Batman Arkham Knight (11 page)

“Everyone feels fear, Alfred,” Batman argued. “I understand that.”

“Indeed. You created your entire persona to instill fear.”

“In criminals,” Bruce added. “But if a person doesn’t have anything to fear…”

“Then you become just another person dressed up as a bat,”
Alfred said, cutting him off.
“Is that what you were going to say, sir?”

“No, it was not,” Bruce replied. It was a moment before he spoke again. “I know fear. I fought through it. Or did you forget the well?”

A strange expression crossed the butler’s face, but only for a moment. It had been so long ago, when Bruce was no more than eight, that he had fallen into that long-forgotten dried-up well near the back of the Wayne estate. He lay there on the well’s damp floor, lost, crying, darkness everywhere, when thousands of bats appeared out of nowhere and screamed past him, their claws ripping at him as he flailed about helplessly, desperately trying to protect his face.

The young boy, protected by loving parents, had never before felt fear like that, and it seemed to go on forever—though he later realized that it could only have been minutes. Then Thomas Wayne’s hand reached down, grabbed his, and pulled him to the surface.

His father held him tight, letting him know that as long as he was with him, he’d never allow his son to feel such terror again. Within a week the boy was back to running wildly everywhere on the estate, causing his usual brand of mischief, eschewing the caution his father tried to drill into him. Life moved on, as it always did.

Yet that day, those few frightening moments, had seared into Bruce Wayne’s psyche and never let go. Batman might have been born because of a killer’s gun, but even before that, fear had changed the course of Bruce’s life.

He wasn’t about to let it destroy the city he loved.

“I do remember, sir,”
Alfred said.
“It’s a day I won’t forget. But I thought you…”

“I never forget anything, Alfred. It’s my curse. But I also haven’t forgotten my father sitting me down in his library that night. The fireplace was lit and the flames, dancing with abandon, were mesmerizing in their beauty.”

Alfred nodded but said nothing.

“My father taught me that fear is irrational—it’s not reality. Whenever it begins to build, you have to keep reminding yourself that it’s only an hallucination. And as with any hallucination, you have to look past it and deal with what’s real and tangible.

“He said that once you recognized the difference between what’s real, and what’s only in your mind, you can learn how to push past the illusion and embrace the real. It’s much too easy to miss that difference, he explained. That’s when you get lost in your fears.”

“Sadly, sir,”
Alfred started,
“not everyone in Gotham City was fortunate enough to have your father’s counsel.”

“I know. I see it every night. And even without fiends like Scarecrow, this city breeds fear. But as my father said, the job of the Wayne family is to help those without our good fortune. Help them to understand how best to deal with what most frightens them.

“God knows, I’ve tried, and I’m not going to stop.”

“Sir, I sense a ‘but’ coming.”

“Yes, and it’s a big one. Scarecrow is all about fear, and the kind he brandishes isn’t hallucination—at least not in the traditional sense. His chemicals worm their way into the subconscious. It finds your weakness and exploits it. Because it’s chemical, it’s as close to real as it gets, and it’s nearly impossible to stop.”

“So, do you have a plan via which you will accomplish the impossible?”

“No…” Bruce answered. “And maybe. You know I fought Scarecrow before, when I was trapped in Arkham Asylum. Scarecrow wasn’t even fully powered up, and I nearly succumbed.”

“This sounds more ‘no’ than ‘maybe.’”

“Agreed. But the ‘maybe’ comes from knowing that Scarecrow
still
isn’t fully powered up.”

“And how do we know that?”

“If he was, he would have activated the fear toxin right when he made his threat. The fact that he didn’t means he needed time to finish its manufacturing, and then distribution. Also, why would he warn the entire city of his plans?” Batman paused, then continued. “There’s only one reason that makes sense. He doesn’t have enough fear toxin to effectively manipulate six point three million people. He wanted the city reduced to a token force, because that’s a number he can deal with.”

“So he’s limited by whatever process he uses to manufacture the toxin…”

“…and he doesn’t want to broadcast the fact that, even if he succeeds now, he could never have taken over an entire city. His failure would embolden his enemies, including those of us who are still here to fight back. And hope is the very last thing he’d want to inspire.”

