Gods of Manhattan

by Al Ewing

  He'd never found Silken Dragon's body.

  He put that thought out of his mind - right now, he needed to concentrate on survival. The only advantage he had in this open space was that inexorium bullets were so prohibitively expensive. The Spider would not have too many. One hit near his feet, chewing into the tile and concrete and spitting up fragments. Unlike an ordinary bullet, it would not distort on impact, like the one that had passed so effortlessly through this shoulder, that one could be recycled if someone dug it up.

  And if there was a moral to the last few days, it was that nothing ever stayed buried.

  Doc hurled himself behind the abandoned sushi stall - a massive thing the size of a car and normally staffed by two smiling brothers from Kyoto - seconds before a third bullet plowed through the wasabi tray and out of the back, missing him by inches.

  I've got to keep him on the high ground, Doc thought. If he's firing those things into the ground, that's one thing. If he fires them horizontally through a wall, people in the street outside are going to start losing major organs. He waited for another shot - nothing came. The Spider was waiting for him to make a break. With the price of magic bullets these days, he can't afford to waste them. How many does he have left?

  His shoulder was already clotting, but it'd be useless for at least a day, maybe two. He'd probably have to rebreak the bone so it regenerated properly. He thought of Miles Hamilton then, of how he'd supervised such operations in the past, and frowned. "Spider!"

  "I have nothing to say to you, Thunder. We're past conversation at this point."

  "You set this up." He rubbed his wounded shoulder with his free hand. "You told Venger to get my blood, didn't you? He was acting on your orders!"

  The Blood-Spider laughed, that terrible laugh from some ultimate circle of Hell. "Don't be a fool!"

  "It makes too much sense to be coincidence!" Thunder roared. "You shot Monk because you knew how I'd react! You knew I'd do anything to save him! And you had your pet, Venger, waiting!"

  Another echoing laugh.

  "I thought you were a scientist, Thunder. Don't fudge the evidence to fit your hypothesis. Venger was working for another player. Someone Untergang would dearly like to meet. Tell me, Doctor, before I end your life, do you have any idea what 'fifty fifty' could mean? Venger kept repeating it."

  Doc shook his head. Venger had mentioned it during their conversation on the hospital roof, almost as a taunt. Fifty fifty. Equal odds. Six of one, half a dozen of the other. What did it mean?

  "I'm afraid my Nazi party membership seems to have lapsed, Spider. So as much as I'd like to help you bring your fascist insanity to my town, I'm afraid you're right - we're beyond conversation."

  "Then die!"

  Another bullet chewed through a tray of cucumber rolls, then the wood and metal of the trolley, and finally tore denim, grazing Doc Thunder's leg and leaving him with a red, burning line of agony against his thigh. Another shot would probably puncture his belly. And again, there was that cruel, murderous laugh, echoing with pure, uncontrollable evil.

  Doc Thunder wondered how long the Blood-Spider had been mad.

  "Give it up, Doctor. I'll make it quick for you. Come on, there's no way you can win! Look at the mathematics! I've got bullets that can blow through anything you hide behind like it was tissue paper, and what have you got? Nothing!"

  "I beg to differ."

  Doc grabbed hold of the bottom of the sushi cart, testing its weight. Slightly under three quarters of a ton. He took a firm grip on it-

  -and then he stood up.

  Behind the implacable lenses of his mask, the Blood-Spider's eyes widened. "No. It can't be! It can't be!"

  Doc Thunder stood, one arm hanging limp at his side, the other raised above his head, three quarters of a ton of metal and wood sat in his palm as if it were a Frisbee, slivers of raw fish and rice and glittering chips of ice tumbling from the trays balanced precariously on top of the massive cart. "Oh yes it can."

  He grinned a wolfish grin.

  "Heads up."

  With his one good arm, he threw the cart like a baseball, aiming it straight at the Blood-Spider's head. The Spider reacted instantly, hurling himself from his high perch up on the arches as the cart exploded into matchwood where he'd been standing just a moment before.

