by Peter David
Once one piece came loose, others did as well, and suddenly Talbot realized that the Hulk was within seconds of completely freeing himself. Odds were that the first one he’d go for would be the guy with the handheld laser drill.
“Pull back,” he ordered, and he didn’t have to say it twice. The men retreated around the corner, the last bits of the foam went flying, and the Hulk thundered after them. He shook the walls and floor with each footstep.
Even as he retreated, Talbot heard large door locks beginning to disengage, the loud ka-klak of the metal releases echoing up and down the hallways. That damned Ross had found a way to override the lock down commands. Within seconds the doors would be rising and standard army troops would come flying in like locusts. Talbot would never hear the end of it, never.
Unless he stopped the monster first.
If he couldn’t get samples from the living monster, he’d do what he could once the Hulk was dead. He just hoped that it wouldn’t revert back to Bruce Banner before he could obtain the mutated tissue he needed.
One of the Atheon guards dashed past him, and Talbot grabbed the rifle right out of his hands. He knew it was packing APM2 .30-06-caliber armor-piercing bullets. Nothing short of Type IV body armor would repel one of those, and if there was one thing he could say definitively about the Hulk, it was that he wasn’t wearing body armor. As for the guard, he seemed all too eager to give it up. It was just one less thing to slow him down.
Talbot spun to face the Hulk, standing his ground. Despite the fact that the monster towered over him, Talbot only saw him as the pathetic, whining scientist who he’d so easily brutalized earlier. Monster and man eyed each other for a moment, and Talbot thought it might be his imagination, but the Hulk seemed to recognize him as more than just an enemy.
. . . hurt . . . hurt us . . . me . . . hurt us . . . hurt him . . . more . . . hurt him MORE . . .
Talbot gasped and stepped back as the Hulk lurched toward him . . . and grew. As if reaching well more than eight feet in height hadn’t been enough, the Hulk’s mass increased even more, and seconds later he was filling up the entire corridor. He was half again as tall, and just as wide, so huge that he’d actually managed to wedge himself in there. He looked around in frustration, grunted, and flexed his muscles until the walls of the corridor started to creak to accommodate him.
Talbot, temporarily transfixed, watched in awe. He heard the pounding boots of the approaching troops, and all he could think was that it was damned considerate of the Hulk to have made himself an even bigger target than he was before.
“So long, big boy,” said Talbot, and he unleashed a hail of powerful automatic fire. The Hulk didn’t stagger because he was wedged into place, but his face contorted in pain as the bullets made contact, and for a heartbeat Talbot thought he had won.
It turned out to be one of the last heartbeats Glen Talbot experienced, because the air was then filled with the sound of metallic pinging as the bullets bounced off the Hulk. Having nowhere else to go, they ricocheted around, and a good number of them riddled Talbot. He crumpled to the ground, clutching at his chest. Feeling something soft and disgusting, he tried to shove it back in, whatever it was. And then he went into shock, and he died.
The remaining troops, witnessing it all, turned tail and ran for it.
Ross witnessed it as well.
He saw Talbot struck, and time slowed down. As Talbot fell, Thunderbolt Ross saw a young, eager-beaver officer who was determined to go places and set the world on fire. He saw the up-and-comer he’d made a personal project of because he knew that this was a young man who was going places. And he saw a young man consumed by money and cynicism and power.
In his way, Talbot had been just as corrupted by power as anyone carrying the name of Banner; he just did a better job of covering it up.
All this went through Ross’s mind, and then he saw Talbot hit the floor and flop around like a dying seal. At which point the trained military mind of Thaddeus “Thunderbolt” Ross wrote off Talbot, case closed, time to move on. Because with all the evil and deceit that Glen Talbot had accomplished, he had at least managed one positive thing: He had let Ross know with his dying act that the Hulk was a creature against whom conventional weapons simply weren’t going to work. And he had a troop of eager young men who were anxious to go monster hunting, charging into battle, all of whom were going to die the instant they opened fire.
