“A very rudimentary deduction,” he said, his voice echoing out from his elevated position. “It’s amazing how such brilliant people can be so stupid.”
Rosanne stared up at her brother, scarcely believing that her own flesh and blood could have put her through all this. “Tony!” she pleaded.
“Don’t called me that!” he snapped, cutting her off. He hurled himself down the wide steps. “That’s a disgusting name. Why the hell was I the one to get stuck with an Italian name, anyway?”
Their father had been staring at his son’s royal garb with tortured amazement. His head had begun quivering from side to side, and now his mouth opened.
“Your mother . . .” he began with a groan.
“Oh, yes!” the young Wittenborn interrupted loudly. “My mother, my sweet, lily-white mother with the maiden name of Rosettini. Wonderful woman.” He approached his father with an odious glare. “You! You were the direct descendant of the Witten race of Africa! Why do you think our name is Wittenborn? You had chieftain’s blood in your veins. You had the strength of our rich earth and the wisdom of the supreme one. And you married an Italian?” Tony spat at his father’s feet.
Rosanne bucked against the throne’s straps and cried out, “Tony! Don’t you dare say anything against . . .”
“I said don’t call me that! Call me Africa, call me a Wittenborn, but don’t use that horrid name before me again!” It was amazing to see the tall American pansy turned into a raging, zealot. “You would like our mother,” he cooed to his sister. “It’s from her that you got your classic American beauty.”
He placed one limp hand under her chin and surveyed the curved eyes, the small nose, and thin lips. “You are not of true Witten born,” he judged, then swept away.
Rosanne pulled so hard at her bonds that one of her wrist straps drew blood. “What are you doing?” she bemoaned. “What are you doing?”
“I’m finished my part of the Plan. It was my Plan to begin with, you know,” ‘Africa’ said mincingly, a little of the old slyness replacing his devout righteousness. “I approached the General with it. ‘How about showing the world in two easy steps?’ I suggested.”
“I hate to break into this family dispute,” said Banner, “but what exactly is this plan?”
“Simplicity itself, boy,” the Wittenborn man said. “With the Gamma Treatment, I take over the world . . . or destroy it.”
“You? You take over the world?” shouted Rosanne derisively.
“Yes, me!” he stormed in return. “That fat idiot will do all the dirty work, but he doesn’t have enough brains to know when to go to the bathroom. You know that speech he gave tonight about power and the natural progression of weaponry? I taught him that! He just listens to me lecture, then repeats it, like a monkey—like a big, fat ape! Let him bathe the United States with the Treatment; I don’t care. But he’s going to find a great big surprise when he gets back.”
Africa Wittenborn snapped his fingers and the gathered guards immediately grabbed the scientist and Banner by the arms. The rest of them pulled Rosanne’s throne out from behind the table.
“I’ve been planning this for a long time,” he said, taking a proffered automatic pistol from one of the men. Banner fought weakly against the taut grips on his wrists, elbows, and shoulders, but to little effect. The regally robed man swung around to face his nearest relatives. Banner watched as the bemused face turned satanic. The dark eyes narrowed until they became slits, the wide nostrils flared like opening valves, the lips crept across the white teeth like two worms. He saw Wittenborn’s neck muscles tighten until it looked like he had two steel beams just under the skin.
Banner, for the first time in his life, had witnessed someone else going through the Change. It was Tony who was now the monster, the unthinking, unfeeling, mighty beast. But he was a creature created out of lethal hatred, and Banner knew that this hulk would have no trouble killing.
The gun in the lithe black hand rose. The sight bracketed the circular piece on the end of the barrel, and both were centered on the heaving chest of Rosanne Wittenborn.
“I don’t need you now,” he told his sister. “I don’t want you to see. I will cut off my past and only live the glorious free future. I will repent my past sins by ending your sins.”
The dark eyes shone, and the voice was without inflection. He absolutely meant every word he said. Banner suddenly remembered an ancient rite in which a disgraced member of a tribe gained retribution through the murder of one of his own family.
Moonlight reflected off the sleek gun, and it looked as if it were charged with electricity. Rosanne stared down the barrel, then began to wail wretchedly.
