Hulk by Peter David (e reader manga TXT) 📕

feral intensity, as if seeking something to tear apart with its massive bare hands.

Acting as one, they whipped out their guns and started firing. The Hulk flinched, more from the noise than anything else, and perhaps propelled by a residual memory that these little flying pellets were supposed to be lethal. They were, as it turned out, anything but. At most they were vaguely irritating, bouncing harmlessly off his green hide, and the Hulk made wide, sweeping gestures with his arms as if brushing away a swarm of wasps.

. . . hurt little hurt hurt them . . .

Somewhere within the primal recesses of his brain, the Hulk make the connection between the small, stinging bits of lead and the men who were standing there with hunks of metal in their hands pointed at him. They were a good ten feet away, but the distance afforded them no protection at all as the Hulk vaulted it in one jump and plowed through them, tossing them aside with a swing of each arm. One went down with a loud crack, breaking several of his ribs. Another tried to leap out of the way and got caught in the sweep of an arm that was like a tree trunk, only harder, and was sent flying across the lawn to land in a heap some yards away.

Talbot said nothing. Curled up on the broken couch, trying to make himself as small as possible so as to avoid being noticed, he wasn’t even breathing. To him, the pounding of his heart was too loud.

He needn’t have worried. With the end of the immediate attack, the Hulk forgot about them completely. Instead his nostrils flared as he sniffed the air

. . . Betty Betty Betty . . .

as her name pounded through his mind. There was no longer any connection to the immediate threat from his father, no clear comprehension that a woman named Betty whom he loved was in mortal danger. Instead it was simply a word he associated with a certain feeling, like hunger or pain or anger, and it was a feeling that was uppermost in what passed for his thought processes

. . . Betty . . .

and it would have been impossible for Bruce Banner, with all his analytical ability, to decide whether the Hulk knew what to do next because—his senses hyperaccelerated by the transformation—he was actually able to pull Betty’s scent from the air, or because he was functioning off some rudimentary memory of a happier time.

Ultimately, Bruce’s talent for analysis had about as much relevance to the Hulk’s actions as a remora’s presence might have on which direction a shark decided to swim. The creature glanced around for a moment as street lights lit up around him. The lamps startled him for a moment, but just as quickly they too were forgotten.

The ground beneath the Hulk’s feet began to rumble, as if an earthquake was approaching, and the Hulk’s breathing began to increase. His entire body tensed, he crouched, threw his head back and let out an explosive howl of unfettered primal joy. And then he was airborne. The launch itself occurred with concussive force. All up and down the block, houses trembled and dishes shattered and people staggered around thinking that there had been a seismic shift of some kind.

And there had been. But it had been a shift in the very nature of what man was capable of achieving. It had been the unleashing of a force that was, in its own way, as devastating as the dropping of Fat Man and Little Boy on Hiroshima and Nagasaki. They had lived through it, and didn’t even know what it was that they had lived through, nor did they understand just how lucky they were.

Nor did the Hulk understand anything, as he arced through the air for two miles at a clip, before angling downward, striking the ground at some new and equally vulnerable location—highway, delta, railroad track, wherever—then hurtling skyward once more. Only two things registered in his mind:

. . . Betty . . . smash . . . Betty . . .

But whether that meant the Hulk was going to destroy anything that might be threatening Betty or whether he was intent on smashing her himself, no one could have said.

The starlight played across his skin, causing bizarre patterns to emerge as he melted into the night.

dogs of war

The thing Betty Ross loved most about the cabin was the quiet. No sirens, no babies crying or people shouting. All was calm and serene. The only thing around were the noises of the wildlife, and admittedly there had been a time when that had been disconcerting. Many were the nights when she was startled awake by screech owls or howling coyotes. Perhaps “quiet” was something of a misnomer at that, for the sounds of life in the forest were almost constant. Before too long, however, Betty had not only adjusted to them, but she’d come to appreciate and enjoy them. In fact, the steady backdrop of animal noises routinely lulled her to sleep, and this night was no exception.

She had built a nice, roaring fire in the fireplace and then, tossing on sweats and a T-shirt, had curled up on the rug to watch it and think about all that had occurred. She knew it was entirely possible that an MP might show up outside the cabin at any time. It wasn’t as if her father didn’t know about the place. But considering that she had ditched her unwanted shadow in a spirited car chase that involved extensively ignoring the speed limit and, most entertainingly, a high-velocity blast through a railroad crossing just under the descending barrier, it was entirely possible that she had sent a message to the army even they were capable of comprehending.

Her thoughts didn’t stray far from Bruce and his father as she lay there, contemplating the flames.