Batman: No Man's Land Page 8

  “Never much cared for oysters, Mr. Cobblepot,” Garrett said.

  “Don’t interrupt, my lad,” Penguin snapped.

  Garrett had shut his mouth. He was good at following orders, he knew that.

  “The business opportunities for the enterprising entrepreneur in this forsaken urban sprawl will be lucrative. A man—a smart man—could find himself rich beyond the dreams of avarice, richer than a Bruce Wayne, richer even, dare I say it, than a Lex Luthor!” Penguin arched the eyebrow above his monocle, making certain Garrett was following. And Garrett was; Penguin was talking about being really rich.

  “Rich is good,” Garrett said.

  Penguin’s eyebrow had fallen, and the cigarette holder clamped between his teeth canted downward. Penguin frowned, his small and dark eyes focusing intently on Garrett for a moment longer. He was barely half Garrett’s height, though almost Garrett’s weight, with a long nose that tapered to an almost painfully sharp point at its end. For a moment, Garrett was afraid Penguin would peck at him with the nose.

  “Not the sharpest stick in the bundle, are you, Garrett?” Penguin finally asked.

  “No, sir, Mr. Cobblepot.”

  “But you follow orders, I’m told, and are strong, yes?”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Cobblepot.”

  “And manners are always a plus.” Penguin sighed. “Very well, Garrett. Stick with Fowler, he’ll tell you what we’ll need.”

  Tonight, what Penguin needed was someone to prove if the bridges and river were mined. Fowler’s plan—and once he had explained it to Garrett it had made a kind of sense—had been to find people in the No Man’s Land, people all alone that no one would miss. Then Garrett and Fowler would take these people—one at a time, of course—and put them on the bridges or whatnot, or throw them into the water. And if the people blew up, well, then, they would have not only proven that such routes were, indeed, mined, but they would have also disarmed one of those same mines in the process.

  “Disarmed?” Garrett asked.

  “Well, detonated, more like,” Fowler said. “But the principle is the same.”

  “I don’t know,” Garrett said slowly. “It seems kind of… mean.”

  “You think it’s mean?”

  “Kinda, yeah.”

  “Would you rather it be you?”

  Garrett shook his head.

  “So then, if it isn’t you, how is that mean?” Fowler asked.

  “Gimme a sec.”

  “Garrett, you’re a stump, you know that? Come on, let’s go find Murphy, then we can get to work.”

  * * * * *

  Garrett, Fowler, and Murphy waited in cover by the Robert Kane Memorial Bridge, watching the shadows growing longer as the night fell. Garrett was cold, and kept opening and closing his hands in an attempt to get them warm again. The gloves Penguin had given him were too small—almost all gloves were too small for Garrett—and he’d traded them to Slick Cindy three weeks back for two issues of Girl World. Far as Garrett was concerned, he’d come out on top in that deal.

  “There’s one,” Murphy whispered. “That guy, there. Think he’ll do?”

  Garrett looked where Murphy was indicating, even though he knew darn well Murphy wasn’t talking to him, but to Fowler. Murphy was just another of Penguin’s crew and had worked with Fowler before the NML Murphy had made it plain he thought Garrett was a stump, too, and always ignored him when they were out on business for Penguin.

  Murphy was pointing at a man maybe two hundred yards away, ambling along the embankment of the Gotham River. The fading light made it hard to pick him out, but one thing was clear to Garrett right away, and that was that the man was old. Really old, like stooped and withered and probably really wrinkled, to boot.

  Garrett didn’t like old people. They smelled.

  “He’ll do,” Fowler said. “Come on.”

  Garrett followed as Murphy and Fowler began working their way toward the man. About fifty yards away, Garrett realized the man was singing. It took him another second to realize the man wasn’t singing in English.

  Murphy stopped about ten feet away from the man, blocking his retreat. Fowler moved to block the front, which left Garrett to take the middle. This close he could see the old man had a beard, long and gray like Santa Claus’s, only this guy was thin, and wearing a real hat, with like a broad brim instead of a stocking thing with a puff-ball on it. For a moment, Garrett wondered what he’d d& for Christmas.

