Marvel Novels--Spider-Man

by Neil Kleid

  “That’s good,” the voice said, soft and controlled. Edward pictured the person behind that voice standing behind him, patting his back and calming him with soothing words.

  “Edward. All these years, a part of you—the deepest part—has believed that you deserve to be trapped in this hideous form. A coffin, burying you in the horrible thing that is Vermin.”

  Edward listened intently as the voice went on.

  “It’s been a method of survival for you, a way to protect yourself from the abuses of society. In a strange way, Vermin has become your guardian angel.”

  “No! I am—”

  “Please, allow me to finish. This talk, your confession, it’s an important step in your journey back. For the first time in a long while, I’m guessing, we’ve been able to emotionally manifest a change. The time is coming when you will not need Vermin’s protection. And Vermin can sense that—possibly has been sensing it for some time now—so he’s scared, terrified. Angrier than he’s ever been. Do you know why that is, Edward?”

  Edward shook his head, tears leaking down his cheeks.

  “It’s because Vermin knows his days are numbered.”

  Edward started to cry. He leaned forward and lowered his head into his hands. Wracking sobs shook his body. He knelt on the ground, bending over so that his forehead touched the cement.

  “You’ve opened yourself to me, Edward. Unlocked your coffin of pain and isolation to share your story, address your fears. And though you may be here in this cell, trapped in a new coffin—one with bars, guards, and locks—there’s something freeing about confession, isn’t there?”

  Edward looked up at the camera, scarlet eyes shining through a veil of tears. “Yesssss...” he whispered, nodding in agreement. “Yesss, I’m free. Free.”

  He began to shake, with joy this time, shivering in obvious relief. He no longer felt alone—no longer wanted to be cold and wet, down in the dark with the rats and the cruel voice inside his head. Now, even though his life in custody was far from perfect, Edward didn’t have to be alone anymore. He could stay above and be protected—live where he need not fear Spider-Man, or persecution from those who lived here. He could be safe, happy, and free.

  “Free,” he repeated, laughing as he rolled around on the floor. “Free, I’m free.”

  Outside the door, a guard stared through the one-way glass, watching Edward Whelan embrace his newfound freedom. A second man joined the guard, giving Edward a quizzical glance. The man opened a bag of hamburgers, handing one to his friend.

  “What’s with him?” asked the newcomer, placing his hat on a nearby chair.

  The first policeman shrugged his shoulders and moved to join his friend. “Search me. Been talking to himself for hours. The sooner this freak’s locked away in a looney bin, the better, you ask me.”

  The second cop bit into his burger, bits of lettuce and onion falling to the floor. “Your mouth to God’s ears.”

  The cops turned to their meal and lost themselves in conversations about wives and television. They kept a close eye on the laughing monster in the adjacent room. But the monster didn’t care.

  He faced a lifetime behind bars and the judgment of a society he feared, but for the first time in his life, Edward Whelan had nothing to prove to anyone. Even to the voice inside his head.

  EPILOGUE 2

  IF THIS BE MY DESTINY

  MARY JANE huddled beneath the covers and stared at her television, waiting for Peter to return. She was halfheartedly watching an old shlockfest on a cable station, a story she dimly remembered from childhood.

  How depressing, she thought, I’ve waited years to see this movie again. It seemed so great when I was— what? Nine? And here it is, the biggest piece of junk I’ve ever seen.

  She reached for a half-empty box of cookies. Look at this thing, she laughed, watching the screen. Two grown men in funny costumes shooting rubber monsters? This is the memory I’ve treasured all these years? Time sure changes things.

  Mary Jane lowered the cookie and glanced at the window.

  Well, not completely. I’ve still got a thing for grown men in funny costumes.

  Something creaked at the back of her apartment. She sat up in bed, heart racing. She dropped the sheets and walked to the bathroom.

  “Peter? Is that you?”

  Nothing. Probably someone else in the building. Maybe another rat. Definitely not Peter Parker.

  Here we go again.

