Marvel Novel Series 11 - The Hulk and Spider-Man - Murdermoon

by Paul Kupperberg

  And the Hulk hated cages.

  Even more, the Hulk hated being tied up like a helpless weakling, like that puny Banner!

  And what the Hulk hated, the Hulk smashed!

  His massive muscles flexed under the metallic cocoon. They bulged like thick, knotted ropes under his skin, exerting the full power of the Hulk’s Gamma radiation-mutated strength against his bonds. Beads of perspiration stood out like tiny, shimmering emeralds on his forehead as he strained, his anger growing greater with each passing moment of frustration.

  And as the jade-hued giant’s anger increased, so did his strength!

  With a sharp snap, the cables began to break. With a mighty roar, he threw the shattered strands aside.

  “Hulk has had enough of puny men and machines,” he growled to the men in the hovering choppers.

  He leaped into the air, flying toward the nearest helicopter with his arms stretched out before him like a battering ram. The pilot saw the green mammoth flying toward the cockpit in time to duck, for, in the next instant, the great, green projectile smashed through the transparent bubble and continued skyward. The pilot took one look at his shattered controls and bailed out.

  The Hulk continued on, twisting his body in midflight to swerve toward the second copter. This time, though, the pilot realized it was impossible to avoid a head-on collision with the green giant. He pulled free of his safety harness, checked his parachute and leaped from the aircraft. Within seconds, that aircraft was reduced to falling debris by the Hulk’s emerald fists.

  With ground-shaking impact, the colossus landed in the now flaming debris-littered desert. He snarled once at the men scattered about him and jumped into the air, this time his powerful leg muscles propelling him miles through the sky.

  Within seconds, the great jade giant was gone from view.

  Captain Bill Martin squinted into the sun after the receding figure. “I’ll be damned . . .” he muttered, looking stunned.

  “You said it, Cap’n!” Lieutenant Max Wilson breathed. “Did you see the way that monster snapped those cables like they were string!”

  “Yeah. Jeez, I hope the next time he shows up, he doesn’t do it here!”

  Wilson shook his head in wonder. “Those cables were supposed to be indestructible. And he—that stupid brute, broke ’em like they were nothing! It’s—it’s impossible!”

  Martin continued staring into the distance long after the Hulk had disappeared. “Yeah, well, that’s the beauty of being that stupid, Max. The Hulk’s too dumb to know that most of the things he does are impossible.”

  Two

  New York on a winter night has a strange, almost eerie feel to it. If, as on this night, a still-falling snow continues to cover the streets, the high-intensity street lamps cast harsh, angular shadows on deserted sidewalks. The occasional taxicab or bus that glides over the white-packed asphalt hisses almost silently between the darkened buildings, the snow seeming to absorb the sound, the lights shimmering in the falling crystals.

  From the air, some thirty stories above the street, the scene seems even stranger. The few people that hurry huddled through the storm look distant and unreal in their land of cold shadows to the dark blue- and red-clad figure clinging to the stone façade of the Sperry Rand Building on 51st Street. Well, one nice thing about the cold, he thought as he shivered in the harsh December wind, it tends to keep the criminal element indoors at night.

  And that makes this little friendly neighborhood Spider-Man about as useful as Custer’s medic at Little Big Horn!

  The youth called Spider-Man shivered again in the darkness high above the city. The costume may be flashy, but it sure ain’t gonna make it as the latest thing in winter wear! I wonder if any of the other superheroes in town wear long johns under their costumes?

  He lifted his arm and fired a thin strand of almost indestructible chemical webbing at the building across the street. It stuck to the stone face and Spider-Man leaped into the air. As he swung, he fired another strand from the web shooter under his gloves at the neon-lit façade of Radio City Music Hall.

  He landed lightly on the snow-covered theater marquee and trotted along it until it turned to run along Sixth Avenue. Guess I won’t worry about that till tomorrow. As for tonight, I still have the thrilling prospect of several hours of studying and general book cracking before I grab me seventy or eighty winks.

