Marvel Novel Series 03 - The Incredible Hulk - Cry Of The Beast

by Richard S. Meyers

  This only compounded the mystery for Banner. Where were they and why were they proceeding so cautiously? He suddenly decided it was best not to take chances in the water, so he opened his mouth and screamed at the top of his lungs.

  “Helllllp! Somebody, please helllllp!”

  His first answer was a deep, choking noise to his left. He turned and flashed his light in that direction. Caught in the beam was a long spear, vibrating in the wood of the upper deck. The next second the sky was filled with whistles and both decks began sprouting wood and stone poles. The air was literally brimming with hurled spears. Banner shouted in surprise and stumbled back to the upper-deck ladder. The place where he had just been standing began to look like a petrified porcupine.

  From east and west came a literal forest of sharp shafts and loud animal-like yowling. Out in the darkness, dozens of flames suddenly sprouted up, illuminating a line of boldly painted, nearly Neanderthal natives who leaped, hurled weapons, and bayed at the moon. Banner felt as if he had just been dropped into a Tarzan movie. But he was no Johnny Weissmuller, and these were not props coming at him.

  Like a madman he raced to the upper-deck doorway. Just before he reached it, it swung open and the crew began pouring out, already firing automatic rifles as they went. Banner spun and fell forward as the men began mowing down the spear-throwing natives. Banner heard more gunfire from the deck below, then realized that the entire ship was out, defending itself against the attack he had started. No wonder they had been moving silently! Once the natives knew where they were, war parties of all shapes and sizes would be mounted.

  Banner felt a tugging at his feet. Just as he was about to turn over, his ankles were grabbed and he was pulled back inside the ship. The next moment he was being pummeled. Fists were beating wildly at his body and head and a Russian-accented voice roared in his ears.

  “Fool! Idiot!”

  The ineffective beating quickly stopped and a hamlike fist grasped his shirtfront. He was lifted to his feet as if he were as light as a rag doll. His entire vision was filled with the snarling face of the captain.

  “You swine! You have just brought down on us the entire tribal population! This is Africa, dog! Central Africa, where the Congo empties out and the primitive gods still reign! A place of unlimited heat and rain! The only creatures stronger than the pygmies are the lion, the ape, and the rhino! This is what you’ve brought on our heads. Right now they’re moving to the dams and falls to massacre us as we pass.”

  As he spoke, his big, dark face grew increasingly purple and his fists shook. Sweat dropped on Banner’s shirt like Rosanne’s tears.

  The Russian spun around and spat orders to his minions in another language, then returned his attention to the American doctor, all without releasing his grip on Banner’s collar.

  “Now the General will have to airlift us if he still considers Wittenborn’s children important. We cannot chance moving through the forest any longer. But you . . . whoever you are . . . you shall not get away with this! You shall be the sacrifice to buy us some tribal time. Let the natives play with your bones rather than ours.”

  Hardly flexing his muscles, the Russian hurled Banner into the arms of four burly crew members. They each cuffed and kicked him, while tying a thick, coarse rope around his neck. Two men then pulled him back by the rope while the remaining two held his arms.

  Banner, dazed and damaged, vainly tried to regain his wits. “Wait!” he cried. “The girl! They’re attacking the girl! That’s . . . that’s why . . .”

  “They’re attacking all of us,” the captain rumbled. “You saw to that, fool. Make your last words important, man. Leave this world with a truth on your lips.”

  Banner sought to explain, even to beg for mercy from this brutal justice, but a man pulled the rope taut, choking off his words. As he fell to his knees with the pain, he realized his assailant was one of the same men who had just been with him in the hold. Even during the native attack, especially during the attack, his friends were having their way with Rosanne Wittenborn! A part of him screamed in rage at their brutality while another part of him choked and began to die.

  The roaring orange pain and the black anger filled his head like a balloon. He felt light and empty. His eyes, smarting from lack of oxygen, saw the other end of the rope around his neck being tied to a heavy crate. Two men picked up the box and began to swing it back and forth. Two more men held back Banner’s arms.

  “On the count of three,” he heard the Russian say. “One . . .”