“Well, sir, now that you know, you’re in a much better position to resist him. Besides, as you say, you’ve fought and defeated him before.”

“I know. But everyone has fears he can exploit. Even me.”

“Your fears, sir? I thought you had long ago conquered them all.”
Something in Alfred’s voice told Bruce that he didn’t believe it.

“No, not all,” he admitted. “I may know what my fear is, but if he reaches inside me and extracts it, I’m not certain I can fight back.”

“What fear is that?”

Bruce hesitated before continuing. It meant revisiting one of the greatest agonies of his lifetime.

“You’ll remember that my parents wanted to go to the opera that night. I was the one who insisted on the movie. Since that time, there hasn’t been a day when I haven’t asked myself, if I had gone along with what they wanted, would they be alive today?

“That’s my fear, Alfred. That my selfishness is what killed them. And that’s the one fear from which I can’t run.”

He suddenly clicked off the comm and closed his eyes. He was starting to feel his anger returning.
The goddam Joker blood.
Thinking about his parents, and his part in their deaths, was making him lose control.

His father once told him that when you succumbed to anger you were no longer able to think rationally, and an irrational life was always doomed to failure. Thomas Wayne showed him how to let that anger fade. How to take back control. How to resist the primitive impulses.

His breathing slowly returned to normal. He felt his pulse slowing.

But as the Joker’s blood continued to take root, he also knew maintaining control was going to be hellishly impossible.

James Gordon’s car crossed the bridge and pulled up to the all-too-familiar bright yellow police tape surrounding the large courtyard for the Ace Chemicals lab complex. Bill McKean moved to open the commissioner’s door, but Gordon stopped him with a wave of his hand.

“How many times have I told you I can open my own door, Bill?”

“Just doing my job, sir.”

“I know,” Gordon said. “But that’s a perk I don’t need.”

There were nearly twenty G.C.P.D. officers positioned around the front three buildings. To do the job right, Gordon estimated he’d need at least 150, but he’d been hard-pressed to get the officers who did come, and was grateful for their presence.

Captain Nolan of the Sixth Precinct stood near one of the hastily assembled barricades, on the phone, checking with his people. George Nolan had put his life on the line at least a dozen times before Gordon had promoted him to captain, and the commissioner would’ve bet a year’s pay that he’d be one of the loyal officers who stayed behind, while so many others took off.

“Commissioner,” Nolan said. “Looks like the shit hit the fan again. Is this damned city ever going to squeeze out a break?” Nolan, who was born and grew up on Park Row, never tried to shake off his Crime Alley beginnings. His vocabulary was as raw as the day he started working for the force, fifteen years ago.

Gordon laughed. “George, I’d give away half my pension to see that happen, but I’m afraid the luck genie would just look at it and laugh. So,” he added, nodding toward the chemical plant, “what do we know?”

Nolan shrugged, and Gordon figured that might be the clearest answer he’d get all night. But the captain continued.

“We know we don’t have enough men to stop a greased pig at a county fair, let alone God-knows-how-many armed killers they got inside. I was hoping you had a plan, sir.”

“I don’t, but I’m praying
he
does,” Gordon said, watching as a sleek black vehicle crossed the bridge and pulled to a stop in front of them, its turbine engines shutting down with a piercing whine. A moment later its driver’s hatch swung open, and Batman stepped out. It closed behind him and the car automatically initiated its electro-shock defenses to repel any foolish attackers.

The Dark Knight was wearing a different suit than earlier. He frequently adjusted his armor depending on what he was going up against.

“Any word from inside?” Batman asked Gordon.

“Nope—nothing. The facility’s locked down—not a door or loading dock can be opened. From what we can gather, and judging from the number of cars in the lot, we believe there’s still a skeleton crew of workers trapped in there. We’ve tried contacting them, but we’ve gotten no response. We’re not hopeful.”

“I’m picking up heat signatures.”

“We saw them, too, Batman. But at this point we don’t know if they’re workers or Scarecrow’s men. And with all the buildings in the complex, it’s difficult to pinpoint an exact location. We’re going to have to get closer.”

