been before. He tripped over his own feet, falling to the floor, and now the sirens could be heard approaching and they were
. . . Screaming noise screaming people screaming all around screaming noise make it stop go away go away GO AWAY . . .
getting closer and there were people shouting and calling out, coming closer, closer still, and the monster didn’t look the least bit like a trapped animal, but instead was clearly trying to decide whether it was worth his time and effort to annihilate everyone who was approaching him and
. . . bah . . .
when the decision came, it was capricious and random and could just as easily have gone the other way. But it didn’t. Instead, it was the monster that went the other way.
A security guard in the lead barely had time to react and catch a glimpse of a mountain of dark green before the frightening mass was suddenly gone, straight up, crashing through the ceiling and causing debris to rain down, driving everyone back.
There was stunned silence, then, as the light of the moon filtered through the hole in the roof that hadn’t been there moments ago. “What,” gasped out the security guard, “was that? It—it was some sort of . . .”
“Of hulking monster,” said the old man, and in the darkness of the shadows where he was lurking, no one could see the smile playing upon his lips. “A hulk. That’s what he was. Tell everyone”—he raised his voice—“that a monstrous hulk is out there.
“Well?” he prodded when the guard just stood there, staring upward in incredulity at the damage casually left behind by the creature. “What are you hanging around for? Go! Go!”
The guard broke out of his stunned stupor and ran, muttering, “A hulk,” urging others who were just arriving to stay the hell away from the scene of the crime, presuming he was able to figure out just what the crime was. And he left behind the old man who was feeling quite amused and exceedingly pleased with himself.
<
br /> “I named him once,” said the old man to himself. “Who better to name him again?”
As the emergency vehicles arrived, the shadow of the figure merged into the trees of the Berkeley hillside
. . . leave leave leave . . .
and with deed matching thought, he leapt skyward. From time to time he landed, having no care about what damage he did whenever he struck the ground, and then off he would go again. Every so often people would spot him descending and mistake him for a falling satellite or a chunk of an airplane or a UFO, and they would run just as he hit and then stand there stupefied because suddenly the crashing object would just be gone again, and if what went up had to come down, no one was quite prepared for the reverse, and through it all, the creature didn’t care, he was just . . .
. . . free free finally free . . .
Bruce Krenzler heard his name being spoken, and then became aware that he was in his own bed, but the sheets were completely knotted around him. Disconcerted and disoriented, he slowly twisted around, and it was Betty’s voice, calling his name in alarm. He stared at her through eyes that felt incredibly sore, and there was light on his face that shouldn’t have been there because it was nighttime and he was in the lab, except . . . How did his bed get to his lab?
Slowly he propped himself up on one elbow, blinked several times to try to get the ache out of his eyes, and this time when Betty said his name, it was louder and filled with alarm.
And for no reason that he could readily discern, he said the first thing that came into his mind, and, oddly enough, he knew it to be the truth. He told her that he thought his name was actually Bruce Banner. He had no clue why he told her, or even if he should have done so. He only knew that in telling her that, it would make him feel better, as if he were being honest with her about something that he hadn’t even known he was being dishonest with her about.
It didn’t work. Instead it just made him feel more confused . . . and more frightened than ever before, as if he’d just opened a door that could never again be closed.
meetings of great portent
An hour had passed, and Bruce and Betty were seated at the dining room table. In the intervening time, Bruce had showered and dressed. “Want to make myself feel human again,” he’d said, with only a vague sense of the irony of the statement. As he’d showered, he had fought to bring order to the chaotic flashes of images in his mind. But, try as he might, he couldn’t manage it.
For as long as he could remember, Bruce had felt that there was another . . . mind . . . rooting around somewhere within his. But the thoughts and impulses that came from that mind were always comprehensible, filtered through his own perceptions. Now, though, it was as if a barrier of some kind had been created, cutting him off from . . .
. . . himself?
Betty watched Bruce carefully as—having showered and dressed—he drank slowly from a cup of decaf coffee, which was the only kind he ever took. He was trying to explain to Betty what had happened, but it was extremely difficult because he didn’t entirely understand it himself. Betty sat and listened and nodded, but every so often her gaze would wander toward the back door, which was now leaning against the door frame with no means of attachment, the hinges hanging there uselessly. She thought about the things her father had said, and the more that Bruce spoke, the more she was thinking that her father didn’t know the half of it. But it wasn’t as if Bruce were some sort of sinister spy or foreign agent or saboteur. He was . . . he was . . .
God. She didn’t know what he was.
All she’d previously been worrying about was that Bruce had been caught in some sort of explosion. Now, though, he’d been presenting garbled recollections of displays of incredible strength coupled with extended blackouts, as if he were trying to remember things that had happened to someone else who was also him. She would have dismissed it as fantasy, a too-vivid dream, if she hadn’t witnessed everything from the devastation at the lab to the shattered door of his house. It was insane even to contemplate that he might be responsible in ways that defied any sort of scientific rationalization. She and Bruce were endeavoring to sort fantasy from reality, and having great difficulty accomplishing that usually simple task.
“It could have been him,” said Bruce, speaking of the bizarre visitation he’d had from the janitor. “He said he was my father. It’s like I had a kind of . . . dream of it. He was there, but I can’t remember.”