  There was a tug at his subconscious.

  “Two . . .”

  The floodgates opened.

  “Three!”

  A door on the side of the ship was pulled inward. The crate was hurled out. Banner’s legs ran after it so his neck would not snap. His shoes hit solid wood for two steps as the shoreline fires blazed into his pupils. Then the stars spun above him and a wave slapped the top of his head as the crate splashed into the river. The water rolled over his entire body and sucked him down. He didn’t feel the long tug at his throat. He didn’t feel the water rush into his nostrils and fill his mouth. All he felt was slightly sick to his stomach. Bruce Banner sank into the heart of the Congo weighted down by a crate filled with dirt.

  The banana boat’s crew continued firing on the tribesmen, who died valiantly, hurling their spears and shooting their arrows into the ship. It seemed as if the entire area was ablaze with the shouts of the men, the cries of the forest beasts, and the angry chatter of submachine-gun fire. But the entire jungle stilled as a heavy rumble rolled out from beneath the waves, and a small fountain of water and cloth spewed up, emitting a clapping boom. Some natives later raved that the river god, in his anger, had unleashed a demon. The Russian captain at that moment had whirled, thinking that one of his slimy crew had smuggled grenades aboard. But when the gunshots continued unabated, he thought no more about it. He had to work fast. He hoisted up his boots and ran for the radio room.

  He was alive, but it was dark and he couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t stand up or walk, either. He tried to place the feeling. It was like when he was sleeping, but it didn’t feel peaceful. It was not good—it would kill him if he stayed here. He swung his head up and saw a dark shape above him. His mind shook and told him: “There!” The mighty legs straightened, hit the river bottom, and the huge body shot up.

  The Russian was hurled forward by a sudden jolt. He flew along for several yards, then found his footing, only to be thrown back by another jolt. This time the floor came up to meet him. He slid back to his original starting point while the ship’s lights began flickering. He placed both his hands on the walls and pulled himself up. Another sudden jolt sent him up farther, and his skull smacked into the ceiling. He crumpled to the floor on his haunches once more, holding his head and cursing. “Those were no grenades!

  “What in blazes is going on?” he roared.

  Above the shape there was air, he knew. He felt it the first time he hit the shape. It moved up and he could breathe. Then it came down again, pushing him under. He pushed back up with his whole body and it got out of the way again. But it did not stay there, so he pushed once more, harder. It slapped down again, harder. He was really angry now. He wanted to breathe. He was going to breathe—now!

  The Russian moved down the steps to the hold, where the pounding was coming from. The crates lining the area were bounced all over the place. Bananas had scattered about the area, leaving a ripe stench. The captain splashed his flashlight around the room searching for an errant gorilla or a drunken crew member. His light beam finally settled on an empty patch of floor. As he watched, a massive, green right arm came through it.

  The accompanying shaft of water knocked the Russian from the steps, flat across a pile of boxes which lazily leaned over and then crashed down. From the center of the hole the arm disappeared, only to be replaced, after a rending explosion, by another. It, too, was built like a battering ram and was totally green. A half a foot of water already cov
ered the hold bottom. The captain shook his head and stared up as the top half of a green humanoid giant filled the ragged hole in the floor, cutting off the fountain for a second.

  Then the pressure pushed the monster up completely. A ponderous expanse of green feet slammed down to the floor, and the gigantic Hulk began trashing the place. The Russian stared in amazement as one fist went through the bulkhead like a sword through a curtain. The resulting gush of water caught the beast full in the face, but he only reared back and laughed. His exclamation was a raspy, robust exultation of achievement and power. The Hulk blasted another fist through the wall, caught a handful of bubbling, wet froth, and rubbed his face with it. He turned. The face was living, shining animosity. The hair was matted ivy tweed. The pupils were silver dots and the eyes shone with the color of envy.

  With an honest shout of terror, the Russian began to struggle toward the steps. The Hulk decided to help him. He moved through the now four feet of water as easily as he would through swaths of silk, and one green fist grasped the captain’s shirt. With a small heave, the Russian felt himself being shot out of the water and up the fifteen feet to the opening. He tumbled across the deck and struggled to his feet.

