Marvel Novels--Spider-Man

by Neil Kleid

  Sergei handed the shovel to the gravedigger, rested a hand on a granite marker placed at the head of the grave, and then followed the other pallbearers back to the chapel. The man with the shovel turned back to the grave, stretching for a moment before returning to his task. He glanced down at the stone marker and read the inscription.

  Here Lies Spider-Man. Slain by the Hunter.

  The man grunted, twisting this way and that to relieve his aching muscles. Then he stepped over to the expectant mound of dirt and began to fill in the hero’s grave.

  PART TWO

  COFFINS

  ONE

  EDWARD dragged his meal into the sewers, the latest woman with soft skin and sweet smells to cross his path. But he barely had the heart to toy with it this time. The lady’s shrill, terrible screams echoed off the sewer walls, louder than all the others, hurting his ears. Vermin wanted to play. He wheedled in Edward’s head with his smart, cruel words, begging him to prolong the poor lady’s pain. But Edward chose mercy instead, he and finished the meal as quickly as possible.

  No one had been merciful to Edward. He mused on that for a while, licking his fingers and wiping away the blood with an old, discarded newspaper. No mercy at all up there in the light, before Edward had come down here to live with his rat friends. Everyone hated Edward; Vermin made sure to remind him of it on a daily basis. Everyone hit Edward, and hurt him. All because of the man Edward had been

  (that thing)

  and nobody stopped the hurting or offered sweet mercy. So when Vermin whispered into Edward’s ears, begging him to taunt and tease the lady a while longer, Edward had decided to be the bigger man

  (not a man you’re not a man no more)

  and a gentleman

  (gentle rat)

  and eat her up as quick as he could. Now he gnawed on a finger bone, ignoring Vermin’s whines and curses in the back of his head as he flipped through the newspaper at his feet. He laughed at the funny little drawings (the cartoons, idiot) and frowned at the pictures of nasty, mean policemen on some of the other pages (hit him hurt him oh how they hurt).

  Edward discarded the woman’s bones, tossing them into the waste pile with all the others, and turned over the paper to see a picture on the other side: a large color photo of a man in a mask. It reminded Edward of something, punching him in the gut with worry and fear.

  Vermin hissed inside Edward’s mind, screeching and clawing at painful, angry memories. After a moment, Edward recognized the man in the picture and echoed Vermin’s screams, yowling long and loud into the empty darkness.

  TWO

  TWO armed men tore out of the electronics store, scurrying like rats, their faces covered with heavy, black ski masks. Shouts and alarms followed them into the pouring rain, as did the store’s owner. The robbers ran full-out, putting as much distance as they could between them and the store.

  When they were a few blocks away, one of the men felt comfortable enough to start counting. He estimated about two thousand in his pocket and another three in his partner’s, assuming his math held up. The two thieves turned into an alleyway, deliberately moving through the city streets in a way that would throw off any possible pursuit.

  Little did they know, someone—or something— had indeed given chase. It dropped down in front of them, crouching low and staring from the shadows at the end of the alley. Raindrops spattered along the thing’s skin. One of the robbers could have sworn he heard a low growl, a bass rumble that softly receded beneath the torrential, machine-gun patter of falling rain. The thing in the alley lifted its head—staring at the men with big, white eyes—and they instantly recognized the intricate webbing that covered the red-and-blue, skin-tight costume.

  The robber with two thousand in his pocket raised a fist, pointing his gun at Spider-Man’s head. “Move it, bug!” He began to back away, out of the alley, retracing his footsteps with gun extended. The man’s partner, who might or might not have had three thousand dollars to his name, nervously eyed the silent hero and stumbled back, as well. When the two thieves both reached the alley’s mouth, Spider-Man reared back on his legs, flexed his muscles, and sprang into the air with a barely restrained roar.

  Spider-Man pounced on the second criminal, wrapping an arm around the robber’s neck and throwing his opposite elbow into the man’s brachial plexus, inflicting pain via a pressure point in the stunned thief’s neck. As the robber whimpered and dropped, Spider-Man whirled and shot his toe into the second crook’s gut, doubling up the man at his midsection and forcing him to vomit.

