by Len Wein
Straining against the incredible G-force pressing him to the floor, Spider-Man forced himself off his stomach, to his knees. Then, with one tremendous burst of energy, he kicked free of the insanely spinning surface, somersaulting in midair to slam haphazardly against the wall. He clung to it desperately; then slowly, fighting off his dizziness, he began walking along the wall toward a steel-shuttered door at the opposite end of the room.
Reaching the door, the Wall-crawler grasped the edges of the steel barrier in his gloved hands and pulled. The muscles of his arms and back stood out in stark relief against the colors of his costume. Slowly, ever so slowly, the metallic panel began to bow, to buckle, and finally, to burst free of its moorings entirely.
Tossing the ruined panel aside, Spider-Man moved on into the darkness of another corridor. But this time there was a light at the end of the tunnel—a thin sliver of light streaming out from beneath an almost-closed door.
The Web-slinger’s spider-sense was tingling violently as he softly pushed the door open. Doctor Octopus was in the room beyond, sitting silently at a bizarre controlboard, his back to the cautious Spider-Man. For an instant, the Wall-crawler hesitated, weighing his options. Then, as if knowing all along what he would ultimately do, he leaped.
And Doctor Octopus exploded!
Instinctively, Spider-Man curled himself into a ball, but the force of the explosion still hurled him savagely into the wall. Around him the chamber began to disassemble; wallboard splintered like matchwood, the ceiling supports were shorn through, and it began to rain rubble.
In seconds, the ceiling gave way completely, filling the ruptured chamber with tons of torn and twisted fun house paraphernalia. It was more than the already-rotting pier that supported the fun house could bear. With a groan like the deathcry of a dinosaur, the pier collapsed, spraying the beach with smoldering ruins and shattered memories.
And somewhere beneath all the twisted metal and charred, smoking wood lay whatever was left of the Amazing Spider-Man.
Twelve
The tide came in slowly at first, lapping gently, almost curiously, at the broken, blackened timbers. Then, gaining courage, it began to wash the dreadful ruins of the Happy Daze Fun House clean of the stench of death, covering more and more of the wreckage with every rolling wave.
Spider-Man was still unconscious when the first wave broke over his head, filling his mouth and nostrils. He didn’t stay unconscious for long. Choking and sputtering, he lifted his head from the sand, shaking it violently to clear away the cobwebs. Every bone in his body ached, including several he hadn’t even known he had, and he was certain he was covered with bruises. If I’m dead, he thought, Hell is not nearly what its cracked up to be.
Another wave washed over him. And if I’m alive, I’m in trouble.
Gingerly, he attempted to move his legs, only to find them pinned beneath what looked to be the remains of Doctor Octopus’s control room. He could barely feel his toes. An entire section of wall, about twelve feet across and three feet wide, lay across his back. Cripes! I’m pinned under this mess—and the tide is coming in!
He managed to turn his head in time to avoid the next wave. Somewhat desperately, he considered his situation. That he had survived at all was a miracle in itself. Apparently, the section of wall that now rested across his back had formed a canopy of sorts, protecting him from the bulk of the falling rubble. Unfortunately that same piece of masonry now threatened to kill him all by its lonesome, unless he could free himself from its oppressive weight before the incoming tide covered him completely—and permanently.
Tensing his arms, the Web-slinger struggled to push himself upright, but the overwhelming weight of the rubble above him pinned him to the wet beach like a butterfly to a corkboard. He collapsed in frustration as the next wave slammed his head into the sand. Again he tried to free himself, and again he failed. At last he just lay there, gasping for breath.
“Somehow I always knew it would end like this,” he said as he strained to ease his tortured muscles. “Fate didn’t even have the decency to send me off in a blaze of glory. Instead, here I am on a miserable, God-forsaken Coney Island beach. No one even knows I’m out here. And what’s worse, no one cares. No one has ever cared.
“I’ve done everything I could to make them like me, gone out on a limb for them a thousand times—and all anyone has ever done for me is try to cut down the tree.
