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Chapter 16: Goliath's Rage
Belgrade
Pym saw The Executioner emerge through the smoke with a grisly smile shining out from his serpentine goatee. The man didn't run toward Pym - he strode resolutely, his vast shoulders swaying with his heavy footfalls. Neither did he slow, as if to size up Pym before engaging him. He was like a machine, marching dispassionately into battle. But the smile told Pym he was confident.
"I'll take some of that confidence out of him," Pym muttered under his breath. He reared back to throw a roundhouse punch. But in the next instant, The Executioner lunged, with a speed that caught Pym completely by surprise. He threw himself at Pym's chest and knocked him off his feet. Pym fell backward, The Executioner landing on him like a bowling ball. His smile never faded.
Pym was stunned. How could this runt knock me down? Pym found himself trying to do quick calculations at what kind of mass The Executioner would have to be carrying on that fireplug frame to knock over a man three times his size.
The Executioner muttered something in Serbian, looking down at Pym from atop his chest, still smiling. But by this time, Pym had regained his bearings. He pulled his legs up and locked them around The Executioner's torso, then slung him off like a bronco throwing a rider.
"I don't care how heavy you are, I'm going to crush you!" Pym threw a punch while The Executioner was still getting to his feet. He caught him flush on the chin. Pym felt a flash of pain shoot up his arm at the blow. Yet The Executioner didn't even go down. He reeled backward, but stayed on his feet.
Dear God! What kind of monster is this?
The Executioner came roaring back, lunging at Pym, trying to get inside Pym's much longer reach. But Pym was ready this time. He ducked sideways. With The Executioner off his feet, Pym grabbed him and used his own momentum to throw him across the room. The man landed against the far wall with a crash like a train wreck.
"It's a lot tougher than beating up helpless women, isn't it?!" Pym roared.
But as Pym started to saunter over and finish off The Executioner, suddenly there he was again, lunging out of the darkness. He threw a muscled arm around Pym's neck and locked a deadly elbow hold around it. Pym couldn't believe the man's strength! His throat felt like it was caught in an industrial vise. His windpipe clamped shut. He gasped for breath.
Have to think!
Pym realized that he was still standing near the front of the room. The edge of the stage was not far behind him. He took a few steps backward, sized up his move out of the corner of his eye, then let himself fall backward with as much weight in his torso as possible. This sent The Executioner crashing into the corner of the stage with Pym on top of him. Pym heard the stage supports crack under the weight, and the structure collapsed around them. At last, he heard a cry of pain from The Executioner.
He got to his feet and turned. The Executioner lay dazed in a crater of broken support beams. Got him! Pym reached down to yank The Executioner into position to land another blow. But as he lowered his giant hand, The Executioner suddenly swiped at it with the jagged end of one of the broken stage supports. Blinding pain lanced up Pym's arm as a large gash opened on his hand. He pulled his hand close and saw blood run down to his elbow.
In the same instant, The Executioner leapt up at him again - this time with both fists held straight out in front of him. He landed a two-fisted jab straight into Pym's nose. Pym felt blinding sheets of pain sear around both cheekbones and meet at the back of his skull. A taste like scalded rubber ripped across the roof of his mouth. His vision blacked, and for a moment he couldn't see, couldn't hear, couldn't think. It was only when he felt his knee crash into the floor that he knew he had crumpled under the blow.
I'm in trouble.
The next blow came like a thunderstrike against the side of his head. His helmet absorbed most of the impact, but it still rung his skull like a bell. But Pym was still glad for the head protection – armored to perfection like everything else Stark built. The Executioner let out another cry of pain and pulled his hand back.
He won't try that punch again.
Pym realized he was vulnerable, down on his knees, where he couldn't take advantage of his enormous reach advantage. He tried to scramble to his feet. But no sooner had he started to move than The Executioner was lunging at him again, locking another arm around his throat. The man seemed to shrug off pain like dust. Like his muscles doubled as armor.
Pym felt his rage rising. But with it, fear. On his knees, he couldn't perform another maneuver like the last one. And this man's death grip on his windpipe was unbearable. He couldn't believe anyone could be so strong! Pym gasped for air again and tried to get to his feet. But his head was already woozy from The Executioner's blows. His legs felt weak. He couldn't get up. The Executioner's grip on his throat tightened.
