by Peter David
“I remember that day so well,” said David Banner. “Every sensation, as I walked into the house. Felt the handle of the knife. It must have been destined, just like Abraham and Isaac, the son, sacrificed by the father.”
Betty didn’t comprehend what he was saying at first, for the mention of the knife came from nowhere, and then she did, and she cringed back in horror.
His mother cringed back in horror at first, and then she saw that her husband was eyeing their son, and the horror was replaced by the fierce determination of a mother fighting for her child’s life, and she backpedaled, occupying the door frame between them, and young Bruce clutched the stuffed toys to his chest as he tried to see around his mother, thinking that it was all a game and she was hiding some sort of surprise, that was it, she was suddenly going to turn around and she and his father would yell, “Surprise!” except she wasn’t turning, she was still facing his father, and there was yelling, but it wasn’t “Surprise,” it was a bunch of bad words that he wasn’t supposed to say, and anger, and suddenly there was a shriek and somebody must have been holding a bottle of ketchup between them because red liquid was spilling down the side of her dress. . . .
“But she surprised me. It was as if,” and he spoke in a singsong voice, “as if she and the knife merged into one thing. You can’t imagine—” Betty was wide-eyed as he stared at his empty hand. “—the unbearable finality of it, her life, and mine, suspended at the end of my hand. . . .”
. . . and he flew at his father, who was staring stupefied at the blade, which was still dripping with the blood of his wife, Bruce’s mother, and he remembered at the last moment to bring the knife up, but the boy was upon him then, leaping, knocking the knife clear, and although the monster wasn’t yet unleashed, wasn’t yet anything approaching his full strength, the glimmer of its potential was there, and the father looked into the eyes of the son and knew fear as the boy tore at him like a wildcat, and the boy lost track of his mother, saw her stumble in shock and confusion out the front door, and then his father tried to throw him down so he could get at the knife . . . and . . .
“And in that one moment, I took everything that was dear to me . . .”
. . . he sank his teeth—like an animal, like a berserk, rabid dog—into his father’s neck, and tasted his father’s blood between his teeth, and the father howled and shrieked and the screams of the father blended and overlapped with the howling of sirens . . .
“. . . and transformed it into nothing more than a memory. . . .”
. . . as the MPs swarmed the house, and his father was dragged away and shoved into a car with whirling lights atop it, and Bruce was screaming and pointing in the direction he’d seen his mother stagger off, but no one could understand him because he wasn’t speaking, he was grunting and growling inarticulately, like an ape crying out in distress, and someone was trying to hold him steady and he struggled and yanked and shrieked and the rage seized him and his body started to bubble for a moment and someone yelled “He’s got a swelling here, it’s huge; get some ice packs, stat!” and “We need to sedate him; he’s having a seizure!”
“But you can’t step back from what you create, can you?” said David Banner, apparently oblivious to the look of fear and revulsion on Betty’s face. “No matter how horrifying. My son—he was fated to become . . . what he has now become. No, it’s over for him, and for me too.”
And he shoved them away with a strength that none would have thought he could possess, and he sprinted into the house, grabbing the dolls as he went, and up, up into his room, and feet were pounding up the stairs after him, and he was about to hide under his bed when there was some sort of explosion, some noise, and the sky lit up, and he ran to the window and looked out, saw something that he couldn’t begin to comprehend, something that made it seem as if the world was all new because what was there before had just been wiped clean, clean away, and there was a man in the street in a uniform, and a little girl looking up at him, and he caught a glimpse of his father’s face as everyone froze in a tableau that seared itself into his mind and then buried itself deep, but it was back, back to torment him, and the images were swirling every which way, and suddenly his father was old, the connection reestablished, his hair graying, and the girl was grown and it was Betty, and her father was next to her, and they were all looking up at him, and he couldn’t stand it, couldn’t stand knowing what was coming, couldn’t stand the pain, the agony, it was unfair, it was so unfair, why had it happened, why couldn’t he have had a normal life, why WHY WHY because it made him want to—makes us want to—makes me want to just . . . just . . .