“No,” Batman snapped. “Pull your officers back. If the men in there are still alive, I’ll find them.” Then he added, “When I do, let’s hope they can tell us what Scarecrow’s up to.”

* * *

Gordon’s G.C.P.D. phone buzzed suddenly and he answered it.

“Gordon. Talk to me.” He paused as he listened, and Batman saw his eyes widen for a second. Something startled the commissioner, but he was too much of a professional to show it for long.

He clicked the phone off, then shook his head.

“Just when you think things have gotten as bad as they could…” He looked up. “Scarecrow’s sent out a call to all possible allies in the tri-state area. He’s asking them to come to Gotham City, promising them the city has become the Wild West, and everything’s up for grabs.”

“That’s nothing’s new,” Batman said. “The Joker did the same a few years back, and even the Riddler recruited cohorts in his own attempt to become the top dog. Crane’s looking for more power players to create a distraction. He wants them to keep us busy while he completes whatever he’s planning.”

“I know,” Gordon replied. “But in the past we always had a full compliment of cops to show off our muscle. Even when we’ve faced the ‘blue flu,’ we’ve had the essential manpower we needed. This time, based on what I just heard, the criminals flooding into the city already outnumber the rest of us two, maybe three to one.”

Worried expressions took hold on the faces of the cops who heard their exchange. Then they looked at Batman, and he saw the hope appear again in their eyes. They were praying he’d be able to rescue the city as he’d done so many times before. So he began walking purposefully toward the factory, then turned back.

“I need you all to stand back behind the lines,” he said. “My suit’s protected, so once I’m inside it should be able to temporarily protect me from the toxins. Unfortunately, without protection, you’d succumb to his poisons pretty much immediately. So stay here. Please.”

He turned back to the factory then stopped again as he heard the roar of helicopter blades above him.

Peering upward, he saw a pilot leaning out of the cockpit—definitely male, face covered in some sort of mask but he was too far away for the details to be seen. The man waved at him, and it wasn’t a friendly gesture.

The copter was heavily armed, and its weapons array began to swivel. Cannons shifted into position, and Batman knew from the telltale hum that they were being primed as the craft approached the chemical plant.

If the pilot was going to shoot, Batman didn’t want any of the Ace Chemicals workers—if they were still alive—to become collateral damage. He sprinted across the courtyard, away from both the building and the police. He hoped his actions would cause the copter to follow him.

The first explosion hit.

He braced himself. An instant later it was followed by a second explosion, and a third. But he hadn’t been scratched. Whoever the pilot was, he couldn’t possibly have missed Batman three times. Not with modern targeting guidance.

He looked up.

The city bridge leading to the factory had been blown apart. Cars and busses were plummeting into the river below. Another missile struck the bridge’s suspension towers, shattering them. The deck wobbled and swayed, forcing the suspender cables to pull back and snap. Bridge parts, still on fire, fell into the deep waters. Thick black smoke rose from the ruins.

Batman stared at the carnage. Whoever the pilot was, he was sick enough and twisted enough that he was willing to kill hundreds in order to block further access to the island.

Why the hell didn’t the bastard just put up a “no trespassing” sign?
he thought with dark humor. But nothing about the situation was funny.

The copter swooped low, then banked toward him. This time the pilot didn’t wave. He seemed preoccupied. Batman couldn’t see what he was doing, but suspected he was locking in coordinates. And he couldn’t outrun missiles. Even if they missed him by a dozen yards, the explosions would still consume him.

The pilot’s voice echoed from the cockpit, amplified so it could be heard over the screaming blades.

“No more last-second escapes, old friend. No more Utility Belt wonders that pull your sorry ass out of the fire, as they have so many times before.”
The copter slowed, then hovered in front of him. The pilot looked up from whatever he’d been doing and stared.

“Remember the Winchester murder? How about the Joker’s centennial attack? Well, this time you won’t be able to grapple your way out of here, or use your Batclaws to grab my landing struts. You see, old man, you’ve used up your quota of miracles. You’ve had a great run, but the ride is finally over. There’s a new mask in town, which means it’s time for you to be retired.”