Time seemed to slow for Pym then. He felt all the anger, all the hatred for this man searing his senses. Yet he could also tell that The Executioner was beating him. Disbelief mingled with hate. And hate trickled out toward The Executioner . . . then meandered its way back to Pym himself.
He was failing again.
He couldn't understand it. All this time, he'd dreamed about, craved the moment when he'd have Maria's murderer in his grip. And now here he was, down on his knees, gasping for air at mercy of The Executioner's – a man one-third his size. His mind reeled at the impossibility of it, the absurdity of it.
Or was it lack of oxygen to his brain that made his mind reel?
He heard a voice inside his head, like the voice of some long-dead relative. Failing. You're failing.
He shook and tried to flex his muscles. Tried desperately, anything to get out of The Executioner's grasp. He heard his throat gurgle inside his neck. His diaphragm contracted, instinctively trying to draw air into his lungs. None came. They felt like they sucked in on themselves, like they filled with fire, then imploded.
You're failing again. That's all you've ever been, a failure.
Who was saying that? For God's sake, who said that? Pym looked around. Or did he? He felt his eyeballs rolling in their sockets, but was he looking around, or was he losing consciousness? His lungs pulled with all their might against a void. No air came. I'm dying! Dear God, it was true. He was dying.
You'll die a failure, Henry Pym. They'll say it at your funeral. They'll pity the bastard who couldn't save his wife, then got himself killed trying to avenge her.
Pym tried to shake his head again. Nothing happened. His head, arms, legs – nothing obeyed. Only his diaphragm, heaving and retching, like it was ripping in two and bursting out of his chest. Dear God, for air! Just one merciful breath of air!
Somehow he registered that he wasn't even struggling against The Executioner's choke anymore. He was starting to float. This is the end, isn't it? This is how I die.
Then something in Pym's mind snapped. He heard the click, perfectly distinct, inside his head. Like a tumbler in a lock, turning over, just so. An almost peaceful release. The combination engages and the bolt clicks, and you can watch with a strange, deadened sort of resignation as the beast at last comes out of the closet. It flexes its claws and stretches. Then it turns. And sees them. Sees them all - the liars and the doubters and the hypocrites. It pads silently down the hall into the dining room, raises a claw almost distractedly, and shreds a guest into filets before he can even turn. The sound of it is horrible, a sickening slice of clothing and flesh, a gurgling in the throat. Blood gouts onto the chandelier, onto the table. Then come the screams, wild and guttural, like mothers having their children ripped from their arms. But Pym can't scream. He can only watch. People race for the doorway, but to no avail. The monster is upon them, ripping flesh with razor talons. Bodies flay open, revealing hearts, intestines . . . lungs!
Dear God, for their lungs. Just please, God, let me have one breath of air in this torment! One blessed, sweet breath of air in this hell!
You're a god-damned failure, Pym! That's all you ever were!
His diaphragm convulsed once more, dry-heaving against the end. But his mind was calm. All he wanted to know now was who kept saying that.
You're nothing but a failure! And failure will be your last act on earth.
But he knew. He just didn't want to admit it to himself, did he? Didn't want to say it. But he felt his lungs reaching for it anyway, spasming for it.
And then it came. High and screaming, familiar, like a hawk from the end of the world, screeching down on its prey. Like a jet engine, crammed into a piece of lead pipe. It crashed with an explosion, behind him.
Then the grip released . . . and air flowed in.
AIR!
He sucked at it with a desperation he'd never known. His windpipe was so crushed it hurt to draw breath, but his whole body heaved into the effort anyway. He wanted to scream, wanted to cry, but all his body would do is suck air, again and again. All of life disintegrated into smoke and purple dots dancing in his vision, but he sucked and heaved and breathed, bent over, begging the air for life.
His head began to clear. He saw Iron Man out of the corner of his eye, armored hand still raised from the repulsor blast that knocked The Executioner out. He was trying to come to Pym's rescue. But with every step he took, ten more security guards attacked him. Clubs, point-blank pistol shots, pepper spray – they were trying everything. None of it worked. But all of it bogged him down.
Feeling returned to Pym's lips, and he became aware that he was staring at the floor, drooling. And again his mind drifted, this time carried back in time. Back to a drunken moment, returning home alone from Serbia, without a wife, without even her body. Dropping to his knees in the foyer of his home and vomiting. And then, as now, he stared down a column of saliva . . .
. . . and loathed himself!
