by Neil Kleid
Do I really think I’ll find him? she thought. Night began to fall as MJ made her way uptown, splashing through puddles. Anyone with half a brain had already gotten off the street, headed home for the night.
God, she thought. This is just like when I stayed out past curfew, and Mom would come looking for me, embarrassing me in front of my friends. Only this time I’m the mom, and Peter’s friends are…who? The Avengers?
She kept walking, huddling beneath the umbrella—tightening her coat to try to stay warm.
What will I even say when…if I find him? “Oh, Spider-Man! You’ve been out late, and your girlfriend’s worried! Come back inside before you get sick; tell your friend, the Rhino, that you’ll have to beat him up tomorrow!”
She felt like a fool. Dead or alive, Peter Parker had been missing for a week. And despite her best efforts, Mary Jane knew that being out here in the rain, looking for Spider-Man, was an utter and complete waste of time.
I’m so tired, she thought. Need to get some sleep—or I’ll be no good to anyone, especially myself.
She turned around and started to head home, planning to hail a taxi or find a bus. She walked down a side street, crossing toward an avenue where she had a better chance of catching a cab.
On the stoop of a brownstone, a couple of jocks sat loitering, no doubt having just returned from the gym. Grinning at one another like a pair of obvious hyenas, they ogled Mary Jane in her tight wet jeans, and whistled long and low.
“Hey, check it out, man,” one of the goons said. “Never seen anyone in pants that tight.”
The second moron, boasting biceps the size of soup cans in a neon green muscle shirt, nodded in agreement. “Oh, yeah, and that red hair. Hey! Hey, tight-pants—c’mon over and show us your red hair!”
MJ kept moving, tossing a withering stare over her shoulder as she continued up the block. “You know,” she said, “there’s an old Latin phrase that applies perfectly to this situation. Maybe you’ve heard it—‘get stuffed!’”
The jocks fell silent, then slowly got to their feet. Now that was smart, she scolded herself. Keep walking, MJ, and don’t look back.
She heard them, though, stepping into line behind her, following in her footsteps through the falling rain. She forced herself to look forward, to retain her pace and shut off her mind, her ears. To not hear their sneakers slapping against the puddles, or their idiot voices giggling like chimps in heat. She kept walking, headed for the closest, most populated avenue. But the distance was too great and the streets were empty, and all of Mary Jane’s senses were on high alert despite her best efforts to ignore the animals breathing down her neck. At last, panicked, she broke into a run.
SEVEN
RED eyes peered out of the darkness. Vermin glanced down the city street, looking left and right, hoping to locate the source of the noises that had drawn Edward from the darkness. Vermin could hear his other, weaker half whining somewhere else, down below. He sneered at Edward’s pathetic attempts to drag him back into the sewers, back down away from the fresh, cold air and available, warm prey.
He sniffed once, wrinkling his nose at a spill of water coursing over the manhole cover. He listened again for the noise: the thunder, the voice—but, most important, the sound of heels on concrete. The sound that meant food—soft and sweet, vulnerable and delicious.
Vermin turned left and caught sight of his prey: red-haired, half a block away, running through the rain with two men in pursuit. The men were clearly chasing the woman with less than admirable intentions. Vermin knew this, for his own designs on the girl were no more honorable.
Hunger gripped his belly, and Edward cried out. Vermin growled in reply, shouting down his vulnerable partner. Slowly he crept out of the sewer and onto the street.
The two men finally caught up to the girl and grabbed her from behind. Vermin wondered whether he should intercede. That was his meal. His prey.
The men were scared, both of them. Vermin could smell it, even from this distance. Scared…but of what?
Vermin edged closer, sticking to the shadows, waiting to see what his fellow predators might do.
EIGHT
MARY JANE’S back slammed against a nearby wall. Rough hands gripped the front of her sweatshirt, pulling open her collar as a second set of fingers ran through her wet, disheveled hair.
Her followers had grown bored of the chase, and she’d run out of room and options. I’m dead, she thought. I’m so dead.