  She wiped her eyes and returned to the bed, pushing aside the cookies and several open photo albums. Sliding between the sheets, pulling the covers over her head, Mary Jane felt her eyelids droop. She knew her chances of sleeping were slim. The morning news—saturated with Kraven’s suicide and subsequent confession—had left her on edge, anticipating Peter’s return.

  I’ve packed and repacked my suitcase at least six times.

  She played with the handle of her empty valise, knowing that she wouldn’t pack it a seventh time. Hours ago, when she’d turned to see Peter—when he’d removed his mask to reveal swollen, tearful eyes—her heart had swelled with relief and happiness. She knew then that if she let her heart have its way, she would wait for him forever.

  Blocks away, Spider-Man crouched across from Kraven’s townhouse, reading The Daily Bugle. He’d returned to find the building crawling with cops and reporters. He looked across the street and stared at the police tape stretched across the shattered fourth-floor window. Neighbors and passersby gathered along the cordon, trying to get a glimpse of whatever was happening inside.

  Another funeral, Peter thought, Ned Leeds. Joe Face.

  Kraven the Hunter.

  Kraven is dead, and why should I care?

  He knew why. He had wanted to bring Kraven to justice—not the morgue. He wanted Kraven to know that he, Spider-Man, had won. Spider-Man was alive, had bounced back from everything that Kraven had thrown his way. But now Kraven was dead and Spider-Man, exonerated of all his crimes, was racked with guilt.

  Kraven killed himself, he thought. Another body in the ground because of Spider-Man.

  Kraven the Hunter. Dead by his own hand, mourned by his greatest enemy.

  What do I care? Kraven put me in the ground. He tortured Vermin—killed people. Good riddance to bad rubbish, right? Like Norman Osborn.

  Like Ned Leeds.

  Muscles groaned as Peter stood up on the rooftop and prepared to swing. He felt tense, empty, and unfinished. He needed closure.

  This is not on me. I’m alive. Damn it, I’m alive. Just let me get on with my life.

  My life—in which I ruin other people’s lives.

  He remembered a conversation he’d had with Mary Jane after Ned had died. He’d felt like a weight had been lifted—that he’d been relieved to know that he wasn’t responsible for Ned Leeds’ death.

  Mary Jane had replied: But you feel like Ned’s connection to Spider-Man, how intertwined he was in your life, as your friend and enemy—

  Peter had finished: It’s like Spider-Man had a hand in his death, anyway.

  Sometimes he wished he could stop internalizing everything. But it was in Peter Parker’s nature to obsess about how Spider-Man’s life affected other people—to wonder whether the consequences of using his power offset all the good he did.

  Back in the apartment, Mary Jane sprawled across her bed, running her fingers over photos. Her hands walked down memory lane, but her distracted mind found itself recalling Ben Parker’s words.

  Being a hero means protecting those you love, as well and as fiercely as you can.

  She pictured Ben’s face as he spread out his hands. No man is perfect. Not even a Spider-Man.

  She knew that her love for Peter would bring him home. The love they shared was a power all its own— despite the guilt that drove him, the responsibility he felt to the world. And in her turn, Mary Jane had chosen to put aside her doubts and be strong for him. If she could harness their love and be his beacon, that would give Peter strength. Perhaps it would
give her strength, as well.

  I get it now, she realized. I understand the difference between Betty Leeds and myself. Peter, unlike Ned, loves me enough to let me in. My fear, my doubt, is a cage— and I’m going to need the strength to free myself from it every time he rushes off to fight Doctor Octopus, the Vulture, or whoever. That’s my coffin.

  But Peter’s mask was his coffin, and it held the weight of every life lost because of who he was and what he did. Despite that crushing burden, Peter loved Mary Jane enough to let her in, to risk it all. Their love would have to shield her, too—and give her strength enough not only to share the burden, but also to help to lighten the load.

  I understand, Ben. With great love must also come great responsibility.

  She hoped her heart was up to the task.

  Swinging away from the townhouse, Spider-Man’s mind reeled with self-condemnation. He leapt across a rooftop, sprang into the air, and pulled a strand of webbing down between his legs as he arced up and around another building.