  “What? What is it?” shouted his first mate at him. A moment later, he and the rest of the crew found out. There was a tearing crack, followed by a veritable volcano of wood chips. Rising out of the deck came a green inferno of acrimony. The first two crew members he could get his hands on knew what it was like to fly for a full fifteen seconds. Then they hit the water with the force of two sacks of concrete. The next obstruction the Hulk found in his way was the upper deck. It was not in his way for long. Two arms moved back and the entire green body moved forward. The facing wall spun apart like a rotten avocado caught in an electric blender.

  Light from the ship’s interior spilled out, and once again the air was filled with the whipping of wooden and stone shafts. The silhouetted crew made easy targets for the surviving tribesmen. By the time they reached their guns, it was too late. The boat was floundering and the men were bleeding pincushions.

  The Hulk blasted through one wooden wall after another, joyfully crunching machinery in his hands like peanut brittle.

  This boat . . . this ship . . . this shape . . . there was something about it . . . something pulling at his memory . . . not something he remembered . . . somebody! There was somebody here who he had to see—not the man with the beard . . . someone smaller. A beautiful face filled the Hulk’s thoughts. It was dark and gentle and pixie-like—the face of an angel. The Hulk had to find her and save her from the man with the beard.

  The Hulk felt better. He wasn’t confused. He thought of the face of his angel; he had to find her and help her. As he moved again, a lantern near his shoulder shattered. He turned around to see the Russian with a smoking pistol in his hand. His other hand held the ship’s railing as it tilted toward its doom. The Hulk growled once as the captain aimed more carefully. Then the captain’s eyes grew wide, his mouth opened, and he dropped the gun. He fell forward a moment later with a spear shaft buried deep in his back.

  The Hulk turned back to the stairs leading below. Cries of horror drifted up from there and he thought he heard a woman. Without thinking, he launched himself, feet first, down the opening. Only the six-foot layer of water prevented him from smashing all the way through the bottom again. From his eight-foot height, he saw floundering men paddling toward him. With his two fists, he brought his weight down on top of the water. The resulting wave threw the struggling men back to the other end of the passage.

  He moved forward to the only metal door along the way. He felt the rushing water pounding at his back, and he didn’t want it to hurt his angel. So he tore at the upper part of the door and the ceiling. Soon he had made a four-foot hole in the wall above the water level. Inside he saw his angel desperately treading water and gasping for air. Immediately, he catapulted himself upward, breaking a new hole in the roof in the process. He moved two feet onto the upper deck, spears bouncing off him, and sank his fists into the floor.

  He tore away at the deck as men died around him and the shore natives howled their bloodlust. After a few seconds he had made a hole big enough to pull the girl through. As his tremendous palms encircled her shoulders, she collapsed against them with a gasping sigh. The Hulk rose with her in his arms, a sodden beauty held gently by a strange beast in a strange land. Their colors melded in the blue moonlight and the Hulk straightened up to his full height, calling out with triumph in his harsh voice.

  The natives watched as their arrows, darts, and spears bounced off his body. They watched as the last crewman died under their onslaught. They watched as the boat sank with the Hulk still on it, holding the unconscious girl, roaring in raucous delight all the way.

  Six

  “Agent Curtis, Bradford?”

  “Yes.”

  “C.I.A. 064-122-6?”

  “Yes.”

  “Please sit down.”

  Agent Curtiss, Bradford, settled into the orange-covered armchair on the silent rollers. Before him was a plain wood table on which a dark plastic speaker rested.

  “Have you eaten?” asked a voice emitting from the speaker.

  “No. No, I haven’t. Actually, this call interrupted my meal, heh, heh.”

  “In the commissary?” inquired the speaker voice authoritatively.

  “Well, yes.”

  “What table?”

  “Um, I’m not sure. Uh, I think it was the one . . . by the window.”

  “Table eight?”

  “Eight? I think so. Yes, I guess so.”

  “We’ll send it up. You can eat it while you listen.”

