Batman 4 - Batman & Robin (5 page)

“It’s drillin’ up through the floor!” he wailed. “Ya better getcher butts down here!”

Clayton didn’t think twice. He came running, though he was farther away than any of the other guards. He didn’t know what the blazes Sanchez was talking about, but if there was some kind of action in the museum, he was determined to be in on it.

How else was he going to prove what he’d been saying all his life—about that ice water in his veins?

Clayton went down the stairs two at a time, heading for the first floor. By the time he rounded the World of Lizards exhibit, the high-pitched whining had stopped. So had Sanchez’s calls for help.

Pouring it on, Clayton sprinted through the Hall of Man and Wonders of the Weather. Up ahead and around the bend, in the vicinity of the central rotunda, there was something going on. He could hear sounds, though he couldn’t identify any of them.

Then he turned the corner and he saw what was happening. And it took his breath away—just as if he’d been belly-whomped with a milk bucket.

Inside the rotunda, the nose of a giant drilling truck was protruding through the rubble of the shattered museum floor. And everything—the mighty brontosaurus that dominated the rotunda and a host of other exotic antiquities—
everything
was covered in a layer of thick, blue ice.

Out of the corner of his eye, Clayton saw movement and whirled to face it, gun in hand. Across the way, a case with a gigantic gem in it was beginning to glow. First blue, then white. And in a matter of a few seconds, the case exploded into a thousand flying fragments.

Through the storm of ice and glass, Clayton heard a peal of laughter. He traced it to its source.

Across the frozen floor. Past snow-covered mock-ups of Aztec ruins. Up the stone steps of a pyramidal altar.

To a tall, broad, silver-suited figure, holding aloft what looked like a massive bazooka—no doubt the weapon that had shattered the display case—in savage but silent celebration of his triumph.

There were heavy metal boots on his feet, heavy metal gauntlets on his forearms, and a heavy metal shell protecting his upper body. His transparent helmet revealed a bizarre, bluish countenance rimed with frost.

As if he could feel Clayton’s gaze on him, the figure turned to face him. Eyes like ice chips focused on him, made him feel like an insect.
Less
than an insect. And suddenly, Clayton knew who the intruder was, though until now he’d only heard about him.

It was the villain known as Mr. Freeze.

But Freeze didn’t look like a man. Gazing down haughtily from on high, holding his fearsome weapon aloft, he looked like some wintry god of evil—some high-tech monster hungering for his soul. And as much as Clayton tried to tell himself that was impossible, that such things didn’t exist, his trembling knees were far from convinced.

“The Iceman cometh,” Freeze intoned, in a voice as cold and flat and lifeless as the arctic wastes.

Then, almost as an afterthought, he cracked a smile at his little joke. And turned in the direction of the Aztec ruins.

Following his stare, Clayton saw something he had missed the first time—something that had been added to the exhibit. Three dark-suited figures, frozen in various postures with guns in their hands.

Sanchez and the others. Iced solid before they could interfere with Freeze’s plans. Clayton grimaced at the horror of it.

Suddenly, he felt his arms grabbed from behind. He squeezed his trigger, but the shot went awry. Then someone ripped the gun from his hand.

Unable to get a good look at his assailants, he struggled to free himself—but to no avail. As he was dragged to the base of the pyramid steps, he saw Freeze bring his weapon down and train it on him.

Clayton’s heart was pounding in his chest, threatening to choke him. His legs were made of rubber. He swallowed hard, trying to find his voice.

“Please,” he begged Mr. Freeze. “Have mercy . . .”

The figure in the silver suit descended slowly, majestically. He was shimmering, terrifying. And he seemed to like the idea.

“I’m afraid,” he said, peering into Clayton’s eyes, “that my condition has left me cold to your pleas.”

Then, without warning, he fired his gun. A beam of energy shot out, engulfing the guard in its hideous, pale glow. He could feel every process in his body slowing down, going numb.

At long last, there was no disputing it. Clayton Krupzic definitely had ice water in his veins.

Freeze didn’t let up on his cryonic beam until the guard was frozen solid. Then he reached out with his gloved fist and knocked on the man’s icy cheek. The sound he heard was a hollow one.

“A copsicle,” he observed.

His gang of thugs, whom he had dubbed the Icemen, chuckled among themselves as they skated backward in their thermal suits. They were giving Freeze the space he craved—the space he deserved. He had trained them well, he mused.

Then he approached the shattered display case. With care not to puncture his suit, he began to wipe away the fragments of glass and steel.

“A brief lesson on the ways of the universe,” he said to no one in particular. “Some substances are invulnerable to the heat of a thousand suns. There are stones that defy the weight of mountains piled on their backs. Certain subatomic particles exist forever and will outlive God himself. But in this universe,” he pontificated, “there is only one absolute. Only one thing you can always depend on. Everything . . .”

He lifted a tremendous diamond from the debris of the display case. It sparkled magnificently in his hand.

“. . . freezes,”
he said, completing his thought.

Freeze held the diamond high over his helmeted head. The light lanced through it, eliciting rainbows of color, making it shine more brilliantly than any star.

