Hulk Page 9

  Half past two in the morning. God Almighty.

  “I’ve got to get some sleep,” he said to no one in particular, perhaps as much to convince himself of the necessity of it as anything else. As if to underscore for him just how tired he was, it seemed that an instant later that he had tossed on his nightclothes and climbed into bed. He didn’t remember the action at all. He felt as if his entire being was fading out and in, as if some of his actions were attributable to another person entirely. Which was, of course, ridiculous.

  He decided to be pragmatic about it: If this were indeed the case, certainly this “other person” was benign enough if the worst he was doing was getting Bruce’s pajamas on for him.

  Bruce pulled the sheet up, flopped onto his back . . . and lay there.

  And lay there.

  He stared at the ceiling for some time until he began to count the holes in the tiles, at which point he flipped himself over and mashed his head sideways into the pillow. And as he lay there, he slowly became aware that he could hear his own heart beating, or perhaps it was just his pulse, but either way it was there, just thudding, thudding, thudding along, and he started to wonder if by picturing Betty naked he could get his heart rate to increase, and if so, how fast could a person make his heart beat through sheer willpower, and was it perhaps possible to create an entire aerobics program designed around messages or even images that would be fed directly into the brain while the subject slept, causing the . . .

  He turned over onto his side, curling his legs up and up until he was almost in a fetal position, and wasn’t it interesting how many descriptions of ideas derived terms from reproduction, ranging from an embryonic idea to a notion that arrived stillborn.

  Bruce looked at his clock.

  It was 3:30.

  He knew he hadn’t slept. His mind had continued to career from one notion to the next. Perhaps . . . perhaps what he needed to do was just tire out his eyes. Yes, that might work. Clinging to that forlorn hope, he sat up and started pulling out a couple of sheets of data from the nightstand. He didn’t even turn on the table lamp, instead preferring to work by the light of the moon. That seemed the ideal way to hasten the ocular exhaustion process.

  In a few minutes, more data sheets joined the others, and within an hour the bed was covered with them. It seemed to Bruce that the only noise existing in the entirety of the world at that very instant was the insistent scratching of his pencil upon the pad—and unfortunately the noise was starting to annoy the hell out of him.

  “Damn,” he said and threw the pencil down, and decided, All right, fine. First he had tried to sleep, and then he had endeavored to trick himself into sleeping. There was only one thing left to do: stay awake.

  So he simply sat there in bed, staring at his reflection in the screen of the television that was perched on the dresser opposite him. He was just going to wait until the sun came up and start the new day. There was nothing else for it.

  He continued to sit there, fighting to stay awake, and naturally by the time the glowing numbers of the digital clock read 4:48, his eyes were fluttering closed. Reality and fantasy blurred for him and he heard the haunting, echoing sound of footsteps and a dog whimpering somewhere, and a small boy, four years old, played with a pair of stuffed toys with long beaks, floppy ears, and oversize feet, and his little voice squealed in innocent joy as he lifted the toys into the air before crashing them back down to Earth, and he continued to make noises, small shouts of surprise coupled with his own sound effects of crashes and skids, and as he moved the toys about they took on lives not exactly of their own, but like aspects of his life, and they started to move ever so slightly, winking and nodding and smiling, and then they frowned because they, along with Bruce, heard voices, adult, human voices, a man and the woman in the background, but he couldn’t make out what they were saying, only that their voices were raised to a fever pitch, and there was yelling, and an unearthly, primal scream emerged from the boy’s mouth . . .

  And Bruce was up, out of bed, as if warned by some inner system that bordered on the supernatural. Without understanding why, he moved to the window, and the figure was back again.

  It must have rained lightly in the intervening time, because a fog had settled over the area. Even through the mist, though, he could see that the man appeared to be standing a little taller, looking even a bit stronger, as if—fanciful and ludicrous as it sounded—he had drawn some sort of demonic psychic strength from the inner torment rampaging through Bruce’s sleeping mind.