  “Where you headed, man?” Fowler was asking.

  “Nowhere,” the old man said. His voice was thin, accent like he was from New York, maybe Brooklyn.

  “Nah, you don’t want to do that,” Fowler said. “Nowhere, that’s a waste of time. Especially when you could be going somewhere instead. Want to do that? Do something useful with us?”

  “No.”

  “Okay, well, how about you say yes and we don’t kill you right here?” Fowler asked, and he pulled out his knife, which was the signal for Garrett and Murphy to pull out their knives as well. That was one of the things you got when you worked for Penguin—a really good knife; Penguin made sure his guys had only the best.

  The old man didn’t look up, but he stopped moving, not even shuffling to keep warm.

  “Got his attention there, I think,” Murphy said.

  “Oh, yeah. So this is the deal, old man. We’re going up on the bridge. And you’re gonna cross it. Now I know what you’re thinking, you’re thinking that the bridge is broken. This is true. So you’re going to go off the bridge and into the water.”

  Fowler nodded to Garrett, and Garrett moved forward and put a hand on the old man’s shoulder and started moving him. The old guy was taller than Garrett had first thought, but still stooped, and he moved without resisting.

  Fowler led the way onto the bridge, Garrett followed with the old man, Murphy took up the rear. Together they walked up the embankment onto the cracked asphalt of the bridge, heading toward the broken segment. The Gotham River flowed by slowly over a hundred feet below. Garrett wondered if it would freeze again this year. The river had frozen once when he was a kid, and he’d played hockey on the ice with a couple friends.

  When they reached the edge, Fowler said, “You’re getting a chance to leave Gotham, old man. Can you swim?”

  “Not in there,” the old man said. “Mines in there.”

  “Hey, not so dumb after all,” Murphy said.

  “That’s right,” Fowler said. “The river is supposed to have mines in it. And you’re gonna find out if that’s true or not. If there’s no mines, figure you swim to safety, you escape. If there is mines, then you get blown to hell, and there’ll be one less mine for the next guy we toss in. So this is what we call a win-win situation, see?”

  “Not for me,” the old man said.

  “Well, no. But that’s too bad for you, then, isn’t it?”

  The old man nodded slowly, as if accepting what Fowler had said, and then with a speed that surprised Garrett, spun and brought his right hand up, then back down, breaking first Garrett’s grip and then Garrett’s nose.

  Garrett howled in pain and reached for the man as he tried to move away. Fowler and Murphy had the knives out again, but Garrett wanted the old guy now, wanted him alone, and he closed his fist around the man’s beard and yanked.

  The beard came off m his hand, and Garrett looked at the face of the man and for almost a second couldn’t understand what he was seeing. Then he realized the beard was a fake, and that the man, while old, wasn’t more than sixty, and that the man’s eyes were clear and smart, and not crazy at all.

  “Wha—” said Garrett.

  Then it all happened at once.

  There was a snapping sound, like a whip cracking, and then a shadow had taken Murphy’s knife, and Murphy was on the ground with his eyes closed. Fowler had grabbed the man, but when the shadow moved forward, he let go of him and tried to run. The old man, off balance, fell back against Garrett. Garrett closed his grip on instinct, putting his knif
e to the man’s throat.

  The shadow raised an arm quickly, throwing something small and black that whistled past Garrett’s head. Then Fowler made a noise and fell flat, and the shadow was coming forward.

  And it had horns. And wings. And claws. And was as big as Garrett himself, and moving like it didn’t need to touch the ground at all.

  It was the Bat.

  Garrett felt his stomach trying to slide down his legs.

  “Let him go.”

  The words seemed to rattle around the inside of Garrett’s chest. When he answered, he was shocked by what he said.

  “Like hell.”

  The Batman moved forward again, and Garrett pressed the blade against the old man’s throat.

  “I’ll kill him. I don’t want to, but I’ll do it. You let me pass.”

  “Let. Him. Go.”

  Garrett thought, tried to do it quickly, trying to find a way out.