“Then you . . . you were there, at the lab?” asked Betty. It was hard for her to be certain, because Bruce’s own accounts seemed so muddled. Sometimes he would refer to his being there, but at other times he indicated that he wasn’t—or was there but wasn’t at the same time. It was making her head swirl just to try to keep track of it.
“No, not me . . . something,” he said with that same maddening vagueness. “Betty, what’s happening to me?”
She was the wrong person to ask. She could barely follow the conversation, much less offer anything vaguely approaching a rational explanation. There was one possibility although, given the circumstances, she was loath to suggest it. But it was the only thing she could think of. “Maybe . . . maybe he could tell you,” she said.
He stared at her for a moment uncomprehendingly, and then she saw the understanding appear in his eyes. Understanding . . . and fear. She was broaching the idea of going to a man whose very presence was daunting to Bruce, calling up all manner of associations that he could barely begin to comprehend, much less deal with. Still, if this janitor wasn’t insane—if his claims were legitimate—then maybe . . .
There was a loud, repeated pounding at the door. Bruce and Betty exchanged confused looks as Betty got up and opened the door, not knowing what to expect.
Two members of the military police filed in, followed by Thunderbolt Ross and several other MPs. His gaze swept the room as it routinely did whenever he entered a new place, the better to identify any potential threats. His eyes widened when he saw Betty; he was clearly taken aback by her presence. She wondered if he was considering her some sort of traitor, perhaps having given aid and comfort to an enemy, because the way he was looking at Bruce clearly indicated that he thought of Bruce as just that. But Ross recovered quickly, clearing his throat and saying to one of the MPs nearby, “Mitchell, escort my daughter out. I’ll join her shortly.”
My daughter. Not “Dr. Ross,” not “Betty,” not “the young woman.” No, he had to establish right up front just who was in possession of whom, that she was a piece of his property. It rankled Betty no end, and she started to say, “But—”
“Now!” Ross interrupted her. “Betty, this is serious,” he said, and he was sounding far more like a father than he was a general.
She looked to Bruce, determined to stay by his side if she thought for even a moment that her continued presence would be of help. She was perfectly prepared to force them to drag her out if she had to.
But then Bruce said, very softly but firmly, “I’ll be okay.”
Bruce’s condition at that moment seemed far removed from any reasonable definition of “okay.” However, when Betty still exhibited reluctance to leave, he nodded in a more firm manner, which clearly indicated that it would be best if she left.
She cast one final, contemptuous glance at her father—just to let him know whose side she was on, and that she wasn’t leaving because he desired it, but because Bruce did—and then she walked out. It wasn’t anything that could remotely be called a moral victory, but she reasoned she had to take what she could get.
He could see Betty in Thunderbolt Ross’s face.
Bruce thought that was amusing. After all the times that Betty had spoken so angrily about her father, had expressed again and again the belief that they were nothing alike, Bruce could nevertheless instantly see the family resemblance. Oh, granted, Betty was far prettier. But around the nose, the general shape of the face, and the eyes—lord, they had the same eyes, including that inner conviction that they were absolutely right about, well, everyth
ing. In Betty, he chose to find it a charmingly endearing feature. In her father, he found it . . . less so.
Ross had something in his hand behind his back. For a heartbeat, Bruce wondered if it was a gun. Was Ross so far gone that he was prepared to shoot Bruce right then and there, that he was just waiting for Betty to leave the room so he could do the deed?
“Bruce Krenzler?” asked Ross.
It seemed an odd thing to ask. Obviously Ross had to know who he was. He wanted to play some little game with Bruce. A sort of cat-and-mouse thing. Mentally, Bruce shrugged. The man’s capacity for showing off his strength in a situation seemed boundless, but if that’s what he wanted to do, Bruce wasn’t going to prolong it.
“Yes,” he said flatly.
“My, my. So this is Bruce Ba—” Ross paused deliberately, apparently looking for some sort of reaction from Bruce as he “caught” himself saying a different surname. Bruce’s poker face remained immobile. “Krenzler,” finished Ross, and there was a fleeting look of disappointment on his face. Bruce hadn’t given him what he wanted, and that failure didn’t bother the scientist one whit.
But Ross wasn’t finished. Indeed, he’d barely begun. “I think you left something at your lab last night.” He held up the torn seat of Bruce’s jeans; from the ripped back pocket, Ross produced Bruce’s wallet. Then he said nothing, just looked at Bruce and waited.
Bruce simply stared at it, inscrutable. He could see what Ross was up to. Some people, when faced with an awkward situation accompanied by silence, would blather out explanations and, in doing so, make things worse for themselves. Ross clearly was hoping that Bruce would try to come up with some way of explaining why parts of his clothing had been found back in the laboratory. Three or four explanations immediately occurred to Bruce that would seem nice, reasonable, “normal” rationalizations of this odd happenstance, but none of them would be the truth, since he wasn’t entirely certain what the truth was. Furthermore, it would just give Ross an excuse to start hammering away at everything Bruce was saying, and that would be of no benefit to Bruce at all. So, instead, he kept his silence.