The two jocks leered at her with malice and lust in their eyes, grinning like baboons. The guy with sleeves pulled her away from the wall by the front of her shirt. She could taste his sour breath, feel the hate and hormones and fear radiating off his body, vibrating up his arms and into his strong, determined fingers.
“Okay, Miss Tightpants,” he said, “Miss Red Hair. Now we got you. Now you’re mine.”
I’m dead I’m dead I’m dead
Something dropped onto the street behind the goons—something heavy and silent, wet and colorful. Wide, blank white eye-lenses stared up from a crouching position, straight at Mary Jane. The newcomer was draped in shadow, obscured by the falling rain. When he gracefully rose to his full height, MJ could see a jet-black spider stitched upon a crimson chest.
I’m saved.
“Hey,” Shirtsleeves asked her, noticing the upturned corners of her lips. “Hey, what’re you smilin’ about?”
“Oh…nothing.” Mary Jane allowed herself a full grin, looking past her assailants as Spider-Man approached them from the rear. The two men turned then, pulling away from MJ to follow her line of sight. Before either of the jocks could react, Spider-Man lunged forward and shoved Muscle Shirt into the wall. His jaw broke against the bricks, spilling blood and teeth into the puddles below. Muscle Shirt slid to the ground as Spider-Man spun to grab Shirtsleeves—who was wisely fleeing the scene—and drag him back by the waist.
Mary Jane was stunned by the masked hero’s vicious, silent attack. As Spider-Man laid into the second man, she bent over to see whether the one at her feet was still breathing.
Without a word, Spider-Man gripped Shirtsleeves by his collar and started to beat the man with one brutal, powerful blow after another. Each swing of his fist drew a gout of blood from the man’s broken nose, gashed cheeks, and battered skull. After the fifth blow, Mary Jane moved forward hesitantly. She almost reached out to halt the next punch, but pulled back her hand at the last moment.
“Stop!” she cried, eliciting an annoyed grunt from the masked vigilante. “S-stop it! You’re killing him!”
Spider-Man looked back over his shoulder, noticing Mary Jane’s horrified expression, and halted the rain of blows on Shirtsleeves’s head. Spider-Man stood still for a moment, as if unsure whether to continue. MJ waited for him to speak, waited for some sign of recognition—something that would give her the answers she’d been seeking for over a week.
Finally, Spider-Man dropped MJ’s attacker to the ground. The man’s head smacked down on the cement with a meaty thump.
Spider-Man shifted his weight, facing Mary Jane. She stepped back. He looked at one unconscious man, then the other. Then he turned back to the wall and began to climb up and away without a backward glance, dismissing MJ as if she meant less than nothing.
She watched him go, noting the way he climbed the wall, as well as the speed with which he traveled. This Spider-Man used windows and cracks for handholds rather than sticking hands or fingers flat against the wall. He moved with grace—more like a cat than a spider, with confidence and agility. Above all, Mary Jane noticed, Spider-Man hadn’t fired a single web during the entire encounter—not to swing, not to capture the goons, and not to leave.
That wasn’t Peter, she thought, keeping her eyes on his retreating form. Whoever wore the Spider-Man suit, MJ now knew it was someone other than her boyfriend.
Which means, Mary Jane concluded, that Peter Parker is probably dead.
Shaky, Mary Jane Watson leaned to retrieve her discarded umbrella
. Then, fighting tears, she hurried away from the beaten muggers toward the brighter, more welcoming Midtown lights.
NINE
HIDING in an alley, Vermin watched the girl run. She wasn’t far away, and he could easily close the distance as she began to tire.
But he found himself distracted. He cast his gaze up toward the looming buildings, attempting to pierce the sheets of falling rain and locate the long-departed figure in the red-and-blue suit.
ssssspider-man.
That’s why Vermin had come out into the light. To prove…to find…
sssssso hungry.
He had to eat. Vermin was so hungry—always hungry. He turned to find the girl, but she was much too far away now to overtake and claim for his own. There would be another—soon, he hoped. He could eat later.
what to do about the spider?