  You’re losing it, thought Bruce, and he slammed the blinds closed. You are a rational man, a man of science, and if there’s some freak out there casing your house, you confront him on it or call the police, but you don’t start concocting demented notions of psychic vampires. He took several deep breaths to cleanse his mind and his soul, and then peered out through the blinds once more, separating the metal slats with his left hand while, with his right, he reached for the telephone in order to call the police.

  The mists were swirling and undulating outside as if they were themselves sentient, and in the fog, walking away, he caught a glimpse of the man once more, surrounded by three dogs of varying sizes. For half a heartbeat, Bruce thought one of them might have been that poodle he’d seen back at the lab. Or it could just have been a small dog. Whatever it was, an instant later it, along with the other two dogs and their master, had been swallowed up by the fog and were gone.

  A man walking his dogs.

  Bruce Krenzler, doctor, scientist, brilliant theoretician, had allowed himself to be spooked out by a bad dream and a guy taking his mutts for an early morning walk.

  He wondered what in the world Betty would have thought of such a thing . . . and that turned his thoughts to Betty and to Talbot, which irked him.

  So Bruce climbed back into bed, curled up with the utter conviction that attempting to get any sleep tonight was a complete waste of time . . . and promptly fell into a deep, dreamless slumber.

  The dog walker unlocked a padlock on the gate of a chain-link fence in front of the small weedy yard of a run-down row house. The dogs ran in ahead of him, snapping and growling in low, unpleasant tones. Then they turned and looked at him expectantly, with an air that seemed to indicate they’d just as soon devour him as anything else if they weren’t sated. But he was prepared; he knew his babies all too well. He reached into his coat and pulled out strips and chunks of meat and old vegetables from a bag that had been sealed to prevent the dogs from smelling its contents, and tossed the food to them. They snapped it up immediately, fighting with each other over the scraps that fell to the ground unclaimed. As the three canines—a mastiff, a pit bull, and a poodle with rotting teeth—busied themselves, the dog walker unlocked the padlock and entered the ramshackle house that sat like a pustule upon the face of the neighborhood. It also happened to have once belonged to Benny Goodman; it was amazing how quickly a home could go downhill.

  The interior was illuminated by light from a single bulb hanging from a bare wire in the ceiling. To call the interior furnishings decor would have been an insult to the French language. There had been other furniture there before, but the dog walker had gotten rid of it all. It had borne a passing resemblance to furnishings from another time in his life, and he had no desire to be reminded of it. All that remained was a sagging, stained mattress in one corner, and on the opposite side of the room a long worn table, with stacks of papers, books, journals, and a small work area. The dog walker removed his overcoat and tossed it on a pile of clothing off to one side that included his janitor’s uniform, then went to the workstation and shoved a pile of material to one side. This revealed a gleaming, superthin notebook computer.

  David Banner opened the screen, pressed a button, and sat down. The light from the screen illuminated his face, causing him to resemble a grinning Halloween jack-o’-lantern. On the wall behind the computer screen was a bulletin board filled with images and clippings: various scenes from Bruce Banner’s career, as well
as yearbook and graduation photos.

  Banner sat there for a moment, pensive, taut as piano wire, looking as if he wanted to explode out of his skin with the urgency of his many pent-up desires. Then he raised a hand and touched one of the photos.

  “Bruce,” he said softly, “my Bruce.”

  He pulled open a drawer and removed from it a small container in which a hair had been soaking in a specially designed solution. Banner held it up, his eyes narrowing as he studied it, and then grinned approvingly with a smile that would have chilled any onlooker. He placed the container down, twisted off the top, and then used a pair of tweezers to deftly remove the hair from the solution. It would have been an impressive display for anyone watching, who would likely have assumed from appearances that the old man with the graying hair and the wild-eyed look was a burned-out alcoholic who couldn’t keep his hand steady if his next drink depended upon it.

  Not in this case, though. There was no hesitation to his movements as, with practiced confidence, he placed the hair onto a glass plate and chopped it into tiny pieces with a razor.

