She Hulk of Earth 2, Chapter 3
By Eegore, eegore959@yahoo.com
A sexy Jade Giantess tests the strength of her newly acquired, incredible body


Cactus Hills apartment complex, Los Alamos, N.M., 2:24 a.m.

He groped for his eyeglasses, which rested on the side table atop an unkempt
pile of file folders. He reached up and clicked on the reading light. The
phone was into its fourth ring as he rolled out of bed and walked to the
rolltop desk

This couldn't be about dad, he thought. Aunt Helga said he was doing fine,
that he was out of the woods. This must be about work. But at this hour ... ?

He picked up the receiver. "Huh..." -- he turned his head and cleared this
throat -- "um...Hello?"

"Dr. Blonsky?"

"Yes, this is Blonsky." Yes, he thought, definitely about work.

"Sir, this is Capt. Sampson, a security officer at the base? We've had a
development here, and I thought you should be notified."

"A ... a development?" The fuzz of drowsiness was still blowing around his
brain, but the MP's forced euphemism, along with the strained tone of the
soldier's voice, smacked Emil Blonsky square in the face. Something was
decidedly wrong.

"Is the facility secure?" he asked Sampson.

"Yes, it appears to be, sir. There's some damage, but..."

"That's enough, captain." Blonsky's mind was beginning to race, and one of the
things he knew for sure was that he wanted no stray words or facts slipping
across an unsecured phone line. "Has anyone else been contacted?"

"No, sir. You were the first person I called. I'm going to page the general
after I'm done talking to you..."

"Captain, no no no, that's, uh, that's not necessary at this point. I'll drive
over there immediately and access the situation. We can call the general after
we're assembled the data for a report." Another detail bounced to the front of
his still-jangling thoughts. "Have you reviewed any possible video recordings
of the incident?"

"No, I was about to, but ..."

"Please don't, captain. I would like to be there when you do. If you don't
mind, of course."

"Perfectly understandable, sir. Will do."

"Right, then. I'll meet you in the lobby in about, umm, half an hour."

"Very good, sir."

-o-o-o-

Five miles north of White Rock, N.M., 2:57 a.m.

"WYATT'S TRUCK SALVAGE"

The words were drawn in welded, 2-inch chain, molded into a crude script and
framed by two rusting wheels shorn from an interstate dinosaur. The letters
"W", "T" and "S" were painted red, white and blue, but in the fading moonlight
they reflected only depths of gray. The sign formed an arch over the
dirt-surface entrance, now sealed by an 8-foot sliding gate topped by looping
barbed

wire.

She stood 10 feet from the gate, looking up and down the length of the
junkyard's fence. Her hands clenched and unclenched with nervous anticipation.
Small, emerald fireworks popped in and out of her shoulders and biceps. She
shifted her weight to one foot and her thighs and stomach undulated with
leonine grace. Well, she thought, don't hear anything. No lights ...I can't
imagine this place would have a night watchman. OK ... let's do it.

With a fluid twist of her trunk and a whipsaw swing of her arms and legs,
Sheila was in the air, clearing the fence by eight feet. Her body cut through
the cool breeze with a crisp efficiency, with no wasted motion. She landed
noiselessly, 50 yards from her takeoff point, on dirt that was smeared and
encrusted with motor oil.

She straightened up, shoulders pulled back slightly, hands clenched, waiting
again for something or someone to break through the stillness. But there was
no sound other than an undulating breeze that caught strands of her tousled,
waist-length mane and brushed them against her flesh. Other than the wind, all
Sheila could hear was the spirited conversation taking place in her head:

How do I know how to do that? I've had this body for, what, half an hour? And
without a second thought, I'm leaping into the stratosphere, landing like a
kitty cat, and shooting stuff out of my hands. It's like I've been walking
around like this for years.

For a moment, and no longer, a look of near-panic washed across her finely
carved face. Then her dark eyebrows arched and her mouth formed a knowing
smile.

You know, I really do worry too much, she thought. I mean, I would fret over
whether I could earn enough for my rent, whether daddy approves of my
decisions, whether my medications were working worth a damn...

"What a weenie." She crossed firmly muscled arms and stroked her high, rounded
shoulders, emerald arcs following the path of her fingers. Her breasts pressed
against each other, forming a long, magnificent décolletage that began just
below her neck and plunged behind her sculpted forearms. "With this body, I
don't have to worry about pills or money or daddy or getting hurt or ..." She

shuddered as five or six thick arcs shot between her hands and shoulders,
forcing Sheila's eyes shut and making her yelp for air as a rippled stomach
tightened against a hot, caressing wave.