“From perfect beauty,” he announced, “I will bring back . . . life.”

Suddenly, the skylight seemed to explode, scattering daggers of glass that made the remains of the display case look like splinters. And in the wake of that unexpected explosion, Batman came plummeting into the room, his cape a huge, outflung shadow that darkened even the brilliance of the gem.

B
efore Freeze could move a muscle, Batman hit the ice-covered brontosaurus and came sliding down its neck. Plowing into the villain feetfirst, the Dark Knight dislodged the diamond from his grasp and sent it skittering across the frozen floor.

Clenching his teeth, Freeze turned his cryonic weapon on his adversary. “Bat on ice, anyone?”

Abruptly, Batman kicked the cryo-gun out of Freeze’s hands and snatched it out of the air. “Didn’t your mother ever tell you not to play with guns?” he asked in that low, ominous voice of his.

Moving quickly, Freeze launched a kick of his own—and sent the gun pinwheeling out of Batman’s possession. Then he snatched it in turn.

“You’re not sending me to the cooler,” he said.

Before Batman could respond, Freeze fired. But his enemy dodged the blast. Undaunted, Freeze took aim again.

That’s when the front doors of the museum blew open—admitting Gotham’s other costumed crime fighter. Robin came soaring through the air on his motorbike, a grin on his face as if there were nothing in the world he’d rather be doing than risking his life.

Freeze was so distracted by the entrance, he didn’t see Batman kick at his gun again. He just felt the impact and saw the weapon ascend in a high, twirling arc.

At first, Freeze thought it was headed for Robin’s hand. But Batman’s protégé didn’t catch it. Sailing over Freeze’s head on his bike, he kicked the airborne gun onto the altar atop the pyramid.

“Score!” Robin laughed. “And the crowd goes wild!”

Then he landed, laying his bike sideways in a long, slippery slide across the floor. To keep from slamming into the wall, Robin grabbed a Roman statue of Mercury and used it to whip around in a dismount.

Batman went for Freeze. Robin was right behind him.

How dramatic,
thought Freeze.
How inspiring.
His own outlook tended to be more down to earth. More succinct.

“Grab the gem,” he told his Icemen. “Kill the heroes.”

Until now, his hirelings had been holding back, awaiting his orders. Now they rushed forward, hockey masks in place, sticks flailing as they closed with the caped intruders.

“It’s the hockey team from hell,” Robin wisecracked.

He didn’t know how right he was, Freeze mused, as he raced toward the altar and his fallen gun. But he never quite got there.

There was a rush of dark security uniforms from a side door Freeze hadn’t paid much attention to. And before he could reach the top of the pyramid, they were swarming all over him.

It turned out to be a mistake. A
big
mistake—but not for Freeze.

After all, he was their superior in every way. A living weapon designed to survive, to endure, to
win
—while they were doughnut-chomping nobodies off the streets of Gotham.

With speed and precision, he began whaling on the guards. Hooks, jabs, upper and lower cuts—all perfectly delivered, if he did say so himself. And the inevitable result?

He looked at the uniformed figures sprawled all around him. Not a single one was still conscious.

“Cop-suey,” he spat.

Then he remembered his gun, still atop the altar. Showing the rent-a-cops the disdain they deserved, he turned his back on them and went for it.

Batman blocked a swinging stick with his left hand, then kicked the offending Iceman in the ribs. Sensing danger from behind, he ducked and allowed a second Iceman to sail over his back. Then he punched the first one, sending him sprawling across the room.

A glance told him Robin was holding his own as well. But they weren’t getting any closer to the giant gem the Icemen were defending.

Glancing at Freeze, Batman saw the villain ascending the pyramid, a string of guards littering the floor at its base. Clearly, the villain had to be the priority now.

Touching a stud on his belt, he popped a pair of skates out of the soles of his boots, took a couple of running steps to get up some momentum, and wove an intricate path through the Icemen.

En route, he bowled one over and grabbed his stick. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that Robin had done the same. Together, they raced across the room on narrow steel blades, momentarily free of Freeze’s henchmen, and headed for the pyramid.

But by then, Freeze had made it to his gun. Grasping it, he turned and fired, creating an ice bridge to the floor.

“Caution,” he said, his voice devoid of inflection—and all the more sinister for it. “Bridge may ice over.”

And with that, he slid down the ice bridge to the floor below. Then he began sprinting toward his giant drilling truck.

Batman had to make a choice—and quickly. Freeze or the gem. He clapped Robin on the shoulder.

“You get the ice,” he told his compatriot. “I’ll get the Iceman.”

“Gotcha,” said Robin.

Batman didn’t watch him make his way back through the maze of thugs—there was no time. But he did hear a series of grunts and curses that told him Robin was doing his job.

Now it was time for Batman to do his.

As Freeze raced for his truck, the Dark Knight was closing fast. Fast enough, perhaps, to prevent a clean getaway. Certainly, Freeze seemed to think so—because he spun around in mid-run and fired his cryo-gun.