  He turned in the air, reaching out with his free hand to touch the smooth pillar, and Doc noticed for the first time that upon the Blood-Spider's gloves and the soles of his boots were dozens of tiny suction cups. He watched, fascinated, as these devices allowed the Blood-Spider to slow his fall, skidding down the smooth marble pillar with a squeal of rubber on stone, turning a fall which would surely have shattered his shinbones into splinters into something which he could walk away from.

  Doc Thunder did not intend to let him walk away.

  He charged forward, pulling back his good hand, balling it into a fist. The Blood-Spider reacted instinctively, leaping off the pillar and going into a tuck and roll just as Thunder's massive fist crashed into the pillar where he had been, smashing a huge chunk out of the ornate stone. Another man might have broken his hand. Doc Thunder barely even skinned his knuckles.

  The Blood-Spider rolled back onto his feet, the automatic in his hand spitting another of the deadly inexorium bullets through the meat of Thunder's thigh. Thunder cried out through gritted teeth, sinking down onto one knee, clutching at the wound, trying to staunch the flow from his femoral artery long enough for it to clot.

  Too bad the mysterious Mr. Fifty isn't around to take my blood now, he thought. There's a pint or three here he could soak up, if he brought a sponge...

  Something about that nagged at him. Fifty fifty...

  Behind him, the Blood-Spider rose to his full height.

  "It's a wound that would probably kill a normal man, unless it was treated instantly. All you have to do is keep yourself from losing too much blood, and you'll be fine. It does mean you can't move your leg, or move your hands away from your leg. You're as helpless as a kitten until the flow stops... but that's a small price to pay, isn't it? You'd probably be able to stand on that leg in a few minutes... if you had a few minutes."

  Doc winced. The Spider had a point. If he took his hand off the wound, he'd be dead in seconds, his own superhuman heart forcing the blood out of him like a water cannon. There was no way he could reach and disarm him without dying.

  The Blood-Spider examined his automatic, taking his time. "One bullet left. It's a shame, really, Donner. Just think, if not for Strucker's unfortunate little heart problem, you might have been the leader of a new race of Nazi Supermen. Something to think about on your road to the grave."

  He raised the gun, aiming the barrel directly at Thunder's head.

  "Goodbye, Doc Thunder -"

  A sword spun out of the darkness above, whirring around and around like the twirled baton in a marching band, the razor point of it slicing across the Blood-Spider's forearm, leaving a deep gash and causing his wrist to jerk, sending the fatal bullet off course to lodge inside the thick marble pillar behind Thunder's head. The sword clanged against the marble floor, bounced in a shivering arc, then slid a few more feet, slowly spinning, and came to a gentle stop.

  The Blood-Spider screamed, roaring both with the pain of his slashed forearm and the rage of knowing that he had missed his last chance to kill Doc Thunder. He looked at the sword, the eyes behind the lenses narrowed in furious agony, then threw his gun to one side and reached for it, a trickle of blood coursing down his wounded arm and onto the blade.

  He could still kill Thunder. There were weak points - the eyes, the mouth, anywhere one of his bullets had already pierced flesh and the wound had not closed. He would thrust the sword through the eye and into the brain, or through the shoulder wound and down into the heart, quickly, before Thunder could react. And if he raised his hand to prevent it, if he took his hand away from the torn artery that threatened to release his life's blood onto the marbled floor - that would also kill him. />
  The Spider gripped the sword's hilt. He could still do this. He could still -

  "Amigo... that's my sword."

  The voice came from the darkness above them, where the gaslight did not reach. The Spider's blood ran cold for a long moment, and then he grabbed hold of his other gun, tearing it from its holster and raising it to fire a volley of bullets into the darkness. "Where are you? Show yourself!" he hissed, turning in place, the gun raised to fire at the slightest sound or movement.

  "You're not the only one who can hide in the shadows, my friend. I've got very good at it, over the years."

  The Spider whirled around and fired off another three shots, aiming where he thought the voice might have come from, expecting a cry of pain, a falling body, but only hearing the sounds of lead impacting against the plaster of the roof and the sound of his shell casings tinkling against the echoing marble floor. "Where are you? WHERE ARE YOU?" Suddenly his mask felt hot, constricting. He could smell his own sweat in it, feel it pressing against his cheeks, his forehead. "No. No, no, no..."

