“Next, in a sack behind your right ear is this tiny ball of highly corrosive acid.” Garris lifted another speck from his desk. It looked like a very small circle of rubber cement. “You can pull open the sack fairly easily, but once air contacts the ball, you have seven seconds to get rid of it. Any skin it touches after that will corrode rapidly. On the chest, it’ll probably cause a heart attack. On the leg, you’ll soon have a cripple. If someone swallows it . . . well, forget him.
“Third, believe it or not, up your nose.”
Curtiss smirked despite himself.
“What are you going to do?” Garris said. “An orifice is an orifice. Anyway, up your nose is a coil that can be stretched to a length of a foot. Pull it taut once, then drop it on someone, and enough current will be discharged to electrocute or coronate—that is, give the victim a coronary. It’s up your left nostril. Try not to pick it with your left forefinger. You’d be taking your life in your hands.
“Finally, between your right toes. Tiny pinpricks in between two layers of skin. When you walk or run, it’s all right. But in a karate kick, poison will be channeled into your victim. Classic stuff, all made for easy access and somewhat innocent deployment. If you work it right, no one will know you’re the killer.
“Then, of course, you can call on various obvious weaponry, depending on your situation. If a gun is nearby, and can do the job just as well, feel free.”
“Now, what exactly are my prerogatives here?” Curtiss asked.
“The whole point is to keep Wittenborn from giving the General more power, or to keep the General from getting it. The bottom line is that Dr. Wittenborn cannot remain in Africa, because even if the General were killed, his underlings are power-mad enough to keep pressuring the doctor. If you can’t get the doctor out, get his kids out. If you can’t get his kids out, then kill the General. That should at least give us enough time to try to rectify the problem another way.
“And if you can’t do any of that, well, you might just have to handle Wittenborn or the children.”
“Agh!” Curtiss exclaimed in distaste. “That’s just not my style.”
“What choice do we have?” Garris said helplessly. “It would be a lot easier if you were female. The General’s white-slavers are always on the lookout for the unattached woman wandering around. As it is, we will have to get you captured as a slave. Your new masters will move you into the General’s kingdom and probably lock you up. Then it’s up to you. Matthews, of course, will be waiting for your signal.”
“Yeah.” Curtiss grimaced. “When all four weapons are discharged, my other toe will send an S.O.S. Right?”
“Then, and only then.”
Curtiss remembered his partner piloting their prototype over the sub and his comment when they had destroyed the attacking jet. “Yeah, man,” he breathed, “better living through science.”
It was hot, it was wet, and the foliage was thick. But Rosanne was happy and Banner was more comfortable than he had been in some time. The unfamiliarity helped. Nothing was recognizable within his frame of reference. And since the snake and the copters had been dispatched, they had neither seen nor heard anything threatening.
Then, again, they really hadn’t traveled very far. The lack of shoes was the main reason. Their pampered feet was another. They were simply not used to walking barefoot through anything, let alone a strange jungle. So they trod carefully, helping each other with a soft intimacy. The environment was unreal, even exotic, and, in a humid way, idyllic. They felt like the last people in the world. But they were soon to feel otherwise.
The first arrow shot by Banner’s head, slipped down, and disappeared in the underbrush. He thought it was the close passage of a mosquito at first, but then another rose into his vision and zipped over his head. As a third looped in front of him, he clearly saw the darkened tip, the straight shaft, and the feathers on its tail.
“Down!” he cried, pulling on Rosanne’s arm and falling. Suddenly, their little patch of jungle was filled with tiny, nearly naked men, screaming at the top of their lungs and brandishing spears and bows.
“Twides,” Rosanne gasped. That was the scientific word for pygmies.
As soon as the natives began leaping toward them, Banner struggled to his feet. He saw their small yellow-brown bodies dodge from tree to tree, some climbing, others moving straight in on them. The trees and plants shook, and, amazingly, Banner was more fascinated than frightened.
“Friends,” he said, holding up his hands. “Friends.”