He turned. The Executioner lay next to him, barely conscious. Iron Man's repulsor blast had laid him out like a fish on a riverbank. The loathing inside Pym washed back and forth between himself and The Executioner. And Pym wanted nothing more in that moment than to die . . .
. . . and to kill.
He staggered back to his feet as feeling spread through his body and into his limbs. A stray guard, running past, cried out in terror at seeing Goliath rise over him. He pointed his gun at Pym's chest. Pym instinctively kicked at the gun, but the force carried through to the man. He felt the hapless guard's bones give way under the impact, heard the gut-wrenching crunch of his spine snap. The man made a weird, girlish squeak as his broken body flew into the air. Then he was gone, disappearing into darkness.
Pym reached down and grabbed The Executioner. A scream rose from his own throat – not the muscular war cry that had burst forth earlier. But a scream. High pitched and lethal as a banshee. He held The Executioner up before his face – sixteen feet in the air – then, with a final scream of rage, he pounded him down against the concrete floor with all his might. The man's bulging body of muscle shuddered with the force of the blow. But it did not break.
Pym raised The Executioner's body even higher this time, raising him over his head. Then he slammed him down again into the floor. Again, no visible evidence of breaking.
Pym screamed again, brought The Executioner's body over his head a third time – then suddenly, a repulsor blast flashed before Pym's face. He heard Stark's voice in his earpiece. "Hank! We said we weren't going to kill him!"
Pym ripped his ear piece off and threw it away. He lifted The Executioner's body over his head once more. Incredibly, he saw that the man was coming around. How was this possible?
Another blast flashed before his eyes. But then Iron Man was buried under a human tidal wave of security guards. Pym was still holding The Executioner aloft in front of him when, amazingly, he heard him speak. The voice was low and menacing.
"I remember you."
Pym hesitated. He stared into the man's face, incredulous.
"I kill your wife."
A sheet of white hot fury blinded Pym's mind. His body moved into action on its own. He grabbed The Execution by both arms and began to pull. He felt the sinews inside the man's massive arms quiver under the strain. But the man only laughed, his face inches from Pym's.
"You got bigger since then."
Pym pulled harder. He thought he felt something tear, only slightly. But it was working. The Executioner winced. But he quickly fought back the pain that Pym knew had to be coursing through his body. He looked back into Pym's eyes.
"But inside, you still same little man you were."
Pym redoubled his effort again, straining with all his might. "I'll pull your arms off!"
The Executioner spat in his face. "You can't pull your dick out your pants. I know." His sinister smile returned. "Your wife tell me before she die."
Blank wall of rage. Overwhelming everything. Pym screamed with a fury he'd never felt. He heaved as hard as he could on The Executioner arms. Yet incredibly, he felt the man actually starting to resist. He was recovering again! Pym could feel him pulling against him.
The Executioner spat in Pym's face again, the spit this time mixed with blood. "You little man!"
"I'll kill you!" Pym screamed.
"No," The Executioner strained. "You fail! And I kill you like I kill yoru wife." The Executioner struggled to pull his arms out of Pym's grasp.
But Pym strained all the harder. "You son of a bitch! I'll kill you! I'll kill you!" Pym screamed, and pulled with all his might. His scream blended with a scream of hate-filled agony ripping from The Executioner.
"I'll kill you! BASTARD! I'll kill you! I'LL KILL YOU!"
Then Pym felt it – a tendon pop. A shriek of blinding anguish gurgled out of The Executioner. Pym kept up the pressure, screaming, screaming, screaming. The Executioner was resisting with all his immense muscled might. But he was losing. Pym pulled as he'd never pulled before. The muscles in his shoulders boiled in pain. Yet he pulled, on and on. Screaming and shrieking mingled and arced together.
Then, just as he felt The Executioner's muscles trembling with their last resistance – suddenly Pym's head swam, the world seemed to grow larger around him, and he fell to the floor.
He lay there dazed, unable to move. He felt like he was going to faint. He could see The Executioner, who had dropped to the floor next to him. A pack of security guards swarmed out of the darkness and started dragging him away. But Pym was powerless to stop them. He'd shrunk again. Somehow, he'd shrunk back to normal size.
His tormented mind at last gave up. The beating, the anger, the self-loathing, the growing, the shrinking. It became too much. His mind slipped toward unconsciousness and madness. But just as he faded, he heard a tiny voice, like the whisper of a firefly. It sounded like it was coming from inside his ear.
"I told you I didn't want to have to fight against you over here!"