"She Hulk of Earth 2," Chapter 8

Green goddess Sheila Huckaby gets a taste of gamma-boosted lust. Illustrated. By Eegore (eegore959@yahoo.com

Over the next six days, Daddy came through.

Col. Vincent Huckaby, squeezing every drop of stealth and juice from his long, decorated Air Force career, secured a passel of provisions for his daughter, Sheila. In the firm, measured tones of a man accustomed to being in charge ' a stance sorely tested by the astounding revelations of the past week ' Huckaby told his daughter she now had access to proper-fitting clothes, money and, most amazing, a safe house in Arizona.

"Thank you, Daddy. You will never cease to amaze me." Sheila, her sensuously muscular frame poured into blue compression shorts and a red cutoff T-shirt, had her elbow draped across the top of a pay phone outside a laundromat in Kanab, Utah. Her glowing eyes were concealed by wraparound sunglasses that had come with the cache of clothing her father had given her. The gamma rifle ' her lifeline to the 7-foot-2, power-packed body in her possession ' rested inside a canvas bag slung over her right shoulder.

As agreed upon at their meeting at the bridge earlier this week, her father was using the phone at the mom and pop store down the street from his home in White Rock, N.M.

"It's a start, honey. OK, let's make this quick. I'm sure a couple dark-suited pinheads are outside this store, counting the seconds before I come out."

"OK." Sheila closed her fiery eyes. Over the past few days, she had enjoyed feeling once again that comfortable peace her father's strength and resolve had always given her. Whenever she was frightened or unsteady or confused ' feelings that had descended often on a child and woman who believed herself to be awkward and unattractive ' he would wrap her in loving words of assurance. Even now, despite a growing confidence borne on the knowledge of her now immeasurable strength and primal beauty, Sheila harbored insecurities that no gamma-spawned miracle could easily dislodge. It didn't matter that it appeared she could atomize any adversary, escape any snare, as long as she maintained this Amazonian form. It didn't matter that, even in sparsely populated communities such as this where she would alight briefly, men stared at her. And she didn't mind that while they kept their distance, it was obvious they were mentally removing what little clothes she had on.

None of that mattered. All that did matter was that Daddy was in charge now, and that he would take care of her.

"You have the house key?" he said. His voice was curt, urgent. One could almost hear the stopwatch whirring in his head.

"Yes."

"The safehouse is in a remote area, but you still could be followed. You've developed a procedure for shaking surveillance?"

Sheila couldn't help but grin. "Yes, Daddy."

"All right. The money is in the top left drawer in the kitchen. Spend it wisely. My contacts are well-heeled, but that doesn't mean we have an endless supply of greenbacks."

"'Kay."

"You have the clothes?"

Sheila sighed. "Yes."

Huckaby caught the poorly concealed displeasure in her voice. He allowed some exasperation to slip into his words: "What's wrong, Sheila?"

"Well, the clothes fit and all, and that's great, really-" She was prospecting for what to say; talking back to her father was unfamiliar territory. "But - the selection is a little, um, stodgy, isn't it?"

The colonel rolled his eyes. "Stodgy? Sheila, my contact said those dresses and pants and blouses are letter-perfect for a woman your age. I'm told it's a wardrobe extensive enough to get you through two weeks without having to wash anything. I think you should show more appreciation." He hesitated. "So, everything, um, fits?"

"Yes, Daddy, the bras are fine," Sheila said with a slightly embarrassed whine, looking down at herself and adding quietly but loud enough so she knew her father could hear: "Not that I need them or anything."

Huckaby turned away from the store cashier, who was tending to his customers and trying not to look obvious as he strained to listen to one end of what was becoming a very entertaining conversation. "Sheila Elaine Huckaby," the old man hissed into the phone, "just because you have the body of a Greek goddess doesn't mean you can parade in public dressed like a street walker."

Sheila opened her mouth, but was unable to make a sound. Instead, she felt a constricting tightness in her throat and a sudden ache in her chest and - something else. Something she had never before felt when faced with her father's stiffly starched rules of behavior:

Anger.