“That’s why I’ve come to you, to ask you for a last, simple favor,” he said, his voice quavering. “Miss Ross, do you think you could persuade your father—as a man, as a father himself—to let me see my son, for one last time, if I turn myself in peacefully? And then he can put me away forever. Could you do that for me?” asked David Banner, and then he started to weep. . . .
. . . just . . . smash him . . . smash his crying face; I can see him; he’s right there, in my head . . . my soul. I just . . . hate . . . hate . . . smash . . . destroy him . . . crush . . . squeeze, blood oozing between fingers, crush, mash, destroy, smash everything, smash it all . . .
Betty regarded him uneasily. “Let me make a call,” she said. She left the room. He looked after her, a grim smile replacing his tears.
. . . SMASH IT ALLLLL . . .
Overlooking the immersion cell from the glassed-in lab, one of the technicians, whose name was Wein, called out in genuine excitement as he studied the flashing monitors. “We’re getting a lot of neural activity! Incredible. He’s generating enormous amounts of . . .”
And Glen Talbot pushed Wein aside and said, “Let me see!” He leaned in, studied the readouts in approval. “Bingo! That must be some jumbo nightmare he’s having.”
That was when they heard the roar from within the tank, muted but audible, the liquid resonating with the cries from within. The tank, impossibly, bucked in its moorings, and pulsed, and rippled, and at that instant Talbot realized his catastrophic mistake. A fundamental error, something that a third-grade science student would have known about. But he’d missed it, the technicians had missed it, everyone in the damned multibillion facility had missed it.
“Liquid displacement,” he whispered. When Banner’s body morphed and shifted and grew into the muscled and monstrous form known as the incredible Hulk, it took up space that had previously been occupied by the fluid within the tank. But the liquid was still there, and the violent growth of Banner’s body demanded an equally violent displacement of the fluid to somewhere else, like water blasting out of a pool when someone cannonballs into it. However, the tank was filled almost to capacity as it was; with the sudden arrival of the Hulk, there was nowhere for the liquid to go except out . . .
. . . which it did.
Seams buckled and broke and fluid blew out in all directions, and then there was another roar, and a huge green hand worked its way between the seams. Rivets popped, metal twisted and broke, and suddenly the tank cracked open like a piñata. The metal shrieked, the sound blending with the screams of the onlookers, and bent backward, and as the liquid cascaded every which way, the Hulk rose in the middle, wet and dripping and bellowing a roar that could have been made by an angry T rex sinking into a tar pit. The only difference was that the Hulk’s life wasn’t in danger.
That couldn’t, however, be said of the lives of anyone who was watching.
. . . wet . . . dripping . . . where . . . where . . . no matter where . . . smash . . . kill . . .
Wein, who was standing next to Talbot, didn’t panic, because he was far too much of a professional for that. It was, however, requiring every ounce of self-control he possessed not to. And if he’d had the slightest inkling of what he was facing, he likely would have soiled himself.
As it was, his voice was rock steady as he asked, “Should I incinerate?”
Talbot had recover
ed himself after his initial reaction and said with such disdain that one would have thought the incineration query to be the single dumbest question ever voiced, “No! I can’t do anything with ashes.” He hit the intercom. “All right, put him to sleep.”
The Hulk roared and pounded against the walls of the immersion cell as gas flowed from the walls, enveloping him.
The mind of Bruce Banner was buried deep, as deep as the memories of his childhood had been. The rampaging, bestial mind of the Hulk was in full control, but even so there was just enough of Banner’s awareness to allow an actual coherent thought to play across the Hulk’s mind
. . . gas . . . hold breath . . .
and without understanding why, but not caring particularly, the Hulk took a quick and deep breath, filling up his lungs an instant before the gas rose to the level of his nostrils.