Three little men dropped out of the trees on top of him. Three sharp stones were soon pressed against his neck and chest. Rosanne was thrown down next to him by four men at least a half a foot shorter than she was. Side by side, they were kicked, stoned, and poked. Finally, rough hands turned them over onto their stomachs and spears were placed in the small of their backs.
“Bruce?”
“Don’t worry.”
Stout branches were placed lengthwise on the backs of their necks, and four men began to lash their wrists to opposite ends of these poles with thin twine. Then another stick was pushed through the openings their elbows made behind their backs. Within minutes, both found themselves bound helplessly in a most uncomfortable position. More hands were needed to bring them to their feet.
“Bruce,” Rosanne repeated more stridently.
As Banner opened his mouth to reply, a cloth was stuffed in and another swath was tied around that. He saw Rosanne struggle; then one man held her nose while another stuffed a cloth into her mouth. Finally, twine was bound above and below their knees so they could walk, but not run.
A procession began, and Banner and Wittenborn were urged on by the points of arrows. Before and behind them was a squad of stone-faced pygmies. Soon they had emerged into a small clearing, encircled with simple huts. Seated in a large semicircle around the center of the clearing were dozens more jungle warriors holding small bows and solid spears. Before them were two upright posts to which Bruce and Rosanne were brought.
The staffs holding their arms were quickly and brutally broken and their bonds loosed, but only so they could be better secured to the wooden posts. Their numb hands were tied behind them and they were attached to the poles at the ankles, knees, waist, chest, and neck. Their imprisonment was handled as if it were a divine ritual. The audience did not move, and the captors worked with reverence and precision. The gags remained where they were. Rosanne looked over, her eyes pleading, but Banner’s brow was curved with curiosity.
The circle rustled, then parted at one end. A line of male pygmies emerged, all equally lithe and powerful-looking. Their arms were long, their legs were short, and they were no taller than four feet, eight inches. Each of them was covered with animal fat and red war paint. The last in line wore a ceremonial mask. Banner’s eyes widened with at least partial understanding.
Finally, the line of elders reached their places and all heads turned toward a hut on the apex of the nomadic village. From the opening a whitened shock of curly hair appeared. Under that came a head lined with age, pain, and wisdom. The tribal leader had emerged, and the ceremony had officially begun.
Suddenly the line of counselers rose and began to dance. Their feet moved in an unrecognizable rhythm, and their mouths opened and closed, but no words emerged. Hands shook and drums were in evidence, but no beat was heard and no music was played. The only sounds were those of weapons rattling and feet slapping the ground.
As if one cue, the rest of the male tribesmen rose and joined the undulation. Banner spotted several children’s heads appearing from behind the huts, but maternal hands pulled them back. The only garment any of the children wore was a soiled loincloth.
Charms in all shapes and sizes began to appear as the dance grew in size and intensity. Mouths silently asked the supreme being for guidance and assistance. No one paid any notice to the two captives, but it was obvious that they were the central point around which the rite revolved. A story began to form from the ritual mo
vement: a tale of woe, of oppression, hate, and horrible death. The men’s faces were twisted in tragedy and remembered pain.
Finally, the discordance gathered momentum and the dancers joined ranks. Each group moved back until a large space was cleared before the two captives. Heads turned, and as the steps became constricted, the mood became anticipatory. Then into the clearing came two men—men swathed in the uniforms of civilization, men with shirts, belts, pants, and shoes. Both fell before the posts motionless, as if hurled forward. They were the pilots of jet copters number 2 and 3.
The pygmies lined up—their arrows notched, their spears raised. Then they hurled their weapons in rapid succession. With speed and exacting aim, each tribesman settled his score with the pilots. When the festivities finally ended, the two prone men looked like stuffed pincushions.
Banner seemed confused, and Rosanne looked ready to faint. Then the tribal leader, his face cracked with lines of intelligence, came forward. He raised one hand and pointed a finger at them.