“Pull them back,” Ross said woodenly, ignoring the fact that he was standing in front of a microphone. “Lieber, pull them back.”
“All Laramie units, this is C2,” Lieber promptly said into the comm unit. “Pull back. Do not engage subject Bruce Banner; repeat, do not engage.”
Run run they run smash ones who run smash them smash smash . . .
Colonel McKean of the Sixth Laramie unit led the retreat as, per orders, the men fell back. They hadn’t yet seen what it was they were supposed to attack, but they heard the roars reverberating down the corridors, and McKean had to think they had just dodged a serious bullet. He would never know how literally correct he was.
They dropped back past the metal barricade doors, the ones that C and C had worked so hard to open, and the instant they were clear, the doors slammed shut again. McKean quickly touched base with the other Laramie units as well as with Bravo, getting a ground-level assessment of the situation. Then, confirming his findings with C and C, he said briskly into his microphone headset, “C two, this is Laramie 06, Laramie units pulling back. Subject inside Sector Yolk, Level Four.”
The voice of Thunderbolt Ross came in on his headset, issuing orders to call, taking the designation “Laramie 01,” to establish that he was at the top of the chain of command. Any command with 01 in it, whether he himself was saying it or it was being relayed as such, was understood to be coming straight from the top. “Concentrate containment on Sector X-ray, Level Three, Frame 185, out.”
McKean immediately reaffirmed and rebroadcast the orders to any other Laramie units on line. “Break . . . break . . . all Laramie units, this is Laramie 01, concentrate containment on Sector X-ray, Level Three, Frame 185, out.”
“Six, roger,” Ross’s voice confirmed, “Laramie 01, activate all fail-safe mechanisms. He goes anywhere near Two Foxtrot we know what we have to do. He could make an awful scary mess down there.” That was, of course, an understatement. Foxtrot missiles were stored in the underground facility, and armed with nuclear warheads. If the monster started ripping into those, the unleashed radiation alone could kill everyone in the place the moment it hit the air ducts—and that wasn’t even considering the possibility of a nuclear detonation.
McKean heard the order, but despite the fact that it originated from 01, it wasn’t his primary concern. What worried him was the massive door he was facing that appeared, against all possible rational expectations, to be buckling from the pounding of . . . massive fists. “C two, six, roger that, sir,” McKean confirmed, his eyes riveted on the spectacle of the bending door. “But be advised he’s not going down there. He appears to be coming right at us, over.”
“Six, C and C, roger,” shot back Ross, as more troops poured into the main hall. “Prepare active denial and stand by.”
. . . grab tear rip destroy destroy so much pain hurts hurt them hurt them all smash them all . . . SMASH THEM ALL . . .
And suddenly the door blocking the main hall from the monster within was torn to shreds, and the Hulk smashed his way in. In the future, when those who survived the altercation would speak of it, their descriptions of the size of the being attacking them would vary from account to account, situation to situation. Ironically, they would all be correct. The Hulk’s size fluctuated depending upon his mood and the degree of opposition he encountered.
Immediately the men scattered, no one wanting to be the first one to take on this inhuman threat, all of them sensing that they were hopelessly out of their league. McKean fell back as well, but not in a panicked retreat. He simply took a few steps and watched w
arily as the Hulk raised his arms over his head and unleashed a bellow of rage and hatred. As this happened, Ross’s voice was heard over the comm unit. “Oh one, C and C, initiate strobes, over!”
“Break, break!” shouted McKean, and he prayed that his men would be able to hear him over the bellows of the outraged behemoth. “All units, goggles down; light up the strobes, over.”
Each of the troops put huge goggles on. Each pair was equipped with electric shutters timed in syncopation with a massive strobe light array that had been wheeled into the main hall. The strobe was switched on. Instantly disoriented, the Hulk threw his hands up to his eyes. Through their goggles, the soldiers saw the Hulk in flickering white light, stumbling back toward the entrance tunnel. It looked for all the world as if they were watching an old-style movie serial starring the Hulk.
