Batman: No Man's Land Page 9

  He stopped, crouching carefully on the edge of a slumped roof overlooking what had been Park Row. When he was a boy, Park Row had been one of the nicest parts of town, a collection of high-priced town houses and elegant shops, restaurants, and theaters. All manner of Gothamites could be found walking the neighborhood’s streets, and at night the lights had shone on men and women and children who laughed and rejoiced in the glory of their city. Park Row was where Thomas and Martha Wayne took their little son to the movies, where they’d promised to take him for ice cream after the show.

  Even before the Cataclysm, though, Park Row had declined to become what was universally referred to throughout Gotham as Crime Alley. The shops had closed, the town houses had been replaced by blocks upon blocks of substandard housing. Its alleys and streets, once clean and alive with laughter, had turned dark and foreboding. Trash had littered the streets, and the laughter had fled, chased away by the cries of suffering addicts, the sounds of violence, ultimately, by the screams of victims.

  To the Batman, there had been one scream, nearly twenty-five years before, that had started it all.

  He moved from the rooftop, dropping silently onto the rubble below. Clinging to the shadows, he made his way up the block, and then left. He knew the way perfectly, having traveled it literally a thousand times before, and when he reached the mouth of the alley, he stopped.

  It had been here that it all started. It had been here that Thomas and Martha Wayne had been murdered, here that Bruce felt for the first time the utter capriciousness of life. Looking now at where his parents had lain, bleeding to death so many years ago, the Batman felt that helplessness again.

  His parents had died before him, and Bruce had been powerless to stop it. That single thing, more than any other, had created the Batman. He had dedicated his life to a mission; what Bruce Wayne suffered that night no one else ever would.

  It was a fool’s quest, and he knew it, doomed to failure before it had even begun. He could not police a planet, could barely police his own city. Yet he did it anyway, night after night, fighting through despair, returning again and again to the battle that consumed him.

  He did not think of himself as noble, nor even as driven. It was far more complicated, and yet far simpler, than that.

  He was the Batman. He had no other choice.

  Until, at least, Congress had made him feel eight years old once more, had again delivered the lesson that life could not be controlled, and that even Bruce Wayne’s billions, even the Batman’s brilliance, could be brushed aside by apathy and self-interest. If Bane had broken his back once more, it would have hurt him less.

  It seemed, three months before, not just a setback, but a resounding defeat, indeed, a rout. It had crushed his spirit, and thus injured, Bruce Wayne and the Batman had both retreated. It was the kind of blow that didn’t just call into question one’s own actions, but one’s own life.

  While Alfred remained behind in Gotham, using his considerable skills to gather intelligence for the day when the Batman would return, Bruce fled the country, throwing himself with seeming abandon into the role of playboy and dilettante. In fact, he had been building an alibi that would allow Bruce Wayne to vanish for the months, if not years, it would take the Batman to restore Gotham.

  In Monaco, Bruce had gambled with petty monarchs and corpulent executives; in Rio he had danced with supermodels and partied with rock stars; in Hong Kong he had acquired two new companies and bought another Learjet. And all the while, he had planned, trying to see what he had done wrong, trying to discover what he could do to make it right again.

  The petty monarchs and executives, they could help bring political pressure on the President of the United States. One of the rock star’s personal trainers was an accomplished Capoeira mestre. The two companies he acquired each had proprietary construction technology that would aid an eventual rebuilding of Gotham. And he had contacted Lucius Fox, the man he had handpicked to be Wayne Enterprises’s CEO, and he had told him that all of the Wayne empire’s formidable resources were to be brought to bear for one purpose: the redemption of Gotham.

  “The public,” Bruce had told Lucius. “It will all come down to the public. That’s where we need to start.”

  “How?” Lucius had said.

  “I don’t know. Buy ads. Television, newspaper, radio. Hire lobbyists. Anything. But we have to get the public on Gotham’s side.”

  “It’ll take time, Bruce. And a lot of money. A hundred million, at least, just to do what you’re talking about.”