"A street-Daddy! I'm-" Light-green ghosts spun across her cheeks and she bit her lower lip. She ran a hand lightly across her bare, taut waist and out along the long sweep of her hips. The hand rose away from hard curves of her thigh and contracted into a trembling fist.

And then all she could hear was a tidal rumble in her head ' and voices. He doesn't understand, he can't see how beautiful I feel-Nonono I've made him angry he's mad at me - The way people look at me, the longing I see in their eyes - I'm sorry I'm sorry Daddy I'm sorry sorry - Can't believe he'd compare me to - You know what's right you know - a prositute - what's right - a whore -

A cracking sound in her ear burst through the babble. Her fingers were digging into the receiver's casing. Shards of plastic clattered on the concrete.

"Sheila? I'm getting static on this end." Huckaby's voice was measured, yet urgent. He knew he had gone too far. This was his daughter, but it was not the daughter he knew. "Honey, you remember the contact protocol, how to reach me?

"Honey?"

Sheila was trembling. Wild curls of flame spit out from behind her glasses. Bright patches of lime green ricocheted under her flesh, criss-crossing her exposed abdomen and spinning along her thickly carved arms and legs. She was losing control, and she knew it. Sheila would never have thought it possible to be angry and terrified at the same time.

Her father's voice was still coming out of the half-crushed receiver, but she didn't hear it. Her knees nearly buckled. A sheen of sweat covered her forhead. She had to get away. Now.

"Daddy, I," she stammered. "I have to - you didn't - bye."

"Sheila!" It was the colonel's turn to panic. He knew his little girl was in trouble and there was little he could do to help, because they had agreed that she wouldn't tell him where she was. He was now determined to break that rule. "Honey, where-"

On Huckaby's end of the line, the sound was a stark click. On Sheila's end, it was the noise of a green fist, knuckles paled by tension, ramming the remains of the receiver through the pay phone's metal faceplate. She spun on a sandaled heel, nearly losing her balance, and strode down the narrow sidewalk in front of the laundromat. Her vision was blurred by steamy tears, her equilibrium rocked by anger and panic.

Gotta get away, get somewhere and calm down calm down calm down. Oh, god, it's starting to hurt-Daddy's mad Daddy's mad-

"Shut up," she growled through clenched teeth. Her magnificent body shook and spasmed. She walked faster. Can't let it happen, can't let it go away - again -

-badgirlbadgirlnaughtynaughty-

"SHUT UP!" Inside Sheila's psyche and in every cell of her anatomically astounding body, the intricate construct borne of immeasurable ergs of gamma energy and unique DNA and specific psychoses was beginning to crack. Shards of memory raked across mental wounds torn open by her increasing fear. Memories of the wrenching sensations of her body shrinking and softening stoked her already rabid panic. Ohgodohgod, not again. Noooooo -. Her footfalls shredded her sandals and pounded dents into the concrete. She reached the end of the sidewalk and made a hard left, whipping around the side of a storefront post office.

WHUMP! Sheila took a half-step backward. Her sunglasses tumbled off her face. She put her hands to her head, fighting to regain focus, to see through the pain and tears, to see what it was that she had - hit.

She looked down and a sharp gasp escaped her lips. Someone was on the ground, sprawled on the dirt. His ' it was a man ' his arms and legs were bicycling slowly in the dust. He rolled onto his back and coughed, and blood spurted from his mouth. Red rivulets poured from his nose.

"Oh god," Sheila moaned. The sight of the injured man ' and her obvious culpability for his plight -- flushed all anger out of her mind. The fear searing her brain lingered, but it was being redirected sharply and mixed with shame and concern. The shivers and spasms subsided. The sheet lightning under her flesh continued to roll, but with less urgency. Oh, god, is he all right? Is he badly hurt?

"Um. Sorry. I'm sorry," she muttered. The man's eyes were open, but unfocused. She dropped to a knee alongside him. "I'm really sorry. I had some, uh, stuff on my mind and wasn't thinking about where I was going I just wanted to get away and - um - sorry."

The man groaned. Blood and dust mixed to form a dark ooze on his face. He shifted his jaw side to side and rolled his tongue inside his mouth.