. . . lights . . . hurt . . . hurt eyes . . . hurt . . . make stop . . .
A team ran up and shot nets, which spread instantaneously in front of the Hulk.
. . . stop . . . can’t stop . . .
He jumped, grabbed the edge of one of the nets and flung it back at the men. They scattered, desperate to get out of the way, and he grabbed up random pieces of equipment and hurled them at the troops.
“C two, four, he’s still on the move, over!” one of the soldiers reported.
“Four, roger that, C and C . . . break, break . . . six,” said Ross.
. . . make light stop!
The Hulk jumped and pounded the ceiling. Huge support beams crumbled and fell across the length of the hall; one destroyed the strobe array. The Hulk landed, hit the floor, still disoriented, then pushed into the entry tunnel.
Ross, watching from C and C, saw it all, even as he received a report from one of the Laramie units. “C two, 04, he’s moving topside, out.”
“Break, break, all units, flashpoint, authorized weapons release, any means necessary,” said Ross. “C and C, out . . .”
The monitor on which Ross was watching the skirmish came alive with flash fire as the soldiers blasted the Angry Man’s departing form with everything they had in their arsenal. Ross desperately hoped that the circumstances, which he already thought were inevitable, wouldn’t, in fact, come to pass.
Then, from high above, he heard the sound of earth crumbling, a pause, and then a rumbling of the ground, similar to the sound of an earthquake but more focused.
He knew. Even as confirmation came from the surface through on-site witnesses, he knew what had happened. His heart sank, and he glanced once more at the dead body of Glen Talbot, lying splayed and bloody in the hallway. His mood black, he thought, Talbot, you arrogant ass, even as he announced, “Javelin 6, this is C2,” said Ross. “He has breached. Move on Sector Five, X-ray.”
The Hulk had dug through the ground, broken the surface, and leaped away. He was gone, and there was a better-than-even chance that nothing was going to be able to stop him.
Free . . . free . . . free . . . place . . . peace . . .
The Hulk landed in the deserted, quiet neighborhood. His first instinct—and it was purely instinct on which he was operating, not reason—was to look around and see if more men with the sticks that spit hurtful pellets were hiding somewhere around. But there was no one around; his flared nostrils told him that.
One of the houses caught his attention. He had no comprehension that he had once resided there. He had very little understanding of the world in terms of how it related to him, or he to it, beyond pain and anger and a desire to crush anyone or anything that he saw as a threat. All he knew was that he felt drawn to it on a fundamental level that he couldn’t understand.
Pulled by a power greater than his own—the power of a shattered memory—he approached the house and peered in through one of the windows, studying the dusty interior. The sound of vehicles rose, but it was difficult to know whether they were real or originating from some fragment of memory. A ghostly glimpse of the past swept through him, and there was glittering from within. A small green spruce tree was festooned with decorations. He saw a small boy, and the boy looked vaguely familiar but was also extremely irritating, and the Hulk wanted to just come right through the wall and crush the young boy in his oversize hands. He wanted to do it because he sensed that if that happened, he would be free of the annoying voice of reason which kept trying to intrude on his activities.
Then the wind howled as if it were trying to warn him of something, and abruptly the whole place erupted in flames as missile fire was let loose on the neighborhood. The Hulk, still trying to sort fact from fiction, was caught unawares, and wound up being blasted back by the force of the explosions. He landed hard in the dunes, sending up a plume of sand.
As he got up, a group of LAVs—fast-moving desert attack vehicles—closed in on him. He was disoriented for a moment, but only for a moment. Then he jumped in front of one of them and grabbed the short tow chain attached to its bumper. The car jerked to a stop. The driver leaped clear, but there was a machine gun perched on the back, and a gunner seated right behind it. The gunner swung the weapon around, aimed it at the Hulk . . .
And suddenly the gunner was in the air. For the Hulk, with a grunt, had yanked on the chain and sent the vehicle whipping around like the hammer in a track-and-field event. He swung the vehicle through the air and the machine gunner, desperately trying to aim, wound up firing in all directions. Soldiers and vehicles scattered to get out of the way, and then the Hulk released his grip on the chain and sent the vehicle and the gunner both flying. The gunner was still firing.