  There followed a long, uncomfortable silence. Finally, a stone-faced man entered the otherwise empty room with a tray. The steaming meal was set before Curtiss, plate by plate, and then the man left with the tray under his arm.

  “We couldn’t find your original meal,” apologized the voice from the machine on the table. “So we made up a new one. You don’t mind, do you?”

  “No.”

  “You’re not too full, I hope.”

  “No, not really.”

  “If this new meal is not to your liking, we can change it.”

  “No, that’s all right.”

  “Roast beef all right?”

  “Yes.” Curtiss nodded. “Fine.”

  “Coffee?”

  “Yes,” replied the agent, touching the styrofoam cup filled with dark lukewarm liquid. “It’s all right.”

  “You can have tea if you’d like.”

  “No,” said Curtiss, wondering what the hell was going on. “Coffee is okay.”

  “Good, good,” came the voice from the speaker. Again silence filled the room. Curtiss waited to see what banality his superior would announce next. “Please eat,” the voice finally commanded. The agent responded by digging in.

  The machine remained quiet in a nearly maternal way for a bit. Then the man on the end of a microphone somewhere in the maze of offices cleared his throat.

  “Ahem. Agent Curtiss,” he continued, “we have a sticky situation here.”

  Curtiss raised his head from his plate. “What’s that, sir?”

  “This African thing with the Wittenborns.”

  “Oh, yes,” the agent agreed, returning his attention to his mashed potatoes. They were the real thing, not the flakes. That was unusual for the Agency cafeteria.

  “You understand”—the voice interrupted his thoughts—“that the vital lever the General is looking for with these children must not be allowed.”

  “Wumph?” Curtiss mumbled around a hunk of beef.

  “That is, we cannot allow the man in question to blackmail Wittenborn into cooperation.”

  Curtiss shook his head. The meat was really tender. That, too, was a surprise.

  “But we cannot overtly approach him. A move like that at this time would be disastrous.”

  “Yes, sir,” said the agent, swallowing.
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br />   “But the children and Wittenborn must never deliver to the General the necessary power.”

  “Of course not.” The meal was really excellent. Curtiss hadn’t had a meal like this for months.

  “But the problem cannot be rectified through normal channels.”

  Curtiss stopped eating. He suddenly began to understand what he was doing there. He hurriedly put his fork down and pushed his chair back.

  “What am I doing in here alone?” he asked.

  “Curtiss . . .”

  “Why are you telling me alone?”

  “We cannot send in a squad . . .”

  “How about a team?”

  “Even that would be too dangerous.”

  “What about the double agents or the sleeping agents already on the scene?”

  “They need . . . an outside valve . . . an . . . enforcer, implementer.”

  Curtiss stared at his plate. “Oh, boy,” he said.

  “They will lay the groundwork for you, but you must move in during the actual maneuver. It must be just one man. You are one of the only men with the necessary talents and training.”

  “So I just happened to pull the short straw, huh?” Curtiss continued to stare at his plate.

  “A computer chose you as the best man for the job,” said the voice with what seemed to be a tinge of hurt.

  Curtiss breathed deeply a few times, then sighed and shrugged. He continued eating. Even the vegetables weren’t soggy. “All right,” he said between mouthfuls. “This is what I signed on for, I guess. When do I leave?”

  “Immediately. Agent Matthews will air-drop you.”

  “All right. Just let me finish my meal, huh?”

  “Certainly.”

  Curtiss mopped up the remainder of the gravy with a Parker House roll which wasn’t stale. He thought about his new mission. It was the old suicide number. The Agency needed a madman—a well-prepared, killing machine of a madman. Probably even as he ate, records were being prepared. They would conclusively prove that Bradford Curtiss had never even heard of the American Government. Probably his first-grade teacher would swear that he was anti-Africa. So when he went nuts in the General’s headquarters and quite possibly murdered somebody, it would be the fault of one lone crazy and not a purposeful arm of international law. Those were the breaks. He had a simple choice. Either attempt the impossible and succeed, or let the worst scourge in the world gain a nuclear secret sufficient to destroy the planet. Some choice.