“Bruce, oh, Bruce, please! I don’t want to die! Why don’t you do something? You have the power! Why can’t you use it? Aren’t I enough? Can’t you, won’t you . . . ?” Her cried were transformed into grieving sobs.
Wittenborn raised his free hand to steady the automatic. He shook his head. “No,” he said to himself. “I have the power.” Then he began to chant. His words were those of ancient native prayers, filled with the promise of spiritual retribution.
The voice rose in volume. Rosanne’s head moved up and she pulled herself from side to side in the chair. At no time did her torso completely leave the sight of the gun barrel. Like a lustful eye, it stayed on her. Tony concentrated on his words, uttering each consonant, each vowel, each syllable with a savage pride.
The voice rose to a mighty howl, like a tribal wind screeching through the room with the force of a hurricane. Banner knew there were just moments left before the gun would fire. Then it would turn and fire again, then once more, until only Tony and the guards would remain alive. Banner fought the men holding him, but it didn’t help. He was not moved. No rage welled up inside him. No subconscious voice screamed. No floodgates opened. No currents connected. His mind sank into a pit of despair.
Banner looked up. His gaze locked with that of Rosanne Wittenborn. Her face was torn with hateful accusation. He would never see what she was seeing in that last moment.
But suddenly something on her face changed. An abrupt understanding seemed to infuse her every feature, and then her eyes screwed into his with a surreal intensity. No gaze could fill his brain like this. There was no such thing as another dimension, E.S.P., or even true love. Bruce Banner was a doctor and he didn’t believe in these things.
But someone else did.
Wittenborn stopped chanting. His finger tightened on the trigger. Rosanne shut her eyes and screamed out one word.
“Hulk!”
And Banner felt the floodgates open at last.
The sudden cry had shocked everyone in the room. Wittenborn, thinking that his gun had gone off, hastily dropped it. The scientist, thinking the same thing, fainted. The guards dropped to their knees and pulled out their weapons.
Only Rosanne remained in her previous position, silently watching Bruce Banner turn into the Hulk at her command.
In the split second before the Change came over him, the doctor realized the truth. The monster that shared his body was not the underside of his personality; it was not the underside of anything. It could not be killed or cured—it shared his mind. It could be harnessed, it could be chained, it might even be controlled, but it would not be stopped.
Most of the guards screamed and ducked. Tony stumbled back, his hands before his face, as the power of the metamorphosis threw Banner ten yards across the floor. The Hulk slid to a stop against the side of the table. The green hands and feet worked together. Quickly, the Hulk rose to his feet and charged. The guards simply watched themselves get mowed down by the rampaging freak. Tony fell to his knees and scrambled to get his gun again. His hands gripped it like a vise and he rose to face the bright green monster that stood before him.
Thirteen
Curtiss heard the explosion from out in the passageway. After the first gunshot he had expected the worst—still he’d felt he should proceed cautiously. But this tore it. If they
were using grenades inside the throne room, he would have to act fast, regardless of the consequences. He pulled his pistol up, raced over to the two massive doors, and, with a muscle wrenching kick, knocked them open.
Three guards flew by him, and Curtiss curled, dropped, and rolled. But the guards didn’t stop to fight. They flew, feet first, into the passageway, landing against the opposite wall with three sickening splats. Suddenly it was raining masonry. Curtiss skidded, crawled, and somersaulted to the side of the room while hunks of plaster and cement dropped around him.
He came to a brutal stop against the wall. Then pushed his head forward and saw what had once been the throne room. Men were strewn everywhere; the walls had gaping holes in them. The plexiglass cubes were shattered into a million pieces all over the floor, and the scientist’s machinery was leaping up and down. Pieces were flying off it like metal dandruff.
Curtiss moved out from his hiding place to get a better view. As he rounded one side of the stairwell, he spied Maxwell Wittenborn and his son lying on the floor. Rosanne was sitting on a throne, but she seemed to have fainted. Then a huge hunk of machinery exploded, and Curtiss saw an enormous green man, his face alight with wrath, emerge from the wreckage.