  A scream rang out. He glanced down at an alley, attempting to locate its source. A woman ran for her life, boots ringing on the concrete. Peter caught a flash of metal, glimpsed the edge of a knife. He swung low and fast, snatching the woman’s attacker and pulling him off his feet.

  No new victims. No more.

  He tossed the mugger against the alley wall, then grabbed his shirt, raising a fist and readying a punch. Then the scarlet film cleared before his eyes, and Spider-Man realized that the man squirming in his grip wasn’t Kraven or Vermin or the Hobgoblin but a common street thug. Not a super villain—just an average, run-of-the-mill creep with a knife and an agenda.

  One of a million in New York. One of a million little tragedies that Spider-Man averted every day.

  I helped that woman, Peter thought. I helped that woman, like I’ve helped countless others. Burning buildings. Alien invasions, wayward bank robbers. Cats in trees.

  His fist shook, and he opened his fingers to relieve the tension. Then he cleared his head of the cobwebs and bundled the mugger under his arm, depositing him in the back of a passing police cruiser. He swung up and away from street level, back into the sky to fill his lungs with cool, clean air.

  He found a ledge and perched upon a cornice, staring back in the direction of Kraven’s townhouse. I saved that woman. No one died, no one got hurt. I took a situation that could have gone terribly wrong for someone, and I made it good.

  Like I have so many times before.

  He lifted the mask and wiped the sweat from his face. You lost, Kraven. Despite the guilt and pain you tossed my way, despite the hundreds of deaths laid at my feet, I’m still making a difference. I’m still protecting the innocent. Yes, Spider-Man has ruined lives—but look how many he’s saved.

  God, I need to go home, Spider-Man thought. He rubbed his eyes. He was exhausted, on his last legs.

  Mary Jane’s words echoed again in the back of his mind. Hey. Listen, you. You are not responsible for every death, near-death, injury, or hangnail that occurs within a fifty-mile radius of Spider-Man.

  Sure, but if I don’t, then who—

  No man is perfect.

  —Uncle Ben?

  Not even a Spider-Man.

  Peter nodded. They were right. I helped that woman, he thought. I helped that woman, and that’s important. That’s a life I’ve saved—without a needless body count—and that is something Kraven can’t take from Spider-Man. Nor something he could understand.

  Mary Jane was getting anxious. She changed the channel, never stopping on a station long enough to focus. She paced the length of her apartment. Her fingers danced nervously along the remote control. One channel claimed that detectives were swarming Kraven’s house. Another reported that Spider-Man had delivered the Cannibal Killer to the police. But then where was Peter? Shouldn’t he have been home by now? What had really happened tonight? After another ten minutes of fidgeting, she turned off the television, set down the remote, and screamed with frustration.

  “Louder, and from the diaphragm. I don’t think they heard you in Bayonne.”

  She whirled to the window, surprised to see her very own friendly neighborhood Spider-Man. Peter jumped down lightly from the windowsill, silently watching her, his mask dangling from one hand. He smiled, a lopsided grin creeping up the side of one cheek, touching a line of small bruises. His costume was shredded and filthy, and he smelled like week-old cheese.

  He moved toward her on unsteady feet, bracing himself against the furniture. Her eyes filled with tears as he held out a hand. She moved to take it, her heart leaping as their fingers met.

  Peter and Mary Jane came together, as they always would. He took her in his arms, laughing and happy to be alive, and she welcomed him into her loving embrace. And all they could hear, at last, was a spectacular throb—the powerful pulse of their connected heartbeats.

  EPILOGUE 3

  FEARFUL SYMMETRY

  A MAN dug a grave. Sweating and aching, he shoveled the earth into a pile, pausing every few moments to stretch. A bottle of water rested nearby, and the gravedigger reached out to take a drink. Then, with methodical, mechanical effort, he turned back to his work. Sunlight graced his back, warming the man and casting shadows along the grave. This was the second grave he’d dug this month, but the work was hot this time, and the man had to use a rag to wipe sweat from his brow.