  “It’s my home, Lucius,” Bruce had said, and then pretended he was wanted at the pool to pour more suntan lotion on the back of someone named Kitty.

  * * * * *

  It had taken, in the Batman’s opinion, much too long to get his act together, to put his plan into motion. Too long since he had set foot on his home ground.

  Now he had been in Gotham for just over a week, watching and waiting, walking the different neighborhoods, learning the new dynamic of the No Man’s Land. The tagging intrigued him; the bat-tag he had seen, in particular, had raised his eyebrow. He had resisted the urge to jump pell-mell into the fray, instead making contact with Alfred, learning what the gentleman’s gentleman had to tell.

  Finally, the Batman felt ready to face the helplessness head-on.

  A dog was barking nearby, and the sound drew Batman’s attention back to the present, away from the alley. The sound seemed alien, and he realized that since returning to Gotham he had seen no dogs at all, nowhere on the streets.

  The barking grew louder and more desperate, and Batman moved toward the sound, taking the rooftops again, staying silent on the dark and empty street. The noise was deceptive in the stillness of the city, at first seeming merely around the next corner, but Batman had gone six blocks before finally homing in on the source. From the edge of a rooftop he looked down.

  It was an adult Airedale, standing in the middle of the street, its tail stiff and its head lowered as it guarded its master, a boy of perhaps fifteen. The two were surrounded by a group of men, all in salvaged and torn winter clothes, all holding makeshift weapons of one kind or another. Across the street from where he had perched, Batman could make out a spray-painted tag on one of the opposite buildings, the crossed spears of the Xhosa.

  “Looks like dinner,” one of the men below was saying. He held a baseball bat, its end wrapped in barbed wire.

  The Airedale’s head dipped lower, growling. The boy began backing away, then halted as he realized that he and his pet had been surrounded. His voice drifted up to where Batman had perched, thin with fear.

  “Leave my dog alone,” the boy said.

  “Weren’t talking about no dog,” the one with the bat said.

  Normally, Batman would have waited a second or two longer, timing his entrance to best effect just before any violence could begin. But what he was seeing now made him angry, and he’d had enough. He launched himself off the rooftop with a leap, gathering the edges of his cape in each hand, letting the air fill the ballistic fabric. The move served two purposes. First, it slowed his descent enough to keep him from any injury. Second, it threw his silhouette over the gathered Xhosa, and put the fear of God into them. The moon had risen already, and in its light the shadow of cape and cowl fell over the assembly the way a storm cloud blocks the sun.

  Two of the Xhosa had enough time to register what was happening. They shouted out warnings, and Batman heard the boy gasp. Then he was down, driving his feet into the back of the nearest of the Xhosa as he landed, knocking the man flat to the ground and driving the breath from him. Without stopping Batman continued forward, breaking into the center of the circle, his right hand dipping around beneath his cape and appearing again holding three Batarangs.

  He turned and threw all three with his right, ducking as the Xhosa with the barbed-wire bat took a swing at his head. Batman heard the shouts as the Batarangs hit their marks, breaking fingers and disarming the men. Without bothering to look, Ba
tman snapped off a side kick that caught the one with the bat cleanly in the stomach and knocked him to the ground.

  One of the Xhosa was already running, and of the three Batman had hit with the Batarangs two of them were turning to flee as well. The one with the bat was now on his back, disarmed. Of the four remaining, one was going for the boy with a machete; the other three were directing their attention at Batman, all wielding blunt objects—two pipes and another bat, this one aluminum.

  There was no choice to make, and Batman sprang forward to protect the boy. He felt the blows of the other Xhosa swing past him, then the explosion of pain as one of them connected with his torso. He was certain he’d cracked his ribs again, but it didn’t matter. He was still up, and the machete was coming down, and the Batman got his forearm in the way of the blade, felt the collision as the metal bashed into the Kevlar and titanium weave reinforcement of his glove. The nerves in his arm shouted, and again the Batman ignored the message, driving the heel of his right palm into the Xhosa’s chin.