"Teeth all accounted for," he said feebly. Sheila bit her lower lip. The anger and pain that had been tearing her asunder had vanished, replaced by a whopping ton of guilt. But this emotion seemed to strengthen her. Yes, it was her fault, but she needed to do something to help him.

"Are you dizzy?" she said. He nodded. "Any pain in your arms or legs-or your back?" He shook his head. "You can, um, feel your arms and legs, right?" He nodded. "OK, let me help you sit up." She placed a large, slender hand under his back and slowly lifted his torso. The man looked apprehensive at first as she began to move him, then relaxed a bit. "Nothing broken, it appears," he said.

Sheila continued to cradle him with her right arm and scanned his body, looking for any obvious signs of injury. Dust covered a pair of faded blue jeans topped by a large, oval buckle stamped with "Reno Rodeo 1998." His dark-blue, long-sleeve shirt was unbuttoned to halfway down his chest. For the first time, she noticed the black stetson hat a few feet from where he lay.

She smirked, in spite of herself. A cowboy-

She hadn't noticed during her examination that his eyes had regained their focus - and that he was examining her. After a few seconds, their roaming eyes met. He managed a crooked smile. "You're, uh -"

She felt suddenly self-conscious, and not a little uneasy. "I know, I'm green. See, I can explain that -"

"No," he said evenly. "I was going to say, "You're not from around here, are you?'"

Sheila's mouth opened in surprise. Braced as she was to try to explain her incredible appearance, she was unprepared to make small talk. "Uh, no," she said, smiling, "I'm not. I just stopped here to, um, make a phone call."

"Ah. Well, whatever you heard on the other end of the line must have put a bee in your bonnet. You were in one helluva hurry." He peered at her face and squinted. "Maybe someone told you that you need to see a doctor about those eyes."

Sheila turned away reflexively and blinked hard against the luminescent energy. "No-no that wasn't it," she said. "And I can explain these, too - I think. It's just that-"

"Believe me, young lady, I'm in no position to be giving you the third degree," he said, casting a glance at the powerful arm cradling him. "I'm sure there's some loooong story about why you look the way you do. But I'm not gonna ask. Right now, all I care about is that I'm not busted up and that you aren't mad, because, sister, I'd hate to see you when you're angry."

Sheila's cheeks turned an even darker shade of green and neon tendrils turned lazy circles around her eyes. The man's words, combined with his penetrating blue eyes and goofy smile, had earned her undivided attention. She had forgotten about her father and the big plans and the clothes and the stares she got everywhere she turned. Her world had suddenly telescoped into this little patch of dirt in southeast Utah, into this moment with just her and -

"Do you-do you think you can stand up?"

"With a little help, yes, I think I can."

She stood, then held a hand down to him. He grasped it and pulled himself up. He then began a quiet inventory, bending his knees and elbows, turning his neck, slapping dust off his clothes. Apparently satisfied he was not broken, he ambled over to a faucet low on the nearby building's wall, turned it on and splashed his face, washing away the grime and blood.

As he busied himself, Sheila did an inventory of her own. He was well over six feet fall, maybe as much as 6-7. He had light brown hair and a square-jawed face that was tanned and ruggedly carved, no doubt the product of countless seasons in the sun. He had wide shoulders and thick arms that bulged against his sleeves of his snug shirt as he bent his elbows. Beneath his half-opened shirt, she could see the deep lines of a well-carved chest and dark hair disappearing behind the last secured button. Her eyes followed the buttons down to that oversized belt buckle, which wrapped around wiry, narrow hips. Only now did she notice that his jeans were pulled tight against thighs that swept out slightly wider than his hips. The toes of heavily scuffed boots poked out of the pants' cuffs.

Her gaze swept back up, slowly. She licked her upper lip absentmindedly, then sucked her tongue back into mouth when she saw he was looking right back at her, his right arm extended.

"I'm Nick," he said with a firm yet reassuring voice. "Nick Trask."

She reached out and shook his hand. It was sandpapery and warm. "Sheila Huckaby."

"Huckaby, huh? Yeah, you're definitely an out-of-towner." He smiled, revealing a set of lower incisors stained by years of sucking on chaws of Big Red. "Were you planning on staying a while or-"

"N-no," she said. It was hard for her to concentrate. Those steely blue eyes ... "No, I had really just planned to make a phone call and then - move on."