  He then pulled out a small test tube from a nearby rack. The tube was filled partway with a milky substance, and he dropped several pieces of the hair into it, saving the rest for possible future use.

  He allowed them to soak for a few moments, then put the test tube inside a device that he called a DNA splitter. It had taken him ages to develop it from assorted parts he’d been able to scrounge, but its crude and humble roots didn’t limit his confidence that it would work. He checked the connections to his computer to make certain it was plugged into the correct data port, and then turned on the splitter. The apparatus hummed and vibrated. A wire ran to the superthin notebook computer.

  The night was still save for his tapping upon the keyboard, and the occasional sound of dogs snarling outside.

  accident . . . or fate?

  Bruce Krenzler was reminded of the old gag about the elderly man complaining that when he was a kid, his life had been so harsh that he had to make a five-mile journey to school that was uphill both ways. It was a cute joke, but a lot less amusing to him now, considering that the bike ride he undertook to get to work was no less daunting than the one from work, since he did indeed have to go uphill once again in order to get there. Granted, it was a different uphill, but his legs didn’t know or care about the difference.

  And because he hadn’t slept particularly well, his endurance wasn’t exactly up to snuff. By the time he made it to the lab, he’d developed a stiff pain in his right rib cage and felt as if the very act of taking a breath was a huge hardship. He parked the bike, locked it, then stood for a few minutes pulling himself together.

  When he entered the lab, he saw something that didn’t exactly cause his heart to take flight. There were Talbot and Betty, talking and appearing to be awfully damned chummy. He wondered, not for the first time, just how late their casual dinner had gone. Not that it was any of his business, of course, but still . . .

  “Bruce,” said Betty, “Glen stopped by—”

  “What’s he doing here?” Bruce blurted out, and promptly hated the way that sounded. So accusatory, so . . . juvenile. But he couldn’t help himself.

  . . . And why should you help yourself? . . . The voice within was bubbling with barely restrained anger and resentment. She likely keeps comparing you to him. She probably thinks he’s superior to you because he lets himself get worked up over every damned thing or another, whereas you, the adult, you keep control of yourself . . . and she resents you. Is that fair? It most certainly is not. Why do you tolerate it? And why in the world do you tolerate him? He has no business here. . . .

  “You know, Dr. Krenzler, we’ve never had the chance to get to know each other properly,” said Glen affably.

  Bruce felt a pounding behind his eyes. . . . Leave. Make him leave. Show him who’s boss in this facility. This is your place, not his. Make him leave . . .

  “That’s because I don’t want to get to know you, properly or improperly. Leave,” Bruce said with a great formality that was in sharp contrast to the rage he kept buried within.

  He could see from Betty’s expression that she was startled by the sharpness of his tone. “Bruce . . .” she began.

  . . . Now. Now, damn it. Make him leave now . . .

  “Now,” said Bruce.

  Talbot didn’t look the least put out. “Hey, no worries,” he said, affecting a faux Australian accent that he doubtlessly thought was clever. He approached the doorway where Bruce had been standing like a statue. Bruce moved slightly to allow Talbot room to pass, and then Talbot turned so that they were almost nose-to-nose, safely out of Betty’s hearing. He kept a smile plastered on his face, this self-proclaimed “big fan” of Bruce Krenzler, but he spoke in a rush, the words tumbling one over the other as he said in a low voice, “But let me give you a little heads up. There’s a hairbreadth between a friendly offer and a hostile takeover. . . . Kill him . . . I’ve done my homework. The stuff you’re doing here is dynamite. . . . Smash his face in. Smash him . . . Think: GI’s embedded with technology that makes them instantly repairable on the battlefield, in our sole possession. That’s a hell of a business.” . . . Puny bastard. Show him who’s in charge. Smash him, destroy him, rip him limb from . . .