“You,” he said in faultless English, “are the barbarians. Our dance may seem ferocious and brutal, but we cry to the supreme being to deliver us from the evil that takes our land, our dignity, and our very lives from us. The after-life is noble, but our deaths are not honorable. All of us have been touched by the beast, have felt the damnation of his touch. We do not die under the sword; we curl into ashes; we melt into puddles of our own blood. I have seen him and his machines. I have seen what they do to my people. Often we have prayed for an end as honorable as the one we have visited upon your fellows.”
He motioned toward the shapes that used to be the pilots.
“I speak for you,” he said then. “I must, since your own voices would call him down upon us. I beg the supreme being to forgive you. I beg for your salvation in the after-life. I do not wish you well, but I pray for your return to this plane in our bodies so you could suffer as we have. Farewell.”
The leader put his arm out, and a spear was placed in his open palm. He held it like a treasure, then pulled it to his chest. His lips moved; his eyes closed. He stood before Banner, his arm raised.
There was a tug at Bruce’s subconscious. A small one.
The leader’s eyes opened. Pity and revulsion filled them. Then his hand tightened about the shaft, and his arm went back.
Suddenly there was a flash from beyond him. A twig fell from a bush. Something whistled. There was a sound like a cantaloupe being split open. With a lurch, the leader swept forward, blood coursing from his back. Banner saw a bright metal star wink at him before the red liquid covered it completely.
There was a split second of total silence, and then the jungle shattered with a savage concussion. The tribe stared at Banner in hateful reverence as they scrambled toward the jungle. To them, the supreme being had struck their leader down in displeasure. But before they could escape, a worse fate was visited upon them.
Silver stars spun wickedly from the jungle in tearing spirals, ripping skin and muscle as they passed. Six murderously sharp points around a steel circle. They flew like Frisbees and sliced like knives. An even dozen came from beyond the trees, spilling blood as they went. After a moment, a high-pitched scream was heard and a gray garbed man, not much taller than the tribesmen, leaped into the clearing.
His hands, feet, and eyes were the only parts of him uncovered. Around his waist was a red sash, and tied to that was a long-handled, curved sword. His arms were held out, his palms open. As the pygmies began to charge him, his limbs swung in a flurry of movement. His actions were blurred, but the cracks of broken bones were unmistakable. A Japanese ninja had appeared in the middle of the African tropical forest.
The surviving pygmies fled from his onslaught in droves. But as they reached the other side of the clearing, more of the tribesmen dropped. Only the small wounds that appeared across their torsos gave a clue as to the cause of death. Banner managed to turn his head far enough to see black boots emerge from the surrounding foliage, with a pair of camouflage pants tucked into them. Then a man emerged, his silenced submachine gun still blazing. Atop his head was a jaunty beret, and he had a heavily waxed moustache. As out of place as the Samurai warrior, a highly decorated British commando came into view.
It was a legitimate slaughter. The two-man army calmly wiped out the pygmies. The ninja had his sword out and was quickly dispatching any of those who were merely wounded by his hands, feet, or stars. The commando had leaped back into the forest to track down any who may have crawled away.
Rosanne had finally fainted in shock. Banner felt weak with repulsion. As his gaze returned to the ground before him, he saw the leader once again. The man’s back still pumped blood, but his eyes were open. Banner met his gaze. The pygmies’ eyes were filled with an inhuman loathing, a burning hatred that would never find an outlet this side of the grave. The small man died slowly, and Banner prayed for a quick end to the madness.
He received his wish. In a moment, he heard a call and two new men walked into the clearing. Both were dressed in bush outfits with six-guns in holsters at their hips. They chatted a moment among the strewn bodies around them, then moved forward to untie Banner and the girl.
Nine
The Oriental and the Britisher were laughing at their own private joke in the front of the van. Occasionally they’d turn and smirk at the gently disarranged costume of Wittenborn and the aghast expression of Banner. Rosanne had given up trying to arrange her torn skirt and top, and she simply lay there, her hands cuffed behind her back. Her lips were still sealed by a coarse cloth to prevent any of her outcries from disturbing other natives in the area, but the dark eyes above the gag spoke volumes. And whenever her gaze met Bruce’s, she couldn’t hide the bitter accusation in her eyes.
