Hulk

before I came out here, General,” Billings told him. “According to the professor, the farther away the better . . . and we’re not sure how much time we have.”
“I make it twelve to fifteen minutes from now,” Wren said helpfully.
“Wonderful. Who in blue blazes did this?”
And then he knew, and before anyone could respond, he answered himself. “Banner. David Banner.”
“He was the last one logged into that station, sir,” said Wren.
“Billings! Get my wife taken out of there, and bring her and Betty to safekeeping. I’m commandeering one of the jeeps and going after Banner.”
Betty apparently heard that, because she dashed over to her father and cried out, “Daddy! I want to come with you!”
“You can’t, sweetheart.”
“Please! Please!”
The child was bordering on hysterics, and Ross didn’t have any time to stand around and discuss it. “Fine!” he said, and practically tossed her into the back of the jeep. He pointed to one jeep filled with MPs and shouted, “You! With me! Billings, can you and Wren get another jeep to get my wife out of here?”
“One’s on the way, sir. ETA, one minute.”
“Excellent!”
Ross gunned the jeep forward, with Betty holding on in the back and calling out “Daddy! This is fun!” as the jeep sped away toward the Banner house.
Ross hurtled down the road, chewing himself out for not having anticipated this. He should have had MPs escort Banner down to his workstation, should have made certain the fool didn’t try something exactly like this. Ross knew that nothing would come from berating himself, but nonetheless he was furious because, in his confidence and arrogance, he had allowed it to happen.
He checked in the rearview mirror; the MPs were right behind him. Just ahead of him, down the road, was Banner’s house. He saw Banner’s car parked outside at an odd angle, and there was shouting coming from within. And suddenly someone cried out as Ross pulled the jeep up to curbside.
From the backseat, Betty observed it all without comprehending any of it. Then she peered toward the top window of the house and saw a little boy there. She started to bring up her hand and wave very tentatively.
And then, suddenly, from far, far in the distance behind her, the air was split by an ear-shattering explosion, and the sky filled with light, and that was when the screaming truly began.

awakening
The screams came this night as they came many a night. The gray-haired woman sprinted down the hallway with a speed that belied her years and threw open a door. She flipped on a light and teenage Bruce Krenzler sat up, staring around blankly. His hair in disarray, his pajama shirt soaked through with sweat, Bruce Krenzler clearly had no idea why the woman who he called Mom had suddenly taken it upon herself to burst into his room.
The light from the hallway revealed the room of a typical teenager, with posters festooning the walls. Except instead of posters of rock bands and the like, they were posters that featured the entire play Hamlet in tiny print and a photo of Albert Einstein sticking out his tongue. The furniture was simple and unadorned and surprisingly neat—except for the bed, where the sheets were twisted into knots.
“Another nightmare, Bruce,” said Mrs. Krenzler. It was part explanation and part question.
Slowly he nodded, comprehending, but he clearly wasn’t going to be of much help when it came to specifics. “I don’t know; I don’t remember,” he admitted.
His adoptive mother smiled patiently. “Well, that’s probably better then, isn’t it,” she said cheerfully.
Bruce, squinting against the light from the hallway, said, “Probably. Yeah.” Whereupon he rolled over and fell back into a deep—and, mercifully, dreamless this time—sleep.
Betty Ross woke up screaming.
She sat up in bed, her chest heaving, gasping for air like a nearly drowned swimmer. Her long, dark hair hung in her face and she reflexively pushed it back. The images were fading quickly, but it didn’t matter; she knew what they were. She’d had the dream so many times that they were second nature to her.
She’d once tried telling her father about them, but he’d simply said dismissively, “It’s just dreams, Betty. They don’t mean anything. There’s too many real things happening in the world to worry about things that are unreal.”
And, as was usually the case with her father, that was that.
He hadn’t always been that way. When Mom had been around . . .
She knocked that train of thought right off its rails. What point was there in dwelling on it? It would just end up making her miserable, and if her father provided her little consolation when it came to dreams, he was of even less use when it came to talking about Mom.
Her nose wrinkled as she smelled eggs being cooked up downstairs. That was unexpected. Dad wasn’t usually one for making breakfast. Usually he’d just be off to work, leaving Betty on her own to get to school. At most, she’d see him heading out the door and barely have a chance to wave to him.
She glanced out the window, saw it was going to be a nice, sunny Maryland day, and then trotted down the stairs while tossing on her robe.
“Dad?” she called.
“Down here,” he said somewhat unnecessarily.
She walked into the kitchen and skidded to a halt, caught off guard.
There was a well-groomed young man wearing an ROTC army uniform, and he was the one cooking breakfast. Thunderbolt Ross sat at the table, sipping coffee, and he gestured for her to come in. The young man turned and grinned at her. He had black hair, slicked back, and a pencil-thin mustache that he probably thought made him look older.
Caught off guard, Betty was still wearing the very short nightgown she’d slept in and her hair was in disarray. Her robe had been hanging open and she pulled it more tightly around herself with one hand while making vague and futile efforts with the other to pull her hair into