Hulk by Peter David (e reader manga TXT) 📕

was to have a near-death accident and wind up in the infirmary for overnight observation.

The world blurred around him, and he released his conscious mind, enjoying the peace that slumber would most assuredly bring him.

He had no idea how much time passed. All he knew was that, from somewhere very far away, he heard a whimpering and growling. It took him long moments to sort out the reality of the noise from his state of reverie, and then slowly he forced his eyes open. The lamp light from the parking lot spilled in through the window. It was as if his dream world had somehow leaked over into the waking world.

Sitting across the room from him was the man who had been standing outside his window the other night, the man whom Bruce had dismissed as being any sort of threat. Yet here he was, big as life, and Bruce couldn’t tell whether he was dreaming up his worst fears, or whether his “paranoia” had been based in fact. And there were the dogs as well, the three of them, including that weird poodle. Seeing it close-up now, Bruce knew it was definitely the same one that he had confronted the other night.

None of them were snarling, though. They were quiet, even content to be in this place with this man. He was absentmindedly petting the head of the mastiff, which was making a soft sound in its throat, almost like a cat’s purr. Bruce felt threatened, but no threat was being offered. Again it was that dreamlike quality of detachment, knowing that there was an imminent threat, but not being worried that the danger provided any long-term consequences. It was the wrong man, and certainly the wrong creatures, in the wrong place at the wrong time, and yet somehow the whole thing felt . . . right. Familiar. Even comforting in a perverse way.

And then the man spoke. Despite his outwardly frightening appearance, his voice was surprisingly soft, even gentle.

“Your name is not Krenzler. It’s Banner.”

Until that moment, Bruce had still half-believed that he was dreaming. But the voice was all too real, and penetrated the haze that was draped around his consciousness. Shaking off the last vestige of sleep, he sat up, fully cognizant for the first time that what he was seeing wasn’t a product of his sleeping imagination. The words, however, made no sense. “What?”

“Your name. It’s Banner. Bruce Banner.” He hesitated and then spoke again, with an affection that chilled the scientist for no reason he could discern. “Bruce.”

“How did you get in here?” asked Bruce.

“I work here now, in the labs,” said the man. “The late shift. It keeps me close to you. You always work late yourself, with your friend, Miss Ross.”

Bruce could see now the coat the old man was wearing, hanging partly open, and sure enough, he was wearing the clothes of someone on the custodial staff. But the man’s apparel was of secondary importance to Bruce. What caught his attention was the way the old man had said “Miss Ross.” The barely contained anger, even resentment. A warning rang in his head, but it was hard for him to focus on that when there was so much else vying for his attention.

Bruce started to sit up, but got tangled in the wires from the various monitoring devices, not to mention the IV drip they’d introduced just to make sure he didn’t become dehydrated.

“No, please,” said the man. “You’re not well.” He went to Bruce, unsorted the jumble of twisted wires as he spoke. “You’ve had an accident,” he said in a soothing singsong, as if cooing to an infant in a cradle. “You’re wondering why you’re still alive, aren’t you? You’re thinking: there’s something inside, something different, inexplicable.”

The old man might have been crazy, but the movements of his fingers amidst the array of wires had been swift and sure. They now hung freely from one another. He stepped back and said, “I can help you understand, if you’ll let me . . . if you’ll forgive me.”

I’m dealing with a lunatic. He thinks I’m somebody else.

“Look, mister, I’m sure I have nothing to forgive you for,” Bruce said, keeping his voice calm and level. It wasn’t all that difficult, really, having had years of practice at it. “So, maybe you’d better just go. Please, I’ll be fine.”

The old man shoved his face toward Bruce’s, and an image leaped unbidden to Bruce’s mind. It was the old man’s face, but younger, much younger, almost like his own, and bigger, so very much bigger, and he was shoving some sort of stuffed toys at Bruce, and the toys looked familiar, all of it looked familiar, and he was shoving a couple of toys into Bruce’s face. . . .

“You must know,” the old man said insistently, his gravelly voice snapping Bruce back to the present day. “You don’t want to believe it, but I can see it in your eyes”—and he was scrutinizing Bruce’s face—“eyes so much like your mother’s. Of course, you’re my flesh and blood, but then . . .” His voice dropped down even further, and his breath was a foul thing filling Bruce’s nose, so much so that Bruce had to fight the urge to vomit. “. . . you’re something else, too, aren’t you? My physical son, but the child of my mind, too.”

The old man was between Bruce’s hand and the call button that would summon the nurse from the front desk. “You’re lying,” said Bruce, which probably weren’t the best words he might have chosen, considering he was trying to talk sense to a nutcase. But he was understandably disconcerted by the circumstances. “My parents died when I was a small boy.”

“That’s what they wanted you to believe,” the old man said intensely. He rose from the bed and started to pace, and Bruce could have gone for the call button at that point. But the old man’s movements, the fervor with which