In the observation lab, Talbot leaned forward, waiting for the Hulk to slump over unconscious. But the Hulk didn’t respond as expected. Instead he flailed at it as if it were just a nasty irritant, and in his flailing, his arm crashed through the wall.
“Oh, my God,” Talbot whispered, thinking that—with one arm through the wall—it was only a matter of moments before the rest of the Hulk followed.
The Hulk burst into the adjacent hallway, and some of the personnel ran screaming while others, armed soldiers, yanked out their weapons and prepared to fire. Their intentions quickly became moot, however, for the gas poured out into the hallway. Although it didn’t do anything to the Hulk beyond making his eyes water, it did manage to knock everyone else unconscious. The Hulk glanced around in annoyance, then made his way down the hall, not having any destination in mind other than to be elsewhere.
Back in the lab, Talbot swallowed deeply as he saw the swirl of gas in the lab, the large hole, and the complete absence of the Hulk. Keeping his voice steady, he said, “Nonlethals only. I must get a sample of him. Hit him with the foam.”
General Ross sprinted down the hallway as he heard alarms going off everywhere. His aide, Lieber, was half his age, but was still unable to keep up with him as Ross pounded into Command and Control. C and C was a madhouse, with everyone shouting information to one another, their voices all tinged with disbelief.
“Sir!” shouted Lieber, pointing at one of the interior monitors. Ross looked up and saw, in the flickering black-and-white image, a roaring behemoth facing a group of specially trained Atheon security personnel. That wasn’t surprising. After Ross had broken up Talbot’s little stomp-on-Banner session, Atheon had exerted its mysterious influence and gotten the entire wing from Sectors X through Z, Levels One through Seven, isolated so that only Atheon personnel were allowed there. Ross had been furious over the decision, raging that it was a calamitous mistake, but he hadn’t been able to get anyone to listen. This was one of those rare occasions where he hated being proven right.
“Jesus,” Ross breathed, and in the next breath said, “Get me Talbot.”
The intercom was a mass of crosschatter, and as Lieber tried to punch through it to raise Talbot, Ross watched in amazement. On the monitor, one of two techies stepped forward with a large-barreled gun attached to two tanks on his back. He fired, and a stream of gelatinous liquid covered the creature Ross referred to as the “Angry Man” in sticky foam. The Angry Man was stuck, struggling, the liquid congealing around him. He flicked some of it off, and it landed on one of the men, who was instantly frozen in it.
“Sir!” shouted Lieber. “I’ve got Talbot on channel six!”
Ross snapped the intercom dial over and barked, “Talbot, this is Ross. Talk to me.”
“Under control, General,” came Talbot’s voice. “I’ll let you know if we need you.”
Ross couldn’t believe what he was hearing. That was it, the final straw.
“Unacceptable,” Ross said flatly. “Unseat your asses down there immediately. I want a full-court evacuation now. I’m shutting you down. Lieber! Who’ve we got down there?”
Lieber was ahead of him, turning with a clipboard. “I’ve already scrambled units Bravo and Laramie, General—Bravo from above, Laramie from below. They can converge on site in thirty seconds.”
It was, of course, a breach of protocol for Lieber to have taken that initiative, and Ross could have kissed him for it. “Good thinking! Send them in!”
Shouting into a headset, Lieber shouted, “Bravo, Laramie, you are cleared! Go! Go!”
Ross continued to watch on the monitor, and couldn’t help but feel some degree of awe. The Angry Man was still struggling against the liquid, and damned if he wasn’t fighting it off. Some of the old warrior instincts surged in Ross. Now here was a hell of an opponent!
Then he quickly shoved aside the thought. This wasn’t a sporting event. Good men were going into combat against science unleashed. It was like sending troops to run to a ground zero to try to catch a descending atomic missile with their teeth.
“Talbot, we’re coming in! Acknowledge! Lieber, ETA?”
“Fifteen seconds, General!”
The intercom was still silent. “Talbot, I said acknowledge!”