  "Old man Donner was right about you, amigo. Right about the other you, I mean. Parker Crane."

  "Shut up! That's not my name!" the Spider screamed, helplessly, shrieking it into the darkness. "Show yourself!" Another volley of shots, with no result. Was he throwing his voice? Was he everywhere at once? Was he a shadow himself? A ghost?

  The voice echoed from another place now, continuing his speech exactly where he had left off. "He said you were crazy, and under pressure you were going to crack up. Okay, that's all he said about you, but that was enough. That told me you were worth watching."

  "Shut up!" Another volley of shots into the darkness, and now the gun was light in his hand and the floor was littered with the cases of wasted shells. And still that mocking voice echoed from the shadows above.

  "See, I didn't know if you were a good guy or a bad guy. I mean, sure, you killed people, and you were kind of a dick about it, you know? But I didn't know if you were one of the bastards. I didn't know if you needed to die or not, amigo."

  "I said shut -" The Spider whirled, aiming the gun and pulling the trigger, sending another bullet screaming off at nothing-

  - and then the gun clicked empty.

  He was out of bullets.

  He turned, looking at Doc Thunder, and saw him take his hand away from his leg, revealing a pulsing red scab. In another moment, maybe two, he'd be able to stand.

  He turned again, and there was the man in the red mask. Just standing there, in the middle of the concourse. His smile didn't look human. And his eyes. Oh, his terrible eyes...

  "Stay back." The Spider whispered, and his voice sounded in his ears like a frightened, animal thing, waiting to curl up and die in its hole.

  The man in the red mask only laughed. A rich, deep, joyous laugh, a laugh that echoed and filled the whole station, bouncing from pillar to pillar, careening through the great vaulted arches. Such a laugh!

  Then the laughter stopped, and he fixed the Blood-Spider with a look that would freeze the fires of Hell.

  "My sword. Don't make me ask again."

  And suddenly - quite suddenly - there was no Blood-Spider.

  There was only Parker Crane, the Nazi. Parker Crane, the traitor. Parker Crane, who thought he could destroy America, and only managed to destroy himself.

  Parker Crane. Just a man wearing a mask.

  He ran, and left the sword behind him.

  Doc Thunder watched, bemused, as the Spider - what was his name? Crane? - hurled the sword away from him and bolted from the concourse. "Nice trick," he murmured, turning to the masked man. "Throwing your sword from up on the balcony - good aim, by the way - then throwing your voice and a little mental suggestion to make him think you were up in the arches where he'd been. My hat's off. Where did you learn that?"

  The masked man shrugged, lifting up his weapon, checking that the impact against the marble floor hadn't damaged it. "In the desert. You can learn a lot in the desert, if you put your mind to it."

  "Good psychology, too." Doc nodded, gently prodding the healing wound. He could feel the muscles knitting together. Not long now. "Although I think whatever you did there might have pushed him over the edge of whatever mental breakdown he was heading towards..."

  "Just my latin charm, amigo," shrugged the masked man, looking at the wound slowly healing in Thunder's leg. "Ouch. You need a doctor?"

  Doc Thunder blinked. Latin. He shook his head. "Give me a second." He gritted his teeth, and put his weight on the damaged leg. It wasn't too agonising. Slowly, he stood. "I think I'm good to go. We need to get after him before he loses himself. He's a danger to the general public, and besides, he needs to pay for what he did to Monk." He turned to the masked man, putting out his hand, smiling ruefully. "I owe you an apology, by the way. I was wrong to accuse you."

  The masked man laughed. "Well, maybe I was wrong to call you a monster, hey? Nobody gets to choose their parents, my friend." His palm slapped against Thunder's, and they shook.

  "I don't think I caught your name, by the way." Doc Thunder smiled.

  "El Sombra." said El Sombra.

  And then two highly trained police officers burst into Grand Central Station and began shooting at him.

  A minute earlier, Crane pulled off his mask, quickly folding the leather part flat and sliding it into his inside coat-pocket, and dove into the crowd outside the station. A cop grabbed his shoulder, and another leant into his face, scowling. "Hey, buddy, don't you know nobody gets to go in there? Doc Thunder's orders!"