The monster moved toward the huddled form of Tony Wittenborn as Curtiss’s gun came up. He fired three times before the pistol jammed. The bullets whistled over the ivy-colored monster’s head. The green man ignored them, but the shots seemed to awaken Wittenborn. The young man turned his head, scrambled to his feet, and began to stumble toward Curtiss. The creature followed slowly, but with wrathful certainty.
Curtiss hit the gun with his fist twice, then tried firing. Nothing. He hit it again two times, then twice more. He aimed and pulled the trigger. This time the discharges fired true, headed right for the beast’s chest. One flew over a hastily dipped right shoulder, but another smashed into the monster’s neck. Curtiss looked beyond the approaching Wittenborn with disbelief. The bullet crashed against the green torso and careened across the ribs without leaving a mark. It looped behind the marching monstrosity, then bounced with a rattle across the tile.
A hysterical Tony was flying past the agent. Curtiss danced back and put out an arm to stop him. Wittenborn slapped at the arm, and the agent’s palm moved up, accidentally pressing against the man’s brow. His left forefinger bucked and there was a misty splash. Tony Wittenborn fell in a limp heap at Curtiss’s feet.
“Damn!” Curtiss screamed, falling to his knees. He had inadvertently activated his second weapon while he’d been unjamming the pistol. He hastily pushed the fallen form over and checked the pulse. Nothing. He looked at the face. Tony Wittenborn’s dying expression fit him. The open eyes stared out over a twisted mouth that was grimacing at the irony of his own death. Curtiss laid the now useless gun on the man’s chest.
He looked up to find the beast staring at him. Curtiss asked himself whether it would be worth trying to reach the acid sack behind his ear. But the innocent, almost concerned expression on the Hulk’s face defused this thought. The green thing grunted inquiringly. Curtiss, not knowing what else to do, shrugged.
“Don’t hurt him!” he heard someone shout. Both he and the Hulk turned toward Rosanne Wittenborn, who now sat erect in her chair. “It’s all right. He won’t hurt you unless you try to hurt me or him.”
“Fine,” said Curtiss incongruously. “Fine. That’s just fine.”
“Quickly, untie me. The General will get away!”
Curtiss sidled to the right of the Hulk, who lumbered behind, befuddled. The agent ran toward the still form of Maxwell Wittenborn while the Hulk went to Rosanne’s side like a trained elephant. One green finger reached down and broke the straps as if they were cardboard. She leaped up only to collapse again as her blood-starved arms and legs struggled to regain their strength. The Hulk lifted her up gently and brought her over to her father.
In the middle of the scientist’s chest, there was a dark hole, and a deep red liquid ran out of it. Curtiss looked over at the beauty in the beast’s arms.
“Tony,” she said with tragic certainty. “Just one shot.” She looked about to faint again as she gazed down at her dead father. Then she buried her face in the Hulk’s chest.
Curtiss suddenly noticed the quiet. He got up and looked around him. Outside, the airport blazed with activity. Beneath his feet, a floor down, twenty-odd slaves awaited their fates. But here it was as quiet as a tomb. Guards lay strewn about, machinery smoked and sputtered, and blood ran red among the leftover party favors.
“We’re not through yet,” he said to himself more than to the girl and her pet freak. And even as he spoke, dozens of machinegun-bearing guards appeared in the doorways. The agent and the Hulk saw them at the same time. Curtiss dived behind the table and the green beast quickly turned around as the weapons barked.
Tiny hunks of lead flew everywhere, ripping up the floor, chipping the marble, blasting the glass, and tearing strips off the wood. The only thing left unaffected by the havoc was the Hulk’s back. The small pieces of shrapnel whacked against him, but to the green man they felt like a harmless swarm of flies. Curtiss found a fallen rifle and began to return the fire blindly. There were so many guards that almost any return bullet would be bound to hit somebody.
Rosanne cowered as she lay in one massive green arm. With his free hand, the Hulk gripped the rim of the huge wooden table. Effortlessly, he raised the one-ton slab on its side. Then he moved behind it, shielding his angel with his body, and placed her beside the amazed Curtiss. Rosanne opened her mouth to speak, but the green hand stopped her. The Hulk turned to the agent and they shared one rational look. Its meaning was not lost on Curtiss.