  With Herculean mental effort, Bruce resisted the insistent voice that rattled through his mind with such force that it almost made him strike out at Talbot, even though Talbot would likely have been able to break him in half. “That’s not what we’re doing here,” said Banner, focusing with effort. “We’re doing the basic science, for everyone—”

  Talbot shook his head. He acted as if he were looking at some form of lower organism instead of one of the most well-established and respected researchers on the West Coast. “You know,” he mused, “I’m going to write a book. I’m going to call it ‘When Stupid Ideals Happen to Smart, Penniless Scientists.’. . . You don’t have to take that! Smash him! Now! Put your damned fist through his face, you pathetic loser! . . . In the meantime, Bruce, you’ll be hearing from me.” . . . And you’ll be hearing from me, you vomitous little slug! . . .

  He felt a slight pain in his right arm and took several deep breaths, calming himself. Although he wasn’t certain why, he was convinced that if he didn’t do so, there would be a good deal more pain, and . . . and far worse things. Far worse. His vision clouded over for a moment, as if he were fighting a massive migraine. When it cleared, Talbot was gone . . . and Betty was in his field of vision, staring at him with a mixture of confusion and amazement.

  “That went well, don’t you think?” he said, slapped his hands together briskly, and added, “Who’s for making history today?”

  The helicopter was waiting for Talbot at the small, private airport, just as General Ross had said it would be. A soldier was standing there waiting for him. Talbot saluted him, snapping off the kind of professional gesture that indicated an army man, even if he was clad in civilian garb. You can take the man out of the army, thought Talbot as he clambered into the chopper.

  The pilot nodded to him, indicated that Talbot should strap in, and, the moment that was done, the blade speed increased and the chopper rose skyward. Moments later it was angling off toward Desert Base. Talbot knew that Thunderbolt Ross was angry. That didn’t bother Talbot at all. He knew the old man all too well, and knew how to manipulate him as easily as he did anyone else. Ross had his agenda and Talbot had his, and Talbot knew whose was going to come out on top.

  Betty couldn’t believe that she was jealous of Glen Talbot again, but apparently such was the case. Not enough that she felt he had more of a connection with her father than she did. Now she was confronted with the fact that, in all her time, all her involvement with Bruce, he had always remained on such an infuriatingly even keel that she often wondered if he were fully human. Yet here, after merely his second meeting with Talbot, Bruce had almost looked ready to punch the guy in the face. Not that she had any doubts about who would win a f
istfight. Glen Talbot, civilian or no, was trained in combat and self-defense. Bruce Krenzler was trained in science and the arts. If it came to a witty repartee contest, or a competition to name all the elements on the periodic table, Bruce was a lock. Hand-to-hand, it was a very different story.

  In any event, as ludicrous as it seemed, she was a bit envious that Glen Talbot was able to inspire such emotional reactions from Bruce when she herself could only prompt passive detachment at best.

  She tried to put it from her mind as she made preparations for the next experiment. A new frog—named Rick by the hopelessly attached Harper—sat in the gammasphere place of honor that had seen so many of his brethren go splat. The readings were steady. She glanced across the room at Bruce, and saw that he was totally focused. . . .

  No. No, he wasn’t. He seemed distracted, and kept glancing toward the door that Talbot had left through. Betty didn’t need to be a mind reader to see just what, or who, Bruce was concerned about. She didn’t just want to let it hang there. She cared about Bruce too much. Plus, having one’s head scientist not paying attention to what was going on in such a delicate environment could lead to fairly nasty consequences.

  Still, maybe there wasn’t time . . .

  Then the time factor became moot as Harper, at his monitoring station, called out, “Okay, fifteen seconds. We’re set for doubled exposure,” only to mutter a curse a moment later, followed by a frustrated, “um . . . hmm . . . well.”

  Betty headed over toward Harper and saw a blinking message on a monitor screen that read “Interlock Negative.” Well, she certainly knew what that meant: Among other things, they were going to have a brief delay before matters proceeded any further. That being the case, she had no reason not to take a few moments to speak to Bruce and get a handle on the situation.

  “Hey, Harper, there a problem?” asked Bruce.

  Harper sighed as Betty walked past him. “The interlock switch flaked again. It’ll just be a sec.”