"Well, I have to admit I'm disappointed to hear that, Sheila. I was starting to hope you might be able to stick around, at least for the afternoon, so I might get to know the person who nearly put me in traction for the first time since a bull pasted me in Calgary in "95. But I imagine a beautiful woman like you has loads of appointments to k -"

"Can I buy you a drink?"

An abrupt silence hung between them. Nick, caught in mid-sentence, closed his mouth slowly, staring at the statuesque woman whose blazing eyes made it impossible to look away. Sheila was equally in shock, as if she couldn't believe the invitation had sprung from her mouth. However, she knew all too well how finely tuned her body was to sensual pleasure, how much it yearned to the race the engine of the thunderous machine she had become. She remembered the time, seemingly eons ago, when she advanced on a frightened, lightly clad man in his junkyard, only to be slapped down by his reaction of terror and ignorance.

And now - now - she again felt a warmth growing in her belly, felt what she was beginning to understand were swelling waves of desire. This time, however, they were tempered by something that was ' for lack of a better word ' mature. Nick didn't see some hulking she-beast, some creature that defied all sensibility. He saw -

Me. He sees me. For the first time since her rebirth, here was someone ' other than her father ' who seemed to able to look beyond the incredible exterior and see that she was still a woman, still a person. She yearned for someone, anyone, to talk to her, to listen to her - to touch her. As much as she adored her gamma-pumped body, she had begun to feel as if it were as much of a prison as the arthritic, highly breakable frame she inhabited before her transformation. People tended to stare at her with fear or lust, and kept their distance. And to top it off, she was being hunted by military goons who saw her as little more than bacteria in a Petri dish.

Instead of liberating her, this body had come with its own burdens and uncertainties. It didn't seem at all fair. All she wanted was to enjoy herself, to explore the pleasures now available to her. All she wanted was -

-someone like him.

Nick grinned. "Well, I think that, at the least, I need something to wash the dust out of my throat. OK, Ms. Huckaby, I'll take you up on that. There's a little place about 10 doors down, just on the other side of the laundromat. It isn't open at this early hour, but I know the owner is probably there. I'm sure I can convince him to let us in. It'd be just you and me and Al, but I imagine you wouldn't mind the privacy?"

Sheila shook her head slowly. She couldn't believe this was happening. She was going to a bar! With a guy!

"Why don't we take the back alley?" Nick said as he picked his hat, swatted it against his thigh and placed it on his head. "It's a bit quieter than out on the sidewalk. Give us a better chance to talk?"

"Sure." She grinned, readjusted her backpack and started to walk, striding right past Nick. She felt his eyes watch her hips as they undulated with sensuous precision. With each step, her calves tightened and flared, her back muscles swam against her snug T-shirt, and her hair billowed in a non-existent breeze. Nick whistled under his breath. Sheila heard him, and smiled all the more.

"My, my," Nick muttered as he caught up to her. "Slow down a bit, missy. We're not in any hurry, are we?"

Sheila gave him a playful smirk, hoping she looked braver than she felt. "You're not going to tell me, are you?" she said as she cut down her stride. "Why you're acting like you run across tall, green-skinned, purple-haired women every day."

"Well, I don't, to be truthful."

"That a fact?"

"Yes, Ms. Huckaby, and so is this: I've been bucked off by too many ponies and hard women to be frightened by much." His eyes narrowed, but the crooked smile remained.

"To be honest, once I was able to blow the fuzz out my head following our, um, abrupt acquaintance, I got a good look at your face and saw I had nothing to worry about. And that's because I saw more fear in you than I've ever felt myself."

Sheila stopped abruptly and turned toward Nick. For a moment, she looked uncomfortably exposed. She tried to say something but was struck dumb by the painful truth of his words. Her heart began to beat a little faster. She held out her hands to him, and his hands disappeared inside her large, slender fingers. "You know," she said softly, "for a cowboy, you're pretty sharp."

"Yeah, we country folk are just full of surprises," he said, giving her hands a squeeze. "Frankly - Sheila - I just couldn't walk away from someone who obviously has so much jangling in their head. You looked like you needed someone to talk to."