  The Web-slinger swung smoothly up the quiet, deserted street. At least the exercise’s warming me up. Still, I wish I had pockets in this getup. A taxi’d be just as warm and a whole heck of a lot easier. But I doubt I could find a cabbie in this city who’d want to take an IOU from a guy wearing a mask!

  Spider-Man paused at 73rd Street, clinging by his fingers and toes to the face of a building as he caught his breath. He took in large lungfuls of cold, crisp air. Hey! The pollution doesn’t taste all that bad frozen!

  Suddenly, the Wall-crawler’s masked face jerked up. His head began to tingle fiercely with the unmistakable sensation of his unique spider-sense, a sixth sense that warned Spider-Man whenever danger was present or nearby. In this instance, however, it was the latter, for, even as the tingling flared up in his skull, Spidey’s eye caught a flash of light moving across the roof of the office building across Sixth Avenue.

  Hello! Looks like studying’s just been bumped from this eve’s agenda, ’cause whatever light through yonder window breaks, it sure isn’t the sun, and the way things work out in this business, I just ain’t lucky enough for it to be my Juliet!

  He swung across the street and scampered easily up the side of the building like the arachnid from which he took his name. Most lights inside were off. This late, even the most diligent of workers would be long gone.

  Spider-Man peered carefully over the ledge to the roof. No one was there, but the fresh cover of snow was disturbed by many sets of footprints and the door to the stairs was ajar. Looks like there’re some late-night visitors on the prowl. Gee, I guess I’ve got my work cut out for me after all.

  It’s so nice to feel wanted!

  The Wall-crawler turned and started down the side of the building. He crisscrossed the façade, this time checking carefully in each office for sight of the burglars.

  His search was quickly rewarded.

  Spidey clung outside the eighteenth-floor window, watching as four black-clad intruders moved about inside with the aid of a pencil-thin light from a flashlight.

  I don’t know what’s in there, but whatever it is, it’s obviously worth stealing! So, no sense me hanging out here in the cold like a side of beef . . .

  Spider-Man swung onto the ledge outside the window and crouched there for several Seconds. The intruders had stopped across the room before a heavy door marked “Private,” their backs to the window. The man holding the flashlight knelt. He inserted a slim piece of wire into the lock and probed delicately. It was a considerably more complex lock than most people used on their front doors, so the task required all the tall man’s attention. The others watched their leader tensely. They had not noticed the costumed figure perched outside, watching their every move through the opaque one-way lenses in his macabre mask.

  But that would change soon enough.

  The tall man felt the pick push against the tumblers until they were all properly aligned. Then, with a deft flick of the wrist, the lock clicked softly. A gentle nudge from the dark-garbed man and the door swung open. The kneeling man grinned to his companions.

  “Piece o’ cake,” he whispered.

  The man with the flashlight stood as the others filed by him into the office. Each man was dressed the same, in black slacks, turtle neck, and wind-breaker. When the last man was in, the tall man, with a last look around the deserted office, followed them. The door snapped shut behind him.

  A short, dark man with a black mustache said, “Okay, Jocko.”

  The tall man clapped his companion lightly on the shoulder. “It’s going real smooth, Mandez,” Jocko said, winking.

  Mand
ez looked at his watch and frowned. “Yeah, well, we’ve got seven minutes to get the stuff and get back to the roof to meet the chopper.”

  “Relax, man,” the big man smiled. “Ain’t a safe been made that I can’t crack in less’n half that time.”

  Jocko ran his hand along the wall by the door and found the light switch. When the lights came on, they saw they were in a large, windowless office, decorated in modern plastic and chrome. The desk was a clear-plastic top set on four curved shiny legs. Filing cabinets were gleaming steel; bookcases, crammed with well-read manuals and bulky computer readouts, were made of chrome tubes and Lucite shelves and assembled against a wall between framed reproductions of modern computer art.

  “Okay, boys,” Jocko grinned, rubbing his hands vigorously together. “Let’s see where these turkeys hide their goodies.”