"Huhhuh-huuuuuhh...oooooooohhh ... oooohh, my goodness," she whispered. "I ...
I could get used to interruptions like that."

She opened her eyes and dropped her arms slowly to her sides, waiting for her
pounding heart to slow a bit. Almost ... almost ... there. She straightened
her stance, rolling her hips further beneath her and pulling her shoulders
back, assuming the appearance of a battle-ready warrior. Glowing-green eyes
scanned the twisted acreage. Long rows of derelict tractor-trailers stretched
into the

dark. Some looked as if they had just been yanked from the highway and thrown
into this graveyard, their paint and chrome still glinting in the moonlight.
Others appeared as if the earth was trying to reclaim them, clawing at heir
rusted rims and buckled skin. Here and there, the semis were dumped into huge
piles of metallic debris. Sheila looked up and saw the crane, its boom

stretching at least 80 feet into the air.

She looked back down. About 15 yards away was a tall, imposing truck cab that
looked as if it should still be on the road. It was parked next to a semi
whose salad days were decades past. Sheila's eyes widened a bit. "Well," she
said, sliding into a mischievous smirk. She began walking toward the truck,
her hips rolling in a sultry dance above her long, powerful thighs. "Let's see
what

we can do."

-o-o-o-

Blonsky gunned his '97 Taurus down Highway 4. The speedometer read 80 mph, but
he was sure of two things: No patrolman was going to be around at this hour,
and there was no way his car could outrace the anxieties racing through his
head.

I'm going to lose the research grant, he thought. No doubt about it. Once the
general hears about this, it's all over. Then I'm tossed out on my ear. Again.

"Damn it..." the scientist mumbled as he unwrapped a stick of chewing gum. A
month ago, we would have been on his third cigarette since the phone call woke
him up. But he had given them up, not because of his health but because
heading out to the facility's loading dock to light up ate 20 minutes out of
his workday. And that was about 19 minutes more than he could afford.

He pressed down on the accelerator, nudging the Taurus to 85, and thinking
very hard.

They gave me this chance. They made me promise ... damn it, made me vow ...
that I could maintain the safety parameters this time, that no one would be
endangered. And I convinced them. Hell, I convinced myself. And now, this.
Whatever it is. And, frankly, Emil, specifics don't matter, do they? Because
you're on such a short leash that the slightest accident will mean the end.

Unfortunately, he thought as the base's gates appeared in his headlights, I'm
afraid this one was very big.

-o-o-o-

Sheila's width at her shoulders nearly spanned the distance between the two
trucks. Her head was nearly level with the top of the side windows. She looked
at each of the truck tractors. The newer one, on her left, was an aqua-blue
Peterbilt. All of its chrome metal was intact: the bumper and radiator grill,
the large side mirrors, the exhaust stacks. On the door, in silvery brush
script, were the words "Banner & Sons Interstate Delivery." The truck on her
right betrayed no such detail. Time and the desert sun had conspired to
transform the vehicle into a gray hulk. The only distinguishing detail was a
fading illustration on the driver's door of a heart with an arrow through

it.

"All right," Sheila said, her voice low and even. "OK. This should be
possible. I'm sure of it -- I think."

She turned to face the length of the Peterbilt. She squeezed her hands into
tight fists, bending her wrists slightly toward her forearms, where cords of
sinew vibrated and swelled. A groan arose from her upper arms as biceps and
triceps went from magnificent to unreal, criss-crossed with liquid, green
lightning. She began to bend down, the surface of her thighs and calves rising
and falling with undulations of muscle. Deep, deeper into a crouch, her hands
open, palms out, fingers wiggling. Sheila reached under the truck's step
panel, groped around until she felt something big and solid -- hopefully, she
thought, a piece of the frame. She closed her hands on the unseen metal, which
crumpled as powerful fingers dug into its surface.

"OK," she mumbled, breathing a little more heavily. "OK. Allez-oop!"

Sheila began to stand, and a 5-ton truck tractor screamed and moaned in
protest. Spring shocks stretched as they were relieved of the truck's weight.
The sounds of shifting steel quieted slightly as all six tires left the earth.

Neon-green flashes of gamma radiation coursed through legs that rose smoothly
and swiftly, their shapes churning as muscles responded with awesome
efficiency. Sheila came fully upright, her face knotted with concentration,
but with no sign of strain. A second passed, then two and three. She didn't
move. Neither did the truck. The bottoms of its tires were nearly five feet
above the ground.

Sheila's expression softened against the force of revelation. There had been
no struggle, no exertion expended in mastering this 10,000-pound barbell. She
could sense its mass, the way it shifted as she moved one hand or the other.
Other than that, it was as if the truck wasn't there. She smiled.