  Six men approached, carrying a coffin. They wore black suits, but the heat of the day did not seem to affect their solemn demeanor. They rested the casket next to the grave and circled it, clasping their hands before them. The men would be today’s only mourners.

  One of the pallbearers leaned down and draped something atop the coffin’s polished exterior. The ragged piece of leopard skin barely hinted at the majesty it had once conveyed when wrapped around the waist of the deceased. Still, its presence served to remind those in attendance of the measure of the man inside the coffin. The nobility that had defined him, the purpose for which he’d lived his life.

  Sunshine reflected against the burnished copper, warming the leopard-skin cloth as the mourners hung their heads, eyes closed in prayer and reflection. The pallbearers lifted the coffin and, hefting it onto a pair of red straps, lowered it into the grave.

  The gravedigger stepped forward and began to shovel dirt onto the casket below. The mourners stood for a moment, watching the man work, stopping periodically to crane their heads and listen for something that only they could hear.

  The man filled the grave with dirt, his face solemn and grim. As he turned the soil, a tumble of spiders fell atop the coffin. The six men gazed upon the spiders, noting their presence and nodding in understanding. Then a fall of dirt obscured the spiders from view.

  The pallbearers briefly rested their hands on a granite marker, placed at the head of the grave. Then, one after the other, they silently retreated, leaving the gravedigger to finish his work.

  The gravedigger stopped to take another drink. He stared down at the stone marker and read the inscription.

  Here Lies Sergei Kravinoff—Kraven the Hunter. He Died With Honor.

  The man grunted, twisting to relieve his aching muscles. He took up the shovel, preparing to finish his task, but hesitated for a moment as he gazed into the cloudless sky. The rain had stopped, but still the man noted the unmistakable sound of thunder. It rolled in from above, against some unseen storm. Its deafening drumbeats heralded the Hunter, bellowing in triumph from some distant horizon.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  TO start, I want to give credit where it’s due, and thank J.M. DeMatteis and Mike Zeck for one of the greatest and most harrowingly introspective Spider-Man tales of all time. Reading “Kraven’s Last Hunt” in 1987, possibly by candlelight in my parents’ living room, I never knew what the story meant— for Spidey, for MJ, for Kraven, and for the reader. It was one of the first—if not the first—comic-book stories to run across multiple titles. It was, to me at the time, the first psychological exploration i
nto the mind of a super villain (we’re a year from The Killing Joke now)…and then...krakoom. The villain is dead. Kraven no more. Eye-opening to a budding young creator like myself, a reader to whom third-rate villains appeared and reappeared with increasing regularity, even after they might have died. And none of their stories—no matter how dark—ever ended with a rifle in the mouth. Bold, risky, evocative, poetic. I’m humbled to have been a part of its legacy—and, gentlemen, I hope my words did it justice.

  I’d like to thank everyone at Marvel for the opportunity, especially Jeff Youngquist and Sarah Brunstad for their invaluable editing expertise. I would especially like to thank Stuart Moore and Marie Javins for inviting me down into the darkness of, in my opinion, one of Spider-Man’s most fascinating stories. I’ve known Stuart for over ten years, since I first strolled into his office at Marvel one day looking for a story on which we might collaborate. I’m pleased we finally found one and built a great friendship along the way.

  Finally and most importantly, I would like to thank Laurie—my anchor, my heartbeat—for sitting up nights patiently waiting for me to come home. For being my strength as I struggled with both Kraven and Vermin over countless, exhausting nights. With great love comes great responsibility, Laurie. I may be just a man—and hardly a Spider-Man—but your love and support makes me feel great, amazing, and ultimately spectacular.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Xeric-Award winning graphic novelist NEIL KLEID authored Ninety Candles, a graphic novella about life, death, legacy and comics, as well as the graphic novels Brownsville and The Big Kahn. He has written for nearly every comic book publisher in the industry, adapted Jack London’s Call of the Wild into sequentials for Penguin Books, and did the opposite for Marvel Comics’ seminal Spider-Man storyline “Kraven’s Last Hunt”. By day, he lives in New Jersey with his wife and four kids, where he roots for the Tigers, grills like a king, and writes like a champ.