He had not changed. He had witnessed the most bloodthirsty travail in the entire mess, and it did not move him enough to change. They were again prisoners and he still did not change. He didn’t even try to explain. Instead, he, too, sat on the metal floor of the van, handcuffed, and with makeshift shackles of rope around his legs.
Banner was attempting to sort out the whole adventure, with some degree of success. It was the most important time in his life since the Curse, at least as far as he could remember. He had discovered more about himself and the Hulk and how they worked together in these few days than he had been able to for years. But what good would it do him? That was the question. What good would it do?
The countryside bounced across the windows at a steady pace. The van must have been following some kind of path, since there were no sudden detours or stops or shouted warnings. The Britisher kept the speedometer at a rock-steady thirty miles per hour, and the Oriental kept the chatter at a rock-steady two words per second.
The foliage had thinned somewhat, and was now interspersed with tall golden reeds that shone in the setting sun. It could be a sign that they were nearing civilization. The Oriental turned again, his face-mask off, revealing a pale yellow face and crew-cut black hair. He was smiling especially wide now. He had succeeded where the others had failed. He was bringing in the girl and her friend. He would be lying if he said he wasn’t relieved. All the talk of a huge green man powerful enough to stop cars had gotten him a little tense.
But all there really had been was a thin white man in a devastated pair of blue slacks, a man unable to even loosen his bonds. How he and the girl had been able to get this far into the jungle was beyond him, especially since there wasn’t a scratch on her lovely body. The face showed exhaustion, but there was no sign of exposure or starvation. The Oriental looked her up and down, then decided to join her in the back for the rest of the trip.
He rose out of his seat and maneuvered into the back of the van. As his foot found the metal floor, the side of the vehicle suddenly bent in and leaped an inch and a half into the air. The Oriental flew against the other side and the Britisher yelled out in surprise. Rosanne’s face suddenly became alive and Banner groaned.
“Rhino!” the Englishman excla
imed.
The Oriental leaped nimbly back to the front and stared across the driver’s seat. Out the window, just keeping pace with the slow-moving van, was a huge animal. Its body looked like a slab of bluish-gray cement, and its short legs leaped back and forth, propelling its blunt head forward. The tiny black eyes stared evenly at the Britisher. Its long white horn, growing upward from its snout, gleamed in the sun like a well-brushed tooth.
Even as the two men watched, the beast moved in and rammed the side of the van again. There was the sound of metal rending and the wheel leaped out of the Britisher’s hands. The vehicle lurched to the right and the Oriental, spitting out Far-Eastern expletives, threw his hands forward to help keep the wheels on their regular path.
“It’s a white!” the Britisher exclaimed. “The largest of them all!”
“What is it doing so far north?” the Oriental cried in English.
“They’ve been slowly migrating ever since the law against killing them was passed. They were all over Uganda last year. Be careful!”
He turned the wheel feverishly to avoid another charge. Banner and Rosanne slid, bumping the length of the back, landing in a jumble against the far wall.
“No!” shouted the Oriental. “We can’t lose the trail!”
“No choice,” the Britisher replied. “Another direct hit and we’d be on two wheels.”
The Oriental moved over to stare at the huge form blasting through the underbrush.
“It’s fast,” he whistled.
“Third largest land animal,” the Britisher grimaced, “but as fast as a horse. We can only hope to outrun it.”
“Can’t this thing go any faster?”
“Not off the trail. Be on the lookout. They usually go in packs.”
“Great,” the Oriental spat. He spun to his own window while the driver tried to maneuver through the trees and foliage. They drove like madmen for a few seconds, smashing the plants in their path. The van began to stink of gasoline and the wheel felt hot in the Britisher’s hands.
Marvel Novel Series 03 - The Incredible Hulk - Cry Of The Beast Page 10