"Oh, god, I hope this isn't a dream," she said, watching green fire roil over
her biceps, which had swelled to nearly the twice their relaxed-state size.
"And if it is, I want to remember it all! Wow...Hey, Sheila, if you're out
there, you frumpy little thing, check this out!" She bent her elbows and the
truck came up and toward her, just clearing the upper curve of her breasts.
Her biceps bulged even larger. "I'm curling a Peterbilt!"

She held the truck in that high position, the step panel a few inches from her
chin. Then, slowly, she opened her right hand and removed it from the frame.
She brought her right arm to her side and looked at her left hand, now the
only thing separating the truck from the earth. She still felt no weight.
Then, slowly, she lifted her left arm. Her shoulder and triceps swelled as the
truck rose above her head. In the moonlight, Sheila Huckaby cut an impossible
silhouette. She looked like a curvaceous, muscular warrior princess in a
pulp-fiction fantasy, holding aloft the spoils of her victory. "Oh, I can't
resist," she whispered, and rolled up her right arm into tight bicep pose.

This is real, she thought. It has to be. The pain I felt in the lab when the
weapon was shooting at me, that was too much to be a dream. I would have woken
up. I'm sure of it. So, this is really me. I'm not Sheila anymore. I mean, I'm
not that Sheila anymore. Am I?

Her eyebrows furrowed and that wry smile returned. Her inner conversation
continued.

No, you're not. I mean, I'm not. She's gone. She went to work to at midnight,
grabbed her cleaning cart, touched something she wasn't supposed to and got
blasted by something wild. And now she's gone. And I'm here. I can't - I don't
want to - explain how it happened, but I'm here. And look at me. Look at me!
I've got more than 7 feet of dark-green skin and a beautiful face and loads of
hair and lightning on my skin and huge breasts and muscles oh big powerful
wonderful muscles that can do --

"THIS!!" Eyes blazing, Sheila bent down and, with her right hand, grabbed the
undercarriage of the rusted-out truck next to her. She rose swiftly, swinging
her right arm out and up and over her head. A cacophony of snapping and
groaning metal and falling debris followed the truck as it sprang into the
air, joining its shinier counterpart.

Sheila arched her dark, thick eyebrows. "AAAAAND THIS!" Muscles shifted and
swam as she rocked on her hips, pulled back her right arm and hurled the old
truck into the starry sky. The vehicle traced a low, slow arc that was
intercepted by a thick, green beam. There was a screeching sound of crumpling
metal and the sight of a growing halo of energy, out of which fell chunks of
iron and rubber and steel.

"AAAAAAAND THISSSS!!" Her right fist still wrapped in tendrils of energy, she
crouched, then sprang upright, swinging her left arm and its 5-ton payload.
The Peterbilt shot straight up, past the top of the crane, 70, 100, 150 feet
in the air. Sheila swung her arms up and together, fists tracking the
still-rising blot in the sky. Angry cords of gamma energy surged from between
her thighs and from dark, erect nipples and spun around her hands. With a low
rumble, a 2-foot-wide column of emerald force tore through the air and struck
the Peterbilt. The energy penetrated the machine's skin, soaking it with a
vicious gamma finality. The truck exploded, its mass ripped and shredded to
the molecular level. Only a cloud of metallic dust, swirling on a desert wind,
marked where it had been.

Sheila stared into the stars, her eyes flashing. A riptide of power and
pleasure coursed through her, making her skin tingle, making magnificent
thighs twitch and thick biceps quiver. Making her believe. I am Sheila
Huckaby, she thought, and by god, I'm the most powerful, most beautiful thing
on Earth! I've got --

"Sweet Jesus..."

The voice crashed into Sheila, shattering her reverie. She shook her head and
spun around to face its source: a wide-eyed man gripping a shotgun.

-o-o-o-

"Oh ... my ... god."

The only light in Blonsky's office came from his computer terminal, which was
replaying, for the third time, the events in Sector G captured by security
cameras. Blonsky sat, wide-eyed, slack-jawed, as he watched it happen again.
Look at her! he thought. My god, she's absorbing the radiation and it's
...doing that to her.

Blonsky replayed the sequence five more times, then shut off his computer and
sat in the darkness, rocking in his office chair. He had spent years imagining
the improbable, researching the incredible. But this ... the Gamma Cannon
transforming a janitor into monstrously muscled, big-breasted superwoman? He
smirked at the thought; it sounded like something in his nephew's comic

books. But it was all too real, and he was all too responsible.