  With both thieves incapacitated, Spider-Man dragged them against the alley wall and unleashed a volley of punches that left the men bleeding, battered, and unconscious. He retrieved the stolen money without a word and tossed it into the street outside the alley to draw the attention of nearing police cruisers— or random passersby. Truth be told, he didn’t really care what happened to it. Then he crawled away up the alley’s wall.

  By the time the cops arrived, ten-and twenty-dollar bills fluttering in the haze of their flashing cherry lights, Spider-Man had long since disappeared into the night.

  Bounding across rooftops, leaping and running through his city, Spider-Man smiled. He reveled in the crisp, cool air, enjoying the way the rain felt against his skin.

  The skin of the Spider.

  As he continued his patrol, Sergei’s grin stretched ear-to-ear beneath his mask—the face, the persona, he’d earned at long last. He felt free, exhilarated; the night’s events helped circulate the rush of adrenaline through his system, mixing it with the potions and serums he’d taken. Now, he knew, he would save his enemy’s city—would do what his enemy could not.

  He would be a better Spider and, by doing so, prove himself stronger than the Beast.

  Sergei raced up Fifth Avenue, passing the offices of New York’s most venerable tabloid, The Daily Bugle. Below, on the street, several men lifted bundled stacks of paper off a loading dock and into a series of trucks emblazoned with the Bugle logo, preparing to send them out across the city. Atop the front of each paper, beneath the masthead, block letters screamed three words in sixty-point type above a well-composed stock photo of Spider-Man credited to Peter Parker: HERO OR MENACE?, a question repeatedly posed by the histrionic publisher of the most popular paper in town.

  This time, however, J. Jonah Jameson’s opinion was shared by more New Yorkers than usual. For the last week, Spider-Man had relentlessly brutalized the city’s criminal population, beating many of them— mob bosses and petty thugs alike—within an inch of their miserable lives. Tomorrow morning, New York would open its Bugle alongside a cup of coffee and a buttered bagel, wondering whether Jameson had been right all along—and whether the self-styled friendly neighborhood wall-crawler might have finally gone too far.

  The subject of the article did not care. Exultant, Sergei ran through the storm, leaping to meet the lightning with his heart pounding in his chest like a passionate, triumphant roll of thunder. Sergei Kravinoff—now the amazing, spectacular, sinister Spider-Man—jumped across rivers of concrete and gazed down into mankind’s jungle, searching, hoping to find another upon whom he might inflict the Spider’s wrath.

  THREE

  MARY JANE slammed her cell phone down for the fifth time tonight, angered by the response—or, more accurately, the lack thereof—on the opposite end of the line.

  Where are you, Peter Parker, and why aren’t you returning my calls?

  Mary Jane hadn’t seen Peter in over a week, since the night she’d learned Ned Leeds’ goblin-coated secret. She’d wanted to give Peter the time he needed to deal with this revelation, allowing him to work out his frustration on the evildoers of New York. But it had been eight days now without a peep or text, and she was starting to worry.

  She’d called nearly everyone within their circle of friends—from Liz Allan to Flash Thompson—but no one had seen Peter since Ned’s funeral. She’d almost called Betty, but she put down the phone when she realized her friend was
still struggling with her own private grief. Perhaps it was best to let Betty deal with one crisis at a time.

  Also, Mary Jane was worried she might accidentally slip and tell Betty about her dead husband’s secret. That would open a can of worms she was barely prepared to explain, much less close again.

  So instead, here she sat. Alone. Again. Somehow, she’d thought that knowing Pete’s secret and being in a solid, stable relationship would make things different. They’d sit by the fire, drinking white wine, snuggling. They’d talk about everything from her day to his exploits—or maybe not even talk at all. But, of course, that required someone to snuggle and talk with. And Mary Jane had no idea where her someone—Peter— might be.