“Well, you’ve finally won, you ungrateful vultures—you’ve finally gotten what you’ve been waiting for—and it’s about what you deserve!” He was shouting to everyone and no one, but the anger was good because it helped distract him from his pain.
Once more he strained, and this time something shifted in the rubble above him. Then another wave—stronger, heavier, wilder than those that had come before—suddenly thrust his face into the sand, holding it there for an eternity, until the frothing waters lost their power and meekly receded.
“Come on, what are you waiting for? Finish me already! The sooner I’m gone, the sooner you can start the party. That’s one party J. Jonah Jameson has been waiting to cater for years. Freebies for everyone! Come dance on Spider-Man’s grave!
“Just one more wave like the last one, that’s all it’ll take. And tomorrow, when they find the body, they can tear off the mask and see what they’ve been frightened of all this time—just a misbegotten little college kid named . . .
“No! What am I saying? If they find out I’m Peter Parker, so will Aunt May—and God knows what will happen then.
“Got to fight this—got to get up—got to live! Not for my sake—but for hers!”
Again he sank his fingers into the sand and braced his back for another effort. Grimly, he pushed upward, watching his hands disappear beneath the sand. He felt his shoulders tighten. His forearms began to tremble with the strain; he could feel his neck muscles bulge, his back muscles begin to pop. Above him, something shifted slightly in the rubble, but that was all.
The weight was simply too much, too heavy even for Spider-Man. Still, he continued to push. He had to keep pushing, or die.
The next wave was the most powerful of all. It slammed into the straining Wall-crawler, throwing him off-balance. He sprawled face-first into the sand, and the rubble-strewn wall crashed down upon him.
Beneath his mask, he shut his eyes, and his mouth became a thin, hard line. With an almost insane determination, he began to strain against his overpowering burden once more, accepting the mind-numbing pain he felt, using it, turning pain into anger, turning anger into strength. Ignoring all reality, his arms became steel pillars, his back a wedge of iron. He was determined to live—and damn it, that was precisely what he was going to do.
Another wave smashed into him, but this time he held his ground. His fingers were sunk into the sand like anchors. He simply would not budge.
“You haven’t gotten rid of me yet, blast you! I’m going to live, Octopus. You hear me? I’m going to live!”
He arched his back, and suddenly his right leg was free of the wreckage. He pulled it beneath him. His monstrous burden had been moved, if only slightly.
“Sometimes you need a reason to fight, Octopus. Sometimes you need a goal. Well, I’ve got my reason now, Doctor, and my goal—and you’re going to live to regret it.
“I’ve got someone out there who cares about me, Octopus, someone who loves the me beneath this lousy mask, and if she thinks I’m worth saving—well, who am I to argue?”
His chest was better than a foot off the sand now. His back ached with the awesome weight riding on his shoulders, but still he refused to surrender. He was Spider-Man—and for the first time in quite a while, that meant something.
He drew a deep breath as another wave crashed toward him—huge, ferocious, roaring like a hungry dragon. It swept over him savagely, but still he wouldn’t give way.
Now he was up on one knee—now on the other, shifting his weight, strengthening his posture. His muscles bunched; they groaned as he steeled hi
mself for a final herculean effort. With a scream of triumph swelling his chest, he at last hurled the wall of rubble from him, and stood erect once more.
For a time, he just stood there, feeling giddy, light-headed, watching the tide roll in and sweep across the ruins, then roll away again. On the horizon, the deep blue was streaked with the first pink rays of morning.
It was the beginning of a new day, and Spider-Man was still among the living.
Thirteen
Mott Street in Manhattan’s famous Chinatown is a bustling center of activity almost twenty-four hours a day. Gaily colored pagoda-topped buildings set this section of the city apart. It has an ethnic grace matched nowhere else in the metropolitan area.
Everywhere you turn, you are confronted by the inevitable gift shops and restaurants you would expect to find in such a Mecca for tourists—though the crass commercialism is offset somewhat by two magnificent Buddhist temples that call the faithful to worship. Late into the night, these narrow winding streets are crammed with the wide-eyed and curious. On this night, J. Jonah Jameson and Joe Robertson walked among them.