  The quartet spread out and began ransacking the office, pulling drawers from cabinets, papers and books from shelves and pictures from walls. Within moments, the once-neat example of industrial interior decorating was reduced to a room full of smashed and twisted junk. A small safe stood exposed on the wall, the silver-framed picture that had covered it lying broken across the room.

  Jocko stood before the safe. He had instantly recognized the make and model. Cracking it would be a cinch.

  The tall man rubbed his fingertips lightly against his jacket. “All right, guys. Grab a bunch of papers from the cabinet there while I open this here cigar box. The man said to make ’em guess what we was after.”

  He began working on the safe, his trained fingers slowly twirling the dial as he kept his ear close to the thick metal door. Jocko had broken into a lot of safes in his day, but never, before this time, for anybody else. Now, tonight, he was using his valuable skills for a stranger, a man Jocko had never met. Orders came over the telephone. Money was left in unmarked envelopes in his mailbox. All very mysterious.

  But whoever the guy was, his cash was green and that was what counted.

  “Five minutes,” Mandez whispered tensely, checking his watch for the fifth time in half a minute.

  “You worry too much, Mandez,” Jocko chuckled softly, concentrating on the delicate task at hand. He felt rather than heard the second tumbler click into place. “Now relax, man. I’ll be inside this sorry excuse for a cracker box in a second.”

  Mandez nodded, consulting his watch again. Jocko was right. He was too jumpy tonight, though he didn’t know why. Maybe it was the weird guy who hired them having insisted on so much secrecy and having the gang follow his timetable. The small dark man did not like it when he and his companions weren’t in on the planning and didn’t control the proceedings. He liked to handle things his way, otherwise he had the paranoid feeling that something just had to go wrong.

  There was a knock at the door.

  The four men froze. Mandez tiptoed over to the door and put his ear to it for several seconds, listening carefully as his hand snaked out and clicked off the overhead light.

  “Well?” Jocko hissed impatiently in the sudden darkness, his fingers unmoving on the dial.

  Mandez shrugged, his eyes shiny in the darkness. “I don’t hear anything,” he whispered back.

  “Awright.” Jocko clicked on the penlight and shone it on the safe. “Keep the lights off while I finish this.” He snapped his fingers at the two men standing silently in the center of the room. “And you guys. Stand by the door—and don’t use your guns unless you have to!”

  The men started toward the door through the dark as Jocko turned his attention back to the safe. One more turn of the dial . . .

  Click!

  There was another knock, this one much louder.

  “Jocko!”

  The tall man turned to his companion. “Be cool, Mandez,” he grinned, reaching under his dark wind-breaker. He withdrew a pistol. “And don’t keep our mystery guest waiting.”

  Mandez swallowed hard and yanked open the door.

  “Say hey, Web-slinger fans! Spidey’s here!” The Wall-crawler stood casually against the door frame, his arms folded across his chest. “I saw you kids still had your light on and wanted to know if I could join your pajama party.”

  “Spider-Man!” Mandez screeched.

  Jocko cursed to himself. Those idiots hadn’t given him any room in their carefully planned schedule to deal with trouble, especially trouble of this size. Keeping his eyes on Spider-Man, Jocko surreptitiously slid his hand into the safe and felt carefully around. His fingers closed around a small plastic case: a tape cassette. He quickly shoved it into his back pocket.

  And now for Spider-Man.

  The tall man moved away from the safe and aimed his gun at the Wall-crawler. “Maintain the pose, Spider-Man,” he said slowly. “Me and my boys got what we came for and now we’re leaving. Peacefully, if you let us, but don’t think that means I’ve got anything against blowing your head off.”

  Spidey chuckled and stepped into the room. “My goodness gracious me, we are feeling hostile tonight, aren’t we, Sluggo?”

  “Go ahead and laugh, man,” Jocko growled. “We’ll see how much you laugh with the wind whistling through your face!”

  Spider-Man put up his hands in a pacifying gesture. “You don’t mean you plan to shoot me with that gun, do you?”

  Jocko raised his gun higher. “Move out of the way, Spider-Man,” he warned. “There ain’t nothing wrong with