  He shoved the old man toward the ledge, and off the side of the bridge, then lunged. He thought it was a good plan. He thought it would give him time.

  He was wrong.

  The Batman moved, cape swirling up into the man’s path and the old man caught it, used it to swing around behind the Batman, staying safely on the bridge. Garrett lunged with the knife and the Batman moved out of the way effortlessly, and as Garrett passed he felt a sudden sting in his wrist, then a dull pain on his neck.

  Garrett hit the ground flat, his head aching, the knife now gone. He rolled quickly onto his back, trying to get up once more, and the Batman loomed over him. Garrett saw the boot coming down.

  Then he saw darkness.

  SEVEN

  IT WASN’T TRULY A CAVE AT ALL, BUT rather an abandoned Gotham Power and Electric Company substation in Newtown. But through the false wall at the south side there was a small flight of stairs, and at the bottom of that another door, and then, beyond, the place Bruce Wayne was currently resting his head. He didn’t like thinking of it as a Batcave, but then, he’d never cared much for calling the true cave that either. As it was, though, the true cave was buried under the ruins of Wayne Manor, a house that had stood for over two hundred years only to be felled in an instant by Nature’s whimsy.

  This Batcave was only one of several throughout Gotham, a network of bolt-holes and command posts he had constructed after his back had been broken a few years back by the man who called himself Bane. Bane had defeated Batman, had nearly killed him, and Bane had done it all by wearing Batman down, chipping away at him until there was nothing left with which the Batman could fight.

  Never again, Batman had vowed. Never that unprepared again.

  Thus the many satellite caves.

  The Batman stepped back, throwing the switch for the gasoline generator, then activating the lights. The space was cramped, used for both work and rest. Medical supplies and other equipment were neatly stacked along one far wall. A worktable ran the length of another, the metal surface covered with bits and pieces of equipment, extra spools of monofilament, a scattering of pocket explosives, miniature tear gas, and smoke grenades. A squat radio with handset rested near the edge, switched off.

  The paraphernalia of the Batman.

  Batman turned, checking the progress of his companion on the stairs, watching as Alfred Pennyworth entered and then moved past him. Somewhere in his sixties, tall, thin, and eminently proper, Alfred took the small room in archly, the coat he’d been wearing in disguise folded properly over his left arm, the false beard and broad-brimmed hat in one hand.

  “Very nice, Master Bruce,” Alfred said. “You’ve done wonders with the place.”

  “Thank you, Alfred.” Bruce Wayne pulled back the cowl, feeling in that instant of exposure the weight that always returned to his heart. He watched as the older man set the coat and hat on the nearest cot, then turned back to look at him. Bruce knew the look, the combat-medic look that Alfred had turned on him every night when Batman returned to the true cave. More than a survey of damage, it was a look that spoke volumes. It was, more often than not, a paternal look, and there were times when Bruce savored it.

  There were times when he hated it from his core.

  Alfred Pennyworth had been one of Thomas and Martha Wayne’s dearest friends. When Bruce was orphaned at eight, it was Alfred who took care of him, and since that time, Alfred had always been there. Alfred had been Bruce’s tutor and confidant and, certainly, the greatest gentleman’s gentleman one could ever have asked for. He was an able medic, a gifted actor, a learned scholar of life.

  But he was not, and could never be, Bruce Wayne’s father. And both men knew that.

  For nearly a minute they stood in silence looking at one another. Then Alfred coughed discreetly into his hand.

  “I had begun to fear, Master Bruce, that the homing transmitter was defective.”

  “No.” Bruce moved to the table, began unfastening the Utility Belt around his waist, laying it out on the surface, checking its compartments. “I was.”

  “I beg your pardon, sir?”

  “I was, Alfred. I have to relearn how to move in Gotham. Broken cornices, rubble, collapsed rooftops… it’s forcing me to slow down.” He stopped respooling the monofilament for a moment. “I hope it’s not Gotham trying to tell me something.”

  “Given the length of your absence, sir, I had thought you would have worked past such thoughts already.”

  “I thought I had, too.”