  She’d nearly called Pete’s Aunt May out in Queens, until she remembered that May had left on a cruise the week prior with MJ’s own Aunt Anna. The two old girls had, in fact, been the reason Peter and MJ had gotten together in the first place. May and Anna had masterminded a blind date. MJ laughed, remembering how much Peter, apparently, had dreaded meeting her. He’d eagerly stepped into action as Spider-Man again and again at just the right moment—which meant that by the time they finally did meet, Pete’s shock at having won what MJ laughingly referred to as “the jackpot” amplified and accelerated their whirlwind, up-and-down, back-and-forth romance.

  And now here she was, waiting for Peter’s call. He was probably out there webbing around, making the world free and safe for democracy—fighting for his life against Doctor Octopus or whoever while she bit her nails ragged, lounged about, and fiddled with her television, waiting for the rain to stop and morning to come.

  Or, she morbidly thought, maybe he’s dead.

  Come on, Mary Jane, she chided herself, stop that. Peter has been playing hero since high school. He’s good at what he does. He’s…he’s…

  She stared at the cell phone on her nightstand, willing it to ring.

  Peter’s dead.

  Shaking her head, pushing the thought from her mind, she glanced away from the phone, past the television to the window. Peter was not dead—he couldn’t be. The Bugle was trumpeting the fact that Spider-Man, threat and menace that he was, was pounding bad guys into mincemeat up and down the island.

  But if that was true, then why hadn’t he called, and how could MJ confirm that her fears were groundless? She tried to be strong, tried to tell herself that everything would be all right, but her resolve was starting to splinter. She’d exhausted all of her avenues, called everyone she could think of. There were others, sure— people in Pete’s life who might have an answer, who wore spandex and armor and carried giant hammers. But Mary Jane couldn’t just walk up to Avengers Tower or the Baxter Building, knock on the door, and ask whether her boyfriend, the Amazing Spider-Man, had been killed in action. Especially when there he was, leaping across the front page of The Daily Bugle.

  She’d toyed with the idea of calling the Bugle to see whether Peter had checked in with Joe Robertson or sold any photographs to Jameson in the last week. Peter’s photos had graced a few recent headlines, but Mary Jane didn’t know whether the pics had been recent or inventory shots. She knew that, if she were to ask, Robertson would move heaven and earth to get answers, to unmask and discredit the mysterious individual masquerading as her wall-crawling boyfriend. Robertson was a smart man—a good man—with enough resources to figure out whether Peter was dead or simply missing.

  All she had to do was ask. All she had to do was walk into a roomful of investigative journalists and expose the greatest secret of the man she loved. The secret with which he’d trusted her only weeks before.

  Yeah. That would go really well.

  Mary Jane couldn’t do that. She would not betray Peter, even if it meant continuing her search alone.

  He’s probably out there, beating up criminals.

  Or he’s dead.

  Mary Jane grabbed the phone again and dialed Pete’s number. She let it ring four times before tossing it away, into the corner of the room.

  The phone hit something. And then that something moved, skittering away behind a chair.

  “Oh, great,” Mary Jane said out loud, to no one at all. “Spend a fortune on Manhattan rents, and this is what you get for your money.”

  She tiptoed into the bedroom and grabbed a suede boot from beside her nightstand. Creeping softly toward the corner, closing in on the small, frightened rat as it scurried away into the shadows of the apartment, MJ raised the boot and followed the rat’s movements as it hid behind a couple boxes filled with clothes. She crouched down and pushed the boxes aside, revealing the scared, trapped rat cowering in the dusty corner. It squeaked and turned toward her, raising itself on its rear haunches and curling its tail in the air.

  “Oh, a bold one, huh? You wanna fight?”

  Peter’s dead.

  The rat squeaked again, looking for a place to run. Mary Jane moved to pin it between the wall and the box. She raised the boot higher.

  He’s not dead he’s perfectly fine

  She brought the heel of her boot down on the rodent’s skull, crushing it against the floor. “Filthy—”

  Peter’s dead, lying in an alley in a pool of blood, floating face down in the East River

  Her shoe descended two more times, spraying blood against MJ’s robe and ending the rat’s muffled, panicked squeaks with a series of violent smacks. “Disgusting—”

  Stabbed, bones broken, and head crushed

  Mary Jane caught her breath and stepped away— chest heaving, hair spread wildly across her eyes. Tears leaked onto her cheeks. She covered her face, fear and anxiety taking control, sending her into a spiral of raw emotion.