And suddenly Lieber shouted, “General! They’re locking down!”
“What did you say?”
“Lock down,” snapped Glen Talbot. At that moment, watching the Hulk struggling against the hardening foam, he didn’t know how much power the creature possessed. He didn’t know what it would take to stop him. He didn’t know how many men he might lose. But there was one thing he knew beyond question: There was no way in hell he was going to defer this thing to Thunderbolt Ross so that he could turn around and make Talbot look like a fool.
Wein looked at Talbot incredulously. “But didn’t you just hear the general?”
Talbot was in absolutely no mood to screw around. He pulled a sidearm and aimed it straight at Wein’s face. “I said lock down.”
Wein gulped and activated the lock down mechanisms. Talbot’s gaze flicked from the readouts—waiting for the signal lights to come on—to the monitors themselves, where he could see the doors sliding into place. He nodded in approval and saw the “engaged” lights snap on, indicating that the doors were locked in place.
“I’ll show you whose ass is unseated,” he snarled. “Get a security squad up here. I’m taking them and dissecting that green son of a bitch myself.” When Wein didn’t respond immediately, he cocked the hammer of his pistol and snarled, “Do it!”
Wein did it.
The squad leader of Bravo company would have had just enough time to slide under the door before it locked down, but he would have been cut off from the rest of his troops. Wisely, he skidded to a halt just as the door thudded into place. From just beyond the door, he could hear the angry roars of what sounded like a rampaging lion, or perhaps a rhino. It was hard to tell what kind of creature was loose, but it was making all manner of noise. Whatever it was, it was big.
He shouted into his headset, “C and C this is 04. Doors are down.”
Up in C and C, also known as C2, Ross spat out the name “Talbot!” as if it was a profanity. Then he said into the microphone, “Oh four, this is C2 attempting override. Stand by one,” which meant that he should stay on station until further communication. Ross glanced at the screen.
The Angry Man was still struggling with the foam, and it was slowing him down, but it wasn’t stopping him from advancing on the Atheon security guards, waving his arms and bellowing like something from a Godzilla film. The guards were in full retreat. Amateurs, Ross thought grimly as he went on to the radiophone.
Despite the crisis that was before him, Ross’s voice was calm and even. Indeed, he was in his element. Struggling with mountains of paperwork, trying to finesse politicos and play nice with corporate goons, these were all things that grated on him, things that he hated. Give him an enemy to fight, troops to maneuver, strategies to implement, and he was a happy man.
“Break, break,” he snapped, his voice cutting across all bands. “All units this is C2. I say, spea
r point; repeat, spear point. Location: Sector Zulu, Level Four, Frame 256. Subject is Banner, Bruce. Interior ThreatCon is Charlie. I repeat, Charlie. All Laramie units, respond. Secure, neutralize, and report status, over.” He held back Bravo, hoping he wouldn’t need them, fearing he would.
By pure happenstance, the great green berserker who had once been Bruce Banner turned, faced a camera, and roared like an extinct monster from prehistory sent forward through time.
“This could be interesting,” muttered Ross.
what man hath wrought
Talbot moved with a contingent of Atheon security, some of them armed. They approached the area where the Hulk was pinned by the foam and paused as they heard him struggling around the corner.
“Let’s get a sample of him,” said Talbot. They took the corner and faced the Hulk. The creature took no notice of them, preoccupied as he was with trying to shake loose the substance that was holding him. It was hardening more and more, making it that much more difficult for the Hulk to maneuver or move at all. Most of him was covered up, but there was a small area left clear near the base of his neck.
Talbot approached cautiously, murmuring, “Now, let’s take this nice and easy.” He brought up a handheld laser drill and punched it into the Hulk’s neck. The Hulk recoiled, screaming. His undiluted fury caused Talbot and the others to take several steps back, and then—even though his skin was tearing off in huge chunks—the infuriated man-monster began to rip free from the foam.