At ten minutes to twelve, several hours before Spider-Man’s death-defying escapade at Coney Island, they stood before a pagoda-capped telephone booth at the corner of Mott Street and Pell, awaiting a call. Robbie’s conversation with Whisper O’Conner had led them to one Willie “Three-Fingers” Grabowski, who in turn had directed them to the Bowery and the offices of the Ditko Lighting Corporation. Its manager, Mr. Stephen Fong, a naturalized American, had pointed them toward this particular phone booth, where he said they would receive a call of great interest at precisely ten minutes past midnight.
Jameson lit his third cigar of the evening and proceeded to chew the butt to a pulpy mess. “Why doesn’t this confounded contraption ring, Robbie? Do they have any idea who they’re keeping waiting here? I’ve got a newspaper to run, blast it. I can’t waste an entire night here.”
“Hey, take it easy, Jonah. You’re the one who wanted us to play Woodward and Bernstein, remember? Besides, you’ve gotten us here twenty minutes early, and all the impatience in the world won’t make the phone ring a second sooner than it’s supposed to. Now just calm down a little, relax. You’ll live a lot longer that way.”
“Relax, he says. Relax? What are you, Robertson—my city editor or my doctor? I can’t relax, not now. All my reporter’s instincts tell me we’re on to the biggest story of this century, and you want me to relax. Robbie, you’ve got to be kidding.”
At midnight, the tide of tourists suddenly ebbed, leaving the fragrant streets of Chinatown all but empty. A chill wind moaned between the buildings. At precisely ten minutes past twelve the telephone rang, and J. Jonah Jameson stepped hastily into the booth.
“Hello? Yes, this is J. Jonah Jameson. What’s that? What? Speak up, will you? I can’t understand a word you’re saying.” In frustrated fury Jameson shouted into the phone, but his only reply was a thin stream of mustard-colored gas that suddenly poured from the holes in the receiver. Coughing violently, Jonah struggled to cover his nose and mouth with his handkerchief, but he wasn’t fast enough. A final strangling gasp, and the hapless publisher buckled at the knees, slumping to the floor of the phone booth in an untidy heap.
Instantly Joe Robertson was at his side, struggling to force the phone booth door open despite the fact that Jameson’s dead weight was sprawled against it. So involved was he in his efforts that he failed to notice the three burly figures closing in around him—until it was too late.
His arms were suddenly pinned to his sides. Robbie struggled desperately, pulling one arm free and slamming a powerful fist into a fleshy face. “Watch his arms, you idiots. He’s stronger than he looks,” the man gasped from between his bloodied teeth.
“Don’t sweat it, Hank. I’ve got a good shot at this sucker. Just hold him, okay?”
Robertson tensed at the words, expecting a bullet. He glanced at his assailants and saw a meaty hand holding a pistol—by the barrel. He barely had time to register the sight before that same pistol slashed across the side of his head, sending him sprawling to the street, unconscious.
“Now what’d you do that for?”
“What are you complaining about, Hank? He’s still breathing, ain’t he?”
“And lucky for you he is. If you’d offed this dude, the boss wouldn’t have liked it. No, he wouldn’t have liked that at all.”
Pressing the back of his hand to his still-bleeding mouth, the thug called Hank checked himself for loose teeth. Then he helped bundle the limp Joe Robertson into the back seat of a stolen station wagon that had pulled up alongside them. A moment later, and Jameson was sprawled across the seat as well. The station wagon grumbled off into the darkness.
By twelve-thirty, the streets of Chinatown were once again busy and bustling, filled with the sound of music and laughter.
But this time the sound was not very joyful.
He still ached. It had been more than twelve hours since his escape from the fun house ruins, but every inch of Spider-Man’s body throbbed like a hundred-dollar hangover. Even as he scaled the grimy exterior of the Daily Bugle building, he paused now and again in the gathering twilight to massage his right shoulder, the one which had taken the brunt of the impact when the fun house had fallen.