All right, Emil, get a grip, he thought. What do we do first? OK ...first, we
need to sew up the mouths of those two MPs. It was hard enough to convince
them to let me see the video alone; by sunrise, they'll be telling their
friends what they saw. Hmmm. Lt. DeFalco can probably help me there by
arranging a transfer for those two.

And after that, well, I imagine the general and I are going to have a long,
spirited chat. Thank god I've got a few hours to figure out what to say. But I
already know the heart of my argument: We have accidentally created the
mightiest weapon on the planet. Now all we have to do is capture it.

-o-o-o-

Sheila stood still, her glowing eyes wide but steady. Her snap reaction was
one of a child caught with her hand in a cookie jar, but within seconds the
warm wave of confidence created by her truck stunt overtook her, and she began
to consider this man like a child would treat a frightened deer. She didn't
want him to run.

The man was 20 yards away, standing on a short pile of tires. He looked like
he had sprung out of bed (There must be a trailer nearby, Sheila thought) and
chosen to investigate with little preparation. Other than the shotgun, his
only protections were boxer shorts, slippers and a gold necklace that sported
a stylized "W." He stood in a semi-crouch, breathing heavily, the gun trained

on the intruder.

Sheila forced a smile. "Hi!" she said. The man flinched. "Uh, sorry about the
noise. This just seemed like a good place to ... well, anyway, I'm sorry that
I scared you, OK?" She took a step toward him. His eyes widened, and he raised
the gun so he could look through its sights.

Sheila considered the shotgun. This time her smile was genuine. "Look, I
assume you saw at least a little of what I just did. Do you really think that
gun would hurt me? A few minutes ago, I wouldn't have been sure myself. Now I
am. Hey, why don't you put it down? Please? I'm not going to bite."

Slowly, the man lowered the weapon. Even more slowly, he placed it at his
feet. He seemed to be reacting not out of confidence that this woman wouldn't
harm him, but out of fear of contradicting her. He straightened up, arms at
his sides, and stared at Sheila, who had taken two more steps

toward him.

Sheila stopped and took a long look. He was well over 6 feet tall, and
appeared to be in his late 20s or early 30s. His largely exposed skin was a
light bronze. His face was sharply featured: high cheekbones, piercing eyes
and a long, aquiline nose. And for a junkman, he was in very good shape. His
legs were blocky and muscular. His waist was small, flaring out to a wide back
and

thick chest. He had rounded shoulders and sculpted biceps and forearms.

"Wow..." Sheila said under his breath. Then she took a hard look at the
necklace. "W...Wyatt? You're Wyatt? This is your place?"

The man nodded slowly.

"Well...Wyatt. Nice place you've got here." Sheila's eyes looked up and down
the length of her host. Man. He's gorgeous, she thought. Warm ripples swam
through her body. She shuddered. No. No, I couldn't. I'm not going to just.
...Hey. That's the old Sheila talking again, isn't it? Look at yourself, girl.
Look at what you've got. What in the world is stopping you?... OK, that's
better. Now ... watch ...

Sheila began walking slowly toward Wyatt, one foot in front of the other, her
wide hips undulating, her breasts shifting side to side. She was symphony of
muscle and cat-like grace, sliding closer and closer to him. "Wyatt, you're
not going to believe this, but you're the first person I've seen or spoken to
since ... well, it's been a lifetime. Can we talk? I'd love to get to know you
better."

Sheila stopped, 10 feet away, hands on her hips, smiling seductively. "So,
what do you say?"

Wyatt's face, wide-eyed and rigid all this time, began to change. His eyes,
somehow, opened wider. His corners of his mouth turned down. Then his body
began to shudder, a low moan rose from his throat, and tears ran down his
face.

"P...p-please, leave me alone," the man cried. "Demon, I beg you .. l-let me
be. L-leave my home. Pleeeeease..."

Wyatt buried his face in his hands. His chiseled body heaved with sobs.

Sheila watched in shock. She stumbled for words. "I ... but .."

Wyatt looked up suddenly. His face was a rictus of fear. "Demon, GO! PLEASE!"
He covered his face again.

"D-demon?" Sheila muttered. "But ... don't you understand? I'm not a bad
person. Look at me! I'm beautif..."

Wyatt dropped to his knees, shaking with tears and terror. Sheila took a step
back; the fire in her eyes seemed to dim.

"OK," she said, her voice confused and hurt. "OK, I'll go ... I-I'm sorry."
She turned, preparing to leap into the fading night. Then she turned back
toward the junkman, her eyes and face betraying a flash of emotional pain.

"BUT I'M NOT A MONSTER, DAMN IT!"

Fighting back tears, Sheila raised her face to the stars and shot into the
sky.