  Batman turned back to see two of the remaining gang members lunging forward. The Airedale, snarling, had bit into the back of the other’s leg, bringing him to the ground. Batman waited a fraction of a second, letting each of the remaining Xhosa commit to their attacks. Then, with their balance changing, Batman moved, bringing his fist up and into the first’s sternum, slamming home a kick to the stomach of the second. Both men went down breathless, each temporarily stunned.

  The Airedale made a horrible whine, almost a shriek, and Batman turned to see that the one with the barbed-wire bat had gotten his weapon to hand once more, had struck the dog on its hind-quarters. The boy, enraged, was already on the man, beating at his head and neck. Batman reached quickly, pulling the boy back, and then, with his free hand, delivered a final, savage punch to the remaining Xhosa’s face.

  It was suddenly silent but for the sobbing breath of the boy, and the gentle whine of the dog.

  Batman let the boy go, crouching quickly beside the animal. The barbed wire around the bat had torn at the dog’s skin, and blood was flowing, but Batman could tell quickly that the blow had broken no bones and that the wound looked far more serious than it was. From his Utility Belt he took a bandage and pressed it against the wound, petting the dog as he did so.

  “What’s your name?” he asked the boy.

  The boy, still sobbing, needed some time before he could stammer out, “Matt.”

  The Batman nodded and scooped the dog up, cradling the Airedale against his chest. “Matt. Are you alone here?”

  “I … my … my parents died in… in the ‘quake. Is … is Sophie going to be all right?”

  “Sophie will be fine. Where are you living?”

  “I don’t have a … anywhere I can. Anywhere that’s safe.”

  Batman looked at the boy, thinking, and then realized that the look was easily mistaken for an imposing one, and so looked away down the street, instead. After another second, he began walking north along the street, still carrying the dog. “Follow me.”

  Matt scurried over the broken pavement, catching up. “Where are we going?”

  “Sophie and you need a safe place to stay,” Batman said. “I have a friend who is a doctor. You can stay with her.”

  Together, with Batman still carrying the dog, they made their way north, to Leslie Thompkin’s MASH Sector. For a long time, neither of them spoke.

  Then Matt asked, “Are you … uh … are you really… him?”

  “Him?”

  “Batman.”

  “Yes.”

  For several more seconds the boy was silent, thinking hard.

  “Cool.”

  ORACLE

  PERSONAL

  Entry #310—No Man’s Land, Day 104

  0433 Zulu

  Dear Dad—

  I woke up yesterday morning thinking I was late for school. I was hearing your voice, and I sat up in the darkness of my apartment, in the bitter cold, and for a second I honestly thought I was thirteen once more.

  Then I remembered where I was, and I started to lie back down, and I heard your voice again.

  It was just before dawn, the light beginning to streak in across the ceiling, past the ice that’s been forming on the inside of my windows every night. I reached for my glasses, fumbled myself to the side of the bed, and hoisted my drowsy keister into the chair. The only reason I was sure I was awake was that I was so damn cold I knew I couldn’t still be under my blanket

  I rolled to the window and had to open it to look out, and then it was really clear, your voice, coming through some megaphone from down below, maybe a block away at the most.

  “There’s a new gang on the street! The Blue Bays, the GCPD! Street Demonz, LoBoys, you’re in our territory now! Surrender!”

  Over and over again, variations on the same theme. Your voice, big and echoing down the block. Across the street I saw doors and windows opening, people pulling back their barricades and risking glances outside, listening. At the end of the block I watched a group of Street Demonz break around the corner running like the whole department was after them with hats and bats. Then you guys appeared, and for a second that’s almost exactly what it did look like.

  At least, if your department had switched to baseball bats and makeshift clubs, instead of riot batons and .38 Specials.

  “Attention!” you were shouting. “We are the police! Were here to maintain the order! Help us rid your streets of these gangsters! Now’s the time to rise up! Now’s the time to take back what’s yours!”