With practiced grace he glided up the smooth stone wall, stopping outside the Daily Bugle’s microfilm library. The window was conveniently unlocked, and the Wall-crawler entered unseen. There was information here, certain records that needed to be examined in detail, and there was no way Peter Parker could gain access to them now, not since J. Jonah Jameson had fired him.
There was a part of him that still could not accept it, could not believe the man had actually done it. He’d expected to bluff Jameson, force him to back down, or force some sort of compromise at the very worst. Unfortunately, the very worst was far worse than Parker had ever imagined it could be. How was he supposed to pay his tuition without a job? How was he supposed to pay his rent? As if he didn’t already have enough to worry about, right?
Neatly stacked filing boxes lined the microfilm library’s walls. Within these boxes, the Bugle’s entire publishing history was reduced to so many strips of celluloid. It would take the Web-slinger days to go through all of it, but with luck that would not be necessary. All he had to do was check over the past few years, in hopes of uncovering some sort of link, no matter how vague, between Doctor Octopus and any of the eight major oil companies.
Forty-five minutes later he found what he was looking for. It was a slim lead, but it was all he had time to search for right now. Beggars could rarely afford to be choosy, especially when they wore grotesque crimson masks and were wanted for murder in the first degree. All things considered, he was happy to settle for what he’d found, rather than press his luck. He was turning back toward the window when he heard the sound of the door opening behind him.
“Hello? Hey, anybody in here?”
Sam Mandelbaum looked around the room, saw no one, then pushed his peaked watchman’s cap back a bit and scratched his head. “Could’ve sworn I heard somebody in here.”
He walked across the room and nudged shut a filing box that had been left slightly open. “Look at this place, files open, lights left on. There are times I think maybe old man Jameson’s got the right idea. Ain’t nobody appreciates nothing these days less they have to pay for it.”
Shaking his head reproachfully, Sam turned out the lights and closed the door softly behind him. He did not hear the sigh of relief that followed his departure.
Nor did he see the gaudily garbed figure that suddenly dropped from the ceiling and scurried out the window to be lost in the shadows of the streetlights.
Fourteen
The city streets were a blur below him as Spider-Man hurtled between Manhattan’s jutting skyscrapers, heading south. He had picked up a rather interesting snippet of information at the Bugle, and he was determined to check it out.
Several mil
es off the New York City coast stood a unique experimental oil-drilling platform. Co-sponsored in its construction by the eight major oil companies, primarily as a public relations ploy, it had been, interestingly enough, designed in part by a certain Doctor Otto Octavius, in the days just prior to the accident that had transformed him into the maniacal Doctor Octopus.
Considering all the elements involved in this caper, it was a lead the Web-slinger could ill afford to ignore, though he had no idea what he might be looking for once he reached the floating platform.
Assuming, of course, he ever reached it at all.
As he passed Madison Square Garden, his spider-sense suddenly began tingling. The Knicks were playing there tonight, but somehow Spider-Man doubted their losing a game would be the sort of thing to activate his innate sense of danger. Unfortunately, he was right.
The Wall-crawler glanced down to see a grimy yellow taxi cab careening up Eighth Avenue, a retinue of police cars following close behind with sirens blaring.
Uh-oh. An honest-to-Starsky-and-Hutch car chase. Wonder what’s going on. Wonder if I should—
No, blast it! This doesn’t concern me. In fact, I probably shouldn’t get involved, even if I want to. If I do, I’m liable to end up with cops crawling all over me. Have to remember I still have a murder charge hanging over me.
He turned away from the speeding cars for a moment, heading crosstown. Then he paused, clinging to the side of a building, and looked back along Eighth Avenue. There, several blocks in front of the cab and its pursuers, a stoop-shouldered old man, bundled tight against the chill, was hobbling across the street, a white-tipped cane leading his way.
Lord, no! That old man is blind! And he’s walking right into the path of those kill-crazy cars! Instantly, his fingers pressed the trigger of his web-shooter, filing a thick strand of webbing at the cornice of a particularly tall building along Thirty-seventh Street, and Spider-Man launched himself from his perch with a powerful kick. He had to save that old man. Nothing else mattered now, not the threat of capture and arrest, not even the fear of being publicly unmasked.