The warmth in her belly was spreading to her chest. Her heartbeats quicked again. She pulled gently on his hands, bringing Sam a few inches closer to her. "I've needed - someone," she said. "I've needed a person who will listen to me, who won't run away. I've needed -"

Nick reached up and ran the back of his hand down the side of Sheila's finely carved face. She closed her eyes at his touch. Something between a hum and a moan rose from her throat. The warmth building inside her pressed upward, starting a buzz in her head. It pressed downward, stoking a fire that was familiar yet unrecognizable.

She opened her eyes, heavy-lidded, and pulled the backpack off her shoulder and placed it gently on the ground. Then she leaned forward, pressing her hips against Nick's stomach and her breasts against his shoulders.

"-I've needed you-"

Sheila and Nick each grabbed a handful of each other's hair and drew themselves together. Sheila parted her lips with a sigh and accepted a deep, probing kiss. Their hands explored, gingerly, tenderly. The buzz in Sheila's head grew louder and more insistent; she knew her body wanted something more, and wanted it now. But she pushed the urge away and focused on Nick's tenderness as his hands studied the small of her back. Nick ended the kiss with a delicate peck on her cheek, then pulled back to gaze at her. Delicate strands of hair streaked her face.

Sheila blinked and a steaming tear rolled out of one eye. Nick took a calloused finger and brushed it away. He frowned slightly. "You OK, girl? If this isn't right for you, if you don't -"

A long, green finger against his mouth hushed him. "No," she said, smiling. "No, I'm just - happy. Or something. It - feels right." Then it was her turn to offer a kiss, pressing her soft, forest-green lips to his. Nick returned her offer, reaching up to cradle her long, powerful neck.

For the next few minutes, in a dusty, grimy and blessedly quiet alley behind a stretch of storefronts in a sleepy, southwestern town, two strangers tumbled into a journey of sweaty discovery. Sheila's head and heart pounded as she grasped the front of Nick's workshirt and pulled. The remaining buttons leaped off their moorings. Nick hands plunged under Sheila's T-shirt and caressed the undulations of her stomach, then traveled up and around and over the high, curving expanses of her breasts. Sheila shivered, then took her free hand and placed it flat against the center of her chest. She slowly curved her fingers and they punched through the material. She drew her hand over and down, pulling a widening gash across the red cotton. Nick opened his eyes at the sound of the tearing and moaned slightly at the expanse of glistening green in front of him.

Sheila heard Nick's reaction and pulled away to look at him. Her breathing was heavy and her heart working so hard that her muscles quivered with each beat. Eyes blazing, she took Nick's head gently in her hands and brushed away a strand of sandy-brown hair. She smiled as she allowed Nick's eyes to caress the statuesque goddess before him.

Wonderful. So wonderful. This is how I'd hoped it would be. Damn, I feel so alive, so -

"Sheila?"

She started, surprised by his voice. Then, looking slightly dazed, she gazed longingly at him. "Hmm?"

"You are," he said evenly, his eyes traveling between her face and her exposed flesh, "the most beautiful woman I have ever met. That I've ever seen."

Their eyes locked for a heartbeat, for three. Sheila's face began to quiver. White puffs of red-hot tears rose from her eyes. She stroked his jawline, ran a hand across his roughly carved chest. She felt lightheaded. She tried to speak, but words wouldn't come. She took a breath, took a second. Then-

"Th-thank you. That means so much to -" Tears turned to sobs. "-to me." With her magnificent body heaving with joy and release, she lunged forward and flung her arms around him. He returned her hug, running his hands up and down her warm, velvety skin.

"Thank you -" she mumbled. Her sinewy arms wrapped around his back, her fingers opening and closing. "Thank you -" Her sobs grew louder. Her fingers balled into fists. She buried her face into his hair. She cried and shook and tightened her embrace.

"Thank you-"

"Sheila -?" His voice was thin, reedy.

"Thank you-"

"Sh-sheila? I-I can't-"

-you can't-

"-so happy-"

-control it-

"Sh-"

K-K-KRAACK!