  “You have only been back a scant few weeks,” Alfred said mildly. “And tonight was your first foray in your … work clothes, shall we say? It could have gone much worse.”

  “You nearly died.”

  “But I did not.” The older man sighed. “As always, you demand too much of yourself.”

  “I’ve been away nearly three months,” Bruce said. “Three months I wasted, searching my own soul instead of fighting for Gotham’s.”

  “After every battle, a time is required to recover. After a defeat, sir, the recovery is inevitably longer. I know you well enough to say with certainty that you never waste time.”

  Bruce smiled almost without meaning to. “The night wasn’t a total failure,” he conceded.

  “No, indeed,” Alfred agreed, turning to the workbench and using a handkerchief from his pocket to dust quickly before leaning back against it. “We have learned that I am a brilliant actor who can masquerade effectively as a senile old coot.

  “We knew that already,” Bruce said softly.

  “I beg your pardon, sir?”

  “We know that Penguin is interested in clearing the waterways. That means that whatever pipeline he has to the outside world—assuming he does have one—isn’t by water. That means he must have access to a tunnel.”

  “A plausible conclusion, Master Bruce.”

  For a moment, neither of the men said anything. Bruce finished restocking the stores on the Utility Belt.

  “I was away too long,” he finally said. “The rules have changed. That man, the one who held the knife to you on the bridge… he should have run. They’ve forgotten me, Alfred.”

  Alfred shook his head, a bare smile. “No, sir. It is simply that there are now things in Gotham which scare them more than the Batman.”

  Bruce considered the older man’s words for several seconds, then began fastening the belt in place once more.

  “Sir?” The concern in Alfred’s voice was almost surprisingly clear. “Do you intend to go out again?”

  “Night’s young. A lot to do.”

  “Shall I wait for your return here?”

  “No. You said Leslie is still in the city.”

  “Indeed she is, sir. Dr. Thompkins has maintained a small neutral zone in the northeast of the city, where she tends the sick and injured as best she can. It is widely referred to as the MASH Sector.”

  Bruce nodded slightly. Dr. Leslie Thompkins, like Alfred, had been a friend of his parents. A passionate humanitarian and physician, Bruce wasn’t surprised at all to have learned that Leslie had remained
behind in the No Man’s Land, attempting to provide medical services to any and all who could reach her.

  “Leslie’s a remarkable woman.”

  “I would be a fool to disagree, sir,” Alfred said.

  “Head there. I’ll contact you when I can.” Bruce turned to face his butler. “I’m sorry I was slow tonight, Alfred.”

  “Better late than never, Master Bruce. It was nice seeing you back in action. You looked, dare I say, quite good. Did it feel good?”

  “No, Alfred.” Bruce pulled the cowl back into place, felt the comfort of the mask tight around his face. “It felt great.”

  * * * * *

  It did feel great, and that was his greatest comfort as the Batman moved back into the night, quickly climbing the shattered lines of rubble until he reached those still-stable rooftops that gave him a view of the city spreading out around him. His city.

  Looking over the wrecked terrain, Batman thought he could feel tears coming to his eyes, and for a moment felt sentimental and even foolish. He turned north and deployed his jumpline, swinging across the collapsed ruin of what had been a mosque, moving quickly, feeling the comfort that came from familiar motion.

  When the rumors had begun that the government was planning to abandon Gotham, Bruce Wayne had gone to Washington to plead his city’s case. It had been a horrible experience for him, one where he had felt exceptionally off balance, and certainly out of his element. To the public eye Bruce Wayne was a joke; a billionaire lay-about more concerned with shaving strokes off his notoriously bad golf game and dating as many beautiful women as quickly as possible than dabbling in issues of politics. For the most part, it was an image that had served Bruce well, had kept his true identity well hidden from the world.

  In Washington, though, it had worked too well, and Bruce Wayne’s heartfelt pleas were dismissed out of hand. He had been utterly and completely helpless, a feeling he had known only once before in his life. It was the feeling that had led him onto the streets of Gotham every night for ten years, that had driven him for almost three times that long. It was the feeling that had ultimately created the Batman.