“Get behind me,” he told the girl.
The Hulk nodded, then rose to his full height. With a growling grimace, he left the cover of the table.
“Hulk!” Rosanne screamed, throwing herself after him. Curtiss just managed to hold her back, with an arm wrapped around her waist.
“What’s the matter with you?” he demanded. “That thing’s our only chance now!”
Rosanne didn’t answer. She couldn’t. She didn’t know how she felt about anyone anymore. Her father was dead, her brother had tried to kill her, her love had disappeared. All that was left was the Hulk.
And he was walking directly into the line of fire. The guards moved forward, blazing away with their sub-machineguns as they came. The bullets made a light show around the solid eight feet of muscle. The muscles tightened into steel sheets. The Hulk stumbled, fell back, and slid, but he did not stop.
Tiny cracks appeared on his rock-like exterior. Little drops of blood began to seep out. His head came down, his arm came up. Amid the hail storm of death, the Hulk recognized his own mortality.
“They’ll tear him to pieces!” Rosanne cried in Curtiss’s face. “We’ve got to do something!”
“We’ll do something, all right,” said the agent. “When I move out into the open, you run behind me for the stairs. Whatever you do, stay behind me. We’ll get up those stairs and out of here.”
“But what about . . .”
“Believe me, Miss Wittenborn, if anyone can take care of himself, that thing can. Get ready.”
The Hulk swatted at the metal flies. But they were everywhere. The guards had arranged themselves in waves, so while one line reloaded, the other could keep the monster at bay. Their steady onslaught served not only to repel the Hulk—slowly and surely they were beginning to hurt him. The Hulk thought of his angel. He moved forward. The bullets pushed him back. He thought of his angel. He moved forward.
Curtiss crawled across the floor to where a machine-gun lay in the outstretched hand of a dead guard. He pulled it behind the table with no difficulty. All the guns were aimed at the Hulk.
“Get set,” he whispered harshly. He crawled to the edge of the table closest to the stairway. Some lead whirled by, but it had been slowed by the Hulk’s defense. “All right!” he cried. “Now!”
He leaped ou
t from behind the table. Rosanne hesitated for only a moment. Then she was up and they were both running for the balcony. Curtiss made it to the third stair before the bullet hit him. It deflected from the Hulk’s torso and struck him in the side. Rosanne kept running.
The agent fell forward, the banister knocking the gun out of his hand. Its clatter caught the Hulk’s attention. He turned to see his angel gaining the top steps while the agent crawled up behind her. But when his head had turned, all heads had turned. Out on the corner of his eye, the Hulk saw the guns move around toward the stairway.
His reaction was immediate. The two giant fists came up and then crashed to the floor with every ounce of strength he could muster. First, the marble tile splintered into flat, spinning chips. Then the wood braces beneath it cracked as the fists came down again with all their might. Next, the metal sheet, which served to soundproof the slaves’ quarters, tore open and fell in. Six feet of insulation simply disappeared in the concussion. The Hulk felt himself falling. His body twisted around, and then he hit concrete.
Kelli saw the ceiling crack before anyone else did. She had time for one exclamation before the beast came smashing down. He slammed onto the hay floor like thirty anvils dropped out of a ten-story window. But even before the dust had settled, the monster was up and running. He moved forward until the bars of the cages stopped him. With an absentminded swing of his hand, they ripped out of the ground and went spinning off like a revolving saw. Three hit the wall horizontally and stuck there like arrows.
The slaves struggled back to avoid the Hulk’s charge, but suddenly he stopped in the middle of a cell. He stared intently at the ceiling, and then the leg muscles stretched and he moved upward.
A gray wash covered him as the new layers of minerals turned to powder under his fists. The gritty concrete shattered, the insulation parted like the Red Sea, the metal tore open like cotton, the wood like foam, and then his fingers burst through the cool marble tiles.
He came up directly in the middle of the guards.
Marvel Novel Series 03 - The Incredible Hulk - Cry Of The Beast Page 15