  "I -" Crane's face was a mass of sweat and raw panic. "I went to the toilet. When I came out, it was all happening! A man in a mask... I think he's an illegal alien! He's trying to kill Doc Thunder!" The cops looked at each other, then tore into the station, guns drawn.

  Like sheep, Crane thought. Tell them to herd, and they herd. He snarled, his contempt rising like bile, then ran towards the meeting place where Marlene would be waiting. Faithful Marlene, who had taken to the cause like a duck to water...

  Water. His feet were splashing in it.

  His eyes widened as he took in the sight - the Silver Ghost with its bonnet open, water trickling from the underside, and Marlene, bent over like a salacious pinup as she tinkered with the engine, desperately trying to bring back life to a machine that was now dead forever. She looked up as he approached.

  "Parker? What are you doing here-" Her eyes widened as she saw what he was wearing. "You...?" She blinked, taking a step back.

  "What happened?" He barked at her, eyes blazing. "I gave you one duty! One responsibility! One! And you - oh, you stupid little whore!"

  "Parker, you can't talk to me that-" She was interrupted by a slap from his open palm that sent her to the ground, blood trickling from a split lip. She looked up at him, eyes wide with shock. "You - you hit me!"

  His eyes blazed at her. "You can think yourself damned lucky I didn't shoot you!"

  She shook her head, eyes gazing at him in - was that astonishment? Or disgust? Or both? "But you're supposed to be the Blood-Spider -"

  He looked back, staring down at her in impotent fury, then reached into his coat, pulling out the mask and hurling it at her. "There's your precious Blood-Spider," he muttered. Then he turned, rushing out into the street, leaving her where she lay.

  "Cab! Damn you, cab! Cab!"

  Picking herself up, Marlene watched as Parker pulled himself into a hansom cab, yelled a tirade of obscenities at the driver, and sped off in the direction of the East Village. That was the Blood-Spider, then. Nothing but Parker. Parker, wearing a mask and in over his head. And Parker, her debonair, dashing Parker - he was nothing but a vicious little thug when the chips were down.

  Dimly, she realised that her life as she knew it was over. Whatever Parker had been up to, there would be repercussions. Easton would want her to make some dreadful statements to the police. Jack would probably call her a traitor. After all, Doc Thunder was a national resource, and hadn't
she known, deep down, that Parker was trying to kill him? She just hadn't wanted to believe it. Or perhaps she'd wanted to believe that he actually had a chance.

  Time for that suitcase, she mused.

  What hurt the most wasn't the slap, or the growing horror of having to leave her whole life behind her. It was the disappointment of knowing that, at the end of it all, the great Blood-Spider was just another man.

  But did he have to be?

  She picked up the mask, looking into those eight implacable lenses, thinking about the war on crime, and her own words. The most fabulous thing is to believe in something utterly and completely, without restraint.

  When she walked away from the dead auto, into the darkness of the alley, she was wearing it.

  "...well, thanks for the prompt response, all the same." Doc sighed to the sheepish Officer Rawls, as he examined the fresh bullet holes in his blue shirt. Sooner or later, he was going to run out of these.

  Fortunately, he'd managed to shield El Sombra with his body, but the masked man had reacted immediately, delivering a brutal kick into the face of Officer Valchek - who was still unconscious - and very nearly running the other one through before Thunder could stop him.

  He turned to El Sombra, frowning. "Impetuous, aren't you? Which reminds me, we're going to have to have a talk after all this is over about the number of bodies you've left behind you."

  El Sombra raised an eyebrow behind his mask. "What, you've never had a few deaths on your conscience? At least I only get the bad guys killed, hey?"

  "And having beaten up two police officers, you're now trying to start a fight with me. Wonderful." Doc Thunder sighed, rubbing his shoulder. The bone was starting to heal, but he wasn't going to be able to lift that arm properly any time soon. He'd have to fight with one. "More of that latin charm, I take it?"

  He never heard El Sombra's reply.

  Latin.

  "Oh God," he breathed. "How could I have..."

  "...do you have any idea what 'fifty-fifty' could mean?..."