Hulk, Peter David [best ereader for academics .TXT] 📗

it, so caught up was he in the hysterics of his tantrum.

Edith Banner let out one loud, horrified yell, and fainted dead away.

The heavy thud of her body hitting the ground caught young Bruce completely by surprise, enough to cause him to stop crying. The bubbling of his body promptly stopped and his crying was replaced by wide-eyed whimpering as he saw his mother lying insensate upon the floor.

David looked from his son to his wife and back again, and saw a perfect opportunity. He pointed a quavering finger at his son and snarled, “You did this, Bruce! You hurt your mommy!”

“N-no,” Bruce stammered out, his lower lip trembling, his eyes like saucers and his skin the color of curdled milk.

“Yes!” shot back David, advancing on the child, stepping over the prostrate body of the boy’s mother. “Because you yelled! Because you cried! Because you weren’t a big boy!

“See? See what happens when you get upset? Bad things happen! Very bad things happen when you get upset! Bad things happen to your mommy, and to you! And if you let yourself get upset, even more bad things will happen! Do you understand? Even more bad things!”

“I’m sorry . . . I’m sorry!” And Bruce’s chest started to convulse as his breathing speeded up. He looked on the verge of apoplexy.

David stabbed his finger in the boy’s face. “You’re doing it again! You’re getting upset! You’re going to start crying or yelling or shouting! Don’t do it, or more bad things will happen! Maybe your mommy will even die, and it will be all your fault! Do you want that? DO YOU?” And when the boy frantically shook his head, his father continued, “When you start getting angry, you just smash the anger! Do you hear? Smash the anger! Don’t let it take you! Smash it! Understand? Are you going to let the anger get you? Are you?”

Bruce shook his head even faster, so violently that it looked as if it was going to topple off his neck. He wiped the tears from his face with the backs of his hands.

Very softly, David knelt down and held the boy’s face between his rough hands. “Good. Very . . . very good boy. Now lie down, go to sleep.”

“But Mommy . . .”

“I’ll take care of Mommy. I’ll make sure she’s okay.” He lifted Edith to a sitting position and, a moment later, shifted her weight so he was cradling her in his arms. “Daddy will take care of everything. You go to bed . . . and remember what we discussed.”

Without another word, young Bruce scrambled into bed. David had already secreted the tube of blood in his pocket, and he clicked off the light. It left Bruce in darkness, except for his night-light on the opposite wall, which was a small, green bulb. David exited the room, carrying Edith, while Bruce stared raptly at the green glow and burned his father’s words into the deepest recesses of his memory.

When Edith came to, she was lying on her bed, and David was staring down at her.

“What happened?” she whispered. “What in the world happened? Did you . . . did you see Bruce? And . . . you were taking blood from him . . .”

She tried to sit up, but his strong hand kept her in place. “David.” She endeavored to shove away his arm. “David! Tell me now! Tell me, or I’ll take him away. I swear I’ll—”

“If you do, you doom him.”

She stared at him uncomprehendingly. “What—?”

He licked his suddenly dry lips, and said, “I’m the only chance he has of being normal. But I have to continue my research. And you”—he pointed at her fiercely—“you have to shut up. You have to keep it to yourself, or they’ll take him away from us, lock him in a room, and dissect him. Me, too, for that matter. If you say you love him . . .”

“Of course I love him,” Edith said desperately. “He’s my son!”

“He’s more mine than yours. That much is certain.” He drew in a deep breath and let it out, rising from the edge of the bed and wiping away a coat of sweat from his forehead. “Edith, I had . . . have . . . theories. Things I wanted to work on involving mutations . . . mutagens. Tinkering on a genetic level that would allow the body to heal itself . . .”

“I don’t understand,” she said. “What does that have to do with anything . . . ?”

He turned to face her and, his words laden with the heaviness that can only come from a great unburdening, he told her, “They wouldn’t let me use human subjects.”

She stared for a long moment, her growing disbelief obvious. “You . . .” She couldn’t speak above a whisper. “You . . . experimented on Bruce?”

He rolled his eyes. “No, of course not.”

“Then . . . what . . . ?” And then she got it, her hand fluttering to her mouth. “On yourself. Oh, my God, David. You . . . you did something to yourself.”

“Yes.”

“Before we conceived Bruce. Conducted experiments on yourself.”

“Yes.”

“Oh, my God,” and she looked in the general direction of Bruce’s bedroom. “He . . . you passed it on to him.”

“Yes,” he said once more.

Edith turned to him, grabbing at his arms. “Get it out of him! Whatever’s been done to him, cure him! You’ve got to!”

“And I intend to,” David lied to her.

“Is it possible?”

“Yes,” he lied once more. And now it was his turn to take her by the arms and draw her close. “But it stays between us. Otherwise . . .”

“They’ll take him away. I know. And you’re right. And I’ll trust you, David, to do right by Bruce, because I know you love him. It explains so much . . . so much . . .” And then she looked up at him, her eyes flashing fire. “If you fail him, David—or