Nick emitted a long, low groan. His arms fell away from Sheila, who raised her head at the sickening sound. Nick's torso wobbled as if balanced on a crumbling perch. She looked at him in growing horror. His wide-open eyes were vacant. His body listed to the left and a gurgle rose in his throat and gentle waves of blood poured from his mouth.

Sheila, mute with disbelief, released one arm from Nick with the intention of cradling his head. His torso cocked immediately to that open side, twisting unnaturally, collapsing like a discarded puppet. Sheila gasped, still unable to speak but her eyes bulging with the force of growing realization. She looked at her free arm. The hand and wrist were painted with blood.

A plaintive moan rose from her constricted throat. Her body shivered as she lowered Nick gently to the ground. The awful sound of bone grinding against shattered bone echoed off the low buildings. She stroked his face, streaking it with his blood.

"Nick?" she croaked. The fog of shock began to lift, replaced by a rumbling thunder of panic. "Nick?"

- badgirlbadgirlbadgirl-

Sheila began to shuffle backward on her knees, pulling away from the pale body of Nick Trask. "Noooo-" She stumbled to her feet, her arms waving in front of her as if searching for a handhold. "Nooooooo-"

The real world vanished in a green haze as Sheila's fragile psyche was crushed by thunderous blows of horror and pain and fear and guilt. Her arms bulged as she gripped her head and unleashed a silent scream. Her magnificent body convulsed once, twice, then began to shake. Shards of thick, green light exploded out of her skin.

The gamma energy that spawned Sheila's Amazonian body was being ripped from its moorings in a manner much more vicious and violent than the first time she had "de-transformed." Jets of emerald light spewed from her flesh, and somewhere inside her private hell Sheila could feel the nauseous sensations of shifting bone and shrinking organs and growing vulnerability. Her body bucked and shook and collapsed on itself. Deep cuts of carved muscle disappeared into her thighs and arms. The lush green of her skin turned sickly pale then sickly pink. The mane of violet hair vanished, retreating into her skull and changing hue. She nearly collapsed under the dizzying fall from 7-foot-2 to 5-foot-7. Her compression shorts pushed against her shrinking body then became loose around her fleshy, then flabby, waist.

In 15 seconds, it was over. The fireworks dimmed to a dull glow around her body. Sheila Huckaby stood shivering in a baggy T-shirt torn to her navel. Sweat poured down her doughy face and matted her mousy-brown hair. Her thin legs surrendered to shock and drained fatigue as she feel to her knees. A sharp crack of arthritic pain shot through her. Tears, no longer stoked by an inner fire, fell freely. She opened her eyes, and Nick's body was still there.

"Oh, god. Oooh, gaaaawd-" She covered her face with her hands and sobbed. "It's all g-gone wrong. I'm suh-sorry, so sorry-"

She started to crawl to him, unable to stand. Then she stopped short. The backpack was between her and Nick. She stared at the gray material for a heartbeat, then, with quavering hands, pulled the pocket's zipper - and dragged out the gamma rifle.

"Damn it," she whispered. "Damn it! DAMN IT!" She rose to her knees, lifted the rifle and hurled it. It clattered across the alley and came to rest a few feet away.

Sheila stared at the gun for a moment, then looked back at Nick and collapsed to the ground, pressing her face into the dirt.

"I'm sorry, Daddy-"

* * *

Five hundred miles away, a khaki-shirted technician pulled off a headset and swiveled his chair to face a man in a crisp, white labcoat. "Doctor, confidence is high that the subject has achieved non-lethal status."

The eyes behind Emil Blonsky's thick, dark-rimmed glasses widened. A thin smile crossed his pale, angular face. "Well done, gentlemen. A bit messier than I would have hoped, but still effective. Major, scramble the retrieval unit. Let's bring her in."

"Yes, doctor."

Blonsky turned and walked deliberately across the dimly lighted control room, stopping at a monitor that displayed twirling three-dimensional images of Sheila Huckaby's human and superhuman aspects. He slid a bony finger across the glass.

"Congratulations, Sheila," he muttered. "At the relatively cheap cost of one undercover operative, you've built a prison for your enhanced self that's stronger than anything I could have conceived."