Finally the machine gunner tumbled out, falling clear, which turned out to be his good fortune. For the vehicle’s course caused it to land on one of the Abrams tanks that was quickly approaching. The tank had begun blasting away with huge amounts of firepower, but the flung jeep landed atop it, immobilizing it.
A second tank rolled past, trying to target the fast-moving green figure, but it had no luck, blowing up real estate all around the Hulk without once managing to hit him. The Hulk made it to the tank unscathed and lifted the gun turret, twisting off the entire top of the vehicle. Hoisting the turret clear, he smashed it repeatedly into the ground, reducing it to a mass of bent and twisted metal as he continued to roar and howl defiance. The tank tried to back up, but the Hulk—having grown bored with venting his rage on the turret—grabbed the rest of the tank and upended it, much in the way a child would shake loose the prizes from a box of cereal. This caused the soldiers inside to tumble out. They watched in astonishment and horror as the Hulk lifted the tank completely over his head, and needed no further incentive to bolt and run. They had side arms in their holsters, but they didn’t even bother to go for them. Somehow there seemed to be very little point.
Ground troops had been moving in behind the tanks, but when they saw the uncontrollable monster flinging a tank around like a shoe box, they needed no further incentive to fall back before they became the target of his ire.
The triumphant bellow of the Hulk followed them across the dunes.
At the command center, Thunderbolt Ross had a satellite phone pressed against his ear. The retreating sergeant had just filled him in via comm link on the details of the encounter, and Ross had paled slightly but told the sergeant that he’d made the right call, pulling the troops back. No need for men to die needlessly, and obviously a straight up face-to-face with the creature was going to be suicide unless there were a lot more men involved than Ross had available to him.
Now he said into the phone, “Be advised this is T-bolt at Desert Lab. Requesting a flash override for POTUS and the national security adviser.” POTUS, of course, was the abbreviation for “president of the United States.”
“Ohio,” said the Satcomm operator.
“Sandusky,” said Ross, giving the proper code word response. “I repeat, Sandusky. Authenticate Alpha Whiskey Sierra Five Five Zero Three.”
“I copy Alpha Whiskey Sierra Five Five Zero Three, wait one,” said the Satcomm operator.
“Roger
,” said Ross, “standing by,”
The pause then, even though it lasted only a matter of seconds, seemed to last forever. Finally the Satcomm operator’s voice came back and said, “This is a secure line. Go ahead, please.”
“Mr. President, I have some bad news,” said Ross. He had a mental picture of the president on the other end in a briefing room, surrounded by cabinet members and advisers. Then he heard, over the phone, someone in the distance shout, “Fore!” and realized the president was on a golf course. Your tax dollars at work, he thought grimly.
“Let’s have it, General,” came the president’s voice.
The national security adviser was also on the line. Ross had met her once; she was a brisk, no-nonsense woman. Ross hadn’t liked her, but he’d respected her thoroughness and quick grasp of situations. She displayed that trait now, saying, “I have briefed the president on Angry Man. I assume that’s what this is about.”
“It is, ma’am,” Ross said. “I’m requesting National Command Authority override. Angry Man is unsecure, and I need everything we have at my disposal to stop his movement.”
“General, are you expecting civilian casualties?” asked the national security adviser.
“Not if I can help it,” Ross replied grimly.
“Consider it done,” said the president. “Keep us posted. Oh, and General—”
“Yes, Mr. President?”
There was a pause, and then the commander-in-chief said, “Need I remind you . . . it is an election year.”
The message was clear: Having voters killed by an out-of-control government project would be an exceedingly Bad Idea.
“Yes, sir. T-bolt out,” said Ross.
He cut the signal, and Lieber brought him over a field phone. He had so many means of communication available to him, it was becoming ridiculous. He grabbed it without even bothering to ask who was on the other end.