  Dead. He’s dead.

  She dropped the boot and fled, horrified and weeping, from the sight of her beaten, broken prey.

  FOUR

  DAWN broke, brightening the dull, gray storm clouds above Manhattan. Commuters began to fight the morning rush as Sergei crouched on a ledge and watched the city come alive while he prepared to bring his long night to a close. He felt serene, fulfilled. The evening’s work had brought him peace, along with deeper implications for his ultimate mission—his one, true purpose in life.

  I have done it, Sergei thought. The steps I have taken tonight…the actions taken by these two hands… finally, I am become the Beast.

  Sergei’s enemy, the Spider, now filled a grave. Buried six feet down in the darkness, vanquished and silenced by Sergei’s own hand.

  My greatest enemy. My greatest tormentor.

  Sergei slid from the ledge and dropped to a lower rooftop five feet away. Sergei Kravinoff—born of a noble line, descendant of aristocrats, lion of Mother Russia—had faced the black, hideous, beautiful Beast and broken it, beaten it into submission.

  By my hand. The hand of the Hunter, the man Sergei Kravinoff had always claimed to be, as far back as he could remember. Now the Hunter was no more.

  Now, I am become the Beast.

  Sergei leapt from the rooftop and landed on a nearby windowsill. Slowly, carefully, he pried open the window and crept inside, dripping water on a plush, maroon carpet. The room—dark and warm— welcomed him. He sat still for a moment, crouched on all fours, thawing away the damp and chill— wrapped in the costume of the terrible creature he’d finally wiped from existence.

  It isn’t enough to simply destroy him, Sergei reminded himself. I must prove myself superior to him and laugh in the mewling face of his ghost. Sergei could almost hear the Spider—screaming, quivering with justifiable rage. Or perhaps taunting Sergei with his usual barrage of feeble jokes. No matter now. Now Sergei saw through the Spider’s eyes, wore its skin. He crawled through its hunting ground, mocking the Beast by proving himself its better.

  Now, Sergei assured himself, letting the words vibrate through his body and fill his chest, I am the Spider.

  Remaining on all fours, wearing the well-earned skins of his latest kill, Sergei Kravinoff—no longer Kraven the Hunter, now and forevermore the Spider— crawled away
from the window, deeper into his darkened townhouse. He padded past previous kills, crawling on upraised fingers and the ends of his toes. Silently, he passed underneath the watchful eyes of the great African elephant he’d mounted above a door, its trunk nearly scraping his head as he scurried beneath it.

  He crept down the staircase and into the secluded inner sanctum at the back of the townhouse. He drew the curtain aside and entered the room that had once contained his greatest trophies, his most dangerous enemies, beaten and displayed in places of honor. Now the room was empty but for three pillars on which Sergei had set ornate bowls filled with burning incense, pungent clouds snaking out and permeating throughout the room. He crawled beneath the scarlet smoke, making his way to the center of the room, then stopped to face the large wall to his right.

  Once this wall had held a panther, an ape, and other discarded remnants of the Hunter’s former life. Now it served as a window into Sergei’s worst nightmare. Moving toward it, he saw his enemy’s face reflected in the glass case. He brought his nose to the transparent pane and the thousands of skittering, lumbering spiders crawling behind it.

  Sergei reached out a hand (paw) and rested it against the window, then lifted his mask to bare mandibles in welcome (teeth, great and tearing, like a jungle cat) to his brother and sister spiders. They came to him on threads finer than silk, each of them venturing forward on eight legs; he flinched, shrank back from their approach.

  What are you doing? Sergei asked himself. You are the Spider. Why do you run? You have proven yourself, taken its skin, eaten of its flesh. You are the Spider.

  Perspiration appeared on Sergei’s brow. He stripped the costume from his back, baring himself to the waist. He faced the spiders once more and stared at his reflection in the glass. He saw haunted eyes, matted hair (fur)—the picture of a man (animal, trapped and hunted, prey not predator) and nothing more.