  It was like magic, Dad.

  Like magic.

  “There aren’t many women who can say that a war was fought on their behalf,” you said after I finally got you to stop hugging me.

  I thought maybe you were joking at first, but the look in your eyes said that you weren’t, and you almost made me cry. Sarah was standing right behind you, and she was smiling, and when you moved she gave me a hug and a kiss on the cheek.

  “Care to step outside?” she asked.

  “Are you kidding?” I said. “I haven’t been out of this damn apartment since the earthquake. If you’re willing to carry me down eighteen floors, I’m willing to go outside.”

  “Your father will carry you.” she said. “I’ll take the chair.”

  And you did, you picked me up and carried me down eighteen flights of stairs, and when we got out front and I was back in the wheelchair, you handed me a can of blue spray paint and pointed at the Demonz tag on the side of the Clock Tower.

  “Would you like to do the honors?” you asked.

  You have no idea how big a kick I got out of spraying that big, blue GCPD on the side of my own home, And the people watching, all my neighbors who had been living under siege just like myself for the last three months, they loved it, too. I thought they were going to put you and Sarah on their shoulders and march you through the streets, they were so happy.

  Then Bullock came over and said. “The neighborhood’s been secured. We’ve got Demonz and LoBoys in a temporary holding area on the next block for now. Pettit’s getting antsy.”

  “I’ll come over,” you said, and you gave my hand a squeeze and promised you’d be right back, and off you went, Sarah with you.

  I sat there for a minute, just grinning at the street, breathing the fresh winter air. It hurt my lungs it was that cold, but God, it felt good. I’d been cooped up for so long, I couldn’t get enough of it. The sidewalk was cracked in places, but pretty clear, and I started rolling along, and it wasn’t really that I meant to follow you, but in the end I have to admit that’s what I was doing.

  I came around the corner and I heard Foley talking to Bullock.

  “… all our lives for the sake of his daughter. Harvey. He got damn lucky.”

  “Luck, hell,” Bullock said. “It was strategy. It was tactics.”

  “It was pure recklessness.” Foley was practically spitting. “Sanctioning murder. He should be ashamed to call himself a police.”


  “He doesn’t call himself a police, Foley. He calls himself Commissioner.”

  Foley opened his mouth to shoot off something else, and that’s when he saw me. I wish I could say that the way he went pale, or the way he muttered sorry, or the way he slunk off made me feel better.

  I wish I could.

  But I can’t.

  I thought that was the low point of the day, the counter to the delight in seeing you and Sarah.

  I was wrong.

  Around midnight one of my agents called in, Alex. He’s been pretty reliable for me, and he’s another of my sneaks, in that he’s good at sticking to the shadows and getting in close to where the action is. I’ve no reason to doubt the veracity of his reports.

  When you and Sarah left today. I knew you were trying to figure out what to do with the Demonz and LoBoys that had been taken prisoner. Jailing them was obviously out of the question. The jail itself is in ruins, and it’s not like you can spare anyone to guard these guys twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. And that doesn’t even touch on the resource drain it would be.

  Alex reported that you and Pettit had been arguing about how to proceed for most of the evening, and that you finally made a decision a little after dark. You and Pettit went over to the holding area.

  Alex says that you used that megaphone of yours again, and you gave all the LoBoys and all the Demonz one hour to clear the territory.

  “If any of you are found here after that, the penalty is death,” you said.

  Then Pettit drew his weapon, put it to the head of the nearest LoBoy, and splattered his brains all over the street.

  Just to prove that you guys were serious.

  I know he did it without your permission. Dad. I know that I know you would never have sanctioned a murder in cold blood.

  You’re a cop after all. You’re the best cop.

  You’re my hero, Dad.

  Tell me he did it without your permission.

  My radio woke me eight minutes ago, a squawk from the one frequency I’ve kept clear for the last 104 days. The frequency I’ve been praying would go active.