Vermin was in the driver’s seat now; he would lead them from the darkness. Whether they followed the spider or made him come to them, it didn’t matter. They were out, and that was the important thing. Vermin smiled as he moved deeper into the alley and reached out to clamber up a fence at the far end. They were out now.
and we’re not afraid. not one bit.
Vermin moved onto the rooftops, shambling over tar and gravel. He looked out over the world, out across New York. He shook his head, angry with Edward, with himself, for spending so much time down there and away from all of this.
Vermin hungered. It was time to find some food.
Thunder sounded, but Vermin didn’t care. Not one little bit.
TEN
TWO nights later, Spider-Man peered through the window of a secluded warehouse on Manhattan’s West Side. It was late, and the warehouse was in a sketchy neighborhood. He dangled upside-down, clutching a length of rope that he’d tied to a steam vent on the roof. He placed a hand against the window, wiping away dirt, and watched as a handful of men moved heavy boxes from the back of a van to the trunk of an old sedan. Both cars were parked inside, the freight entrance shuttered and locked, and a single man guarded an exit to the left of the large metal door.
Spider-Man smiled beneath his mask, watching his unsuspecting targets go about their illegal business—eyeing them through the glass like specimens, like flies. He prepared himself, mentally, to begin the transformation from passive voyeur to active, vigilant upholder of justice.
I am the Spider.
Closing his eyes, the man who used to be Sergei Kravinoff—Hunter and dutiful son—repeated his mantra again and again. He reminded himself why he wore his enemy’s face, why he clothed himself in the Beast’s armor.
I am the Spider.
These past weeks—this time immersed in his tormentor’s life, parading around in his skin—it had changed him. It had opened his eyes and allowed him to see into things, beyond things. He could see the strands of Fate—the threads of webbing that bound man to Spider-Man, victim to victor. He knew, in ways that normal men could not. He knew.
I am the Spider.
Spider-Man shattered the window and dropped down amid the drug-runners, sending them into a state of panic as they scrambled for their guns, screaming his name. Spider-Man paid them no mind; he pounced, driving his heels into their skulls, wrapping his heavy arms around their thick, dumbfounded necks. Their gunfire went wide. The men shouted and wailed, yet Spider-Man heard nothing but the weaving of his intricate web. These men were trapped, caged like prey. Hunted.
No! No, not that. I am the Hunter no longer.
I am the Spider. The words roared inside his head, thundering in the darkness against the sound of thousands of skittering legs. The world went red, then blue, as Spider-Man tore into the criminals, smashing faces into windows, shattering spines—relinquishing himself to the give-and-take of victim and victor. Of man and Spider-Man.
I am the Spider. And I devour my prey.
Then, with little fanfare, the dance ended. Spider-Man’s partners lay splayed across the floor, beaten and broken, waiting for the untimely arrival of New York’s Finest. The police beat their way into the warehouse just in time to witness Spider-Man’s escape through a window.
Spider-Man smiled as he fled the scene. One game concludes while another begins, he thought, watching the NYPD burst in. They opened fire, attempting to wound or hobble Spider-Man’s retreat so that they might bring him to some ridiculous form of justice.
Spider-Man forced himself to stifle a laugh. The police, the detectives—all of them served the Spider’s web. Each was a magnificent actor in a play, a character of the Spider’s own creation. And so Spider-Man skittered off into the night while the detectives “ordered” him to stop, anguished and stunned to find that their friendly neighborhood wall-crawler had pulled no punches. This time, in fact, he had left two crooks dead on arrival, a line Spider-Man had never crossed before.
Spider-Man crawled out onto the fire escape and shimmied up to the roof, sheets of rain pelting his back, his skin. He hunkered down on the edge, facing the darkened Manhattan skyline, listening to the steady rhythm of his heart and slowing his breathing as lightning flashed above.
I am the Spider.
No! No…the Spider…this Spider does not kill. Not the Spider…I have slain the Spider. I have become him.
Spider-Man tore the false skin from his true face, a face of honor and respect. He howled into the night, voice sounding in time with the rolling thunder.
“I am Kraven!” He shouted it to the heavens, through the gray, judgmental storm clouds. Flashing lights converged on the building, coming to a halt on the streets below. “I am Kraven,” he screamed, “and I have hunted as the Spider hunts. I have consumed the Spider’s prey!”
He had masqueraded as the Beast, lost himself within the Spider’s life. Sergei’s thoughts felt muddled and confused. But his mission—his purpose—was ever clear.
I have proven myself his better in every way. Almost every way. The final proof, the endgame, is still to come.
Spider-Man bared his teeth and puffed out his chest. Kraven the Hunter wove his webs and laid his trap.
Sergei filled his lungs and bellowed into the night.
I am the Spider.
I am Kraven.
I am the Hunter, become the Spider.
Down below, paramedics rolled two flat, plastic body bags out of the warehouse into a waiting ambulance. Sirens wailed and thunder roared, drowning out the sounds of the Hunter’s triumph— and the Spider’s sorrow.
ELEVEN
VERMIN waited in the alley, anxious and ravenous, watching the soft, dark woman with the sweet, smooth skin step back from the curb. A taxi passed through a puddle and splashed her pretty clothes. Cursing, she turned away and began to walk toward Vermin, up the street, drawing closer to his clever hiding place. Vermin had been following the woman for an hour now, keeping pace and biding his time. He’d learned to be patient, these past two days above ground—but hunger still drove his desires, and it was getting harder to wait. So he was glad this soft, sweet thing had finally decided to step onto his path.
Finally she arrived at the alley. Vermin reached out a hand and pulled the lady off her feet, dragging her between the buildings and out of the rain. Nobody had seen; no one knew. Vermin was a professional hunter now; this was his fifth victim in nearly two days. His fifth, succulent meal since coming up from the sewers.
Dining quickly, barely bothering to cover his tracks, Vermin ate his fill. Poor Edward watched gravely, somewhere in the back of his head, as Vermin finished up and scrambled out into the street.
dine and dash, he chortled to himself. but not just food. bait.
Vermin ran boldly along the sidewalk, out under the streetlights, plain as day.
i’m here, sssspider-man. i’m here, captain flag. vermin is here, out in the open, here to show you that i’m not afraid. here to show you that—
Lights flashed. Vermin turned to see a police cruiser parked alongside a bodega, its headlights capturing him like a doomed deer or a foolish child. Vermin stop
ped and faced the automobile, allowing its driver to see his face. A single policeman looked out, horrified, through the wet windshield. Their meeting had been happenstance—the police cruiser just happened to be parked in Vermin’s path, its lone inhabitant stunned to find himself face-to-face with the strangest thing he’d ever seen. Vermin snarled and leapt at the cruiser, just as its driver gathered his wits and pulled away from the curb.
men in blue, Vermin sneered, hate and anger radiating through him. fuzz pigsssss. big talk, big sticks.
Used to hitme hurtme, Edward wailed in the back of Vermin’s mind, sniffling in Vermin’s ears. Used to hitme before…before…when? When I was…
shut up, edward.
Vermin landed on the hood of the car, stared into the frightened eyes of the fat pig behind the wheel. The big blue man with the big blue car. But Edward would not stop talking, and Vermin’s head began to hurt.
When I was…what? What…when I wasssss?
Vermin let out a scream and drove his fists through the windshield, shattering the glass. He grabbed the front of the driver’s uniform in both clawed hands.
“What wassss I before?!”
His face a mask of hatred, Vermin bared his teeth and dragged the cop from behind the wheel. He pulled the cop through the windshield, slicing the man’s bloated, blue body on the shards of broken glass. Then he lifted the scared little piggy with both hands and tossed him to the curb, laughing at the sight of the pale, blue suit now mingling with growing spots of red. Blue suit, pale skin, crimson spreading through them both: Vermin flashed on the image of the Spider-Man, the man who’d hit and hurt and beaten him senseless. They all had beaten him. Spider-Man. Captain Flag. No— America. The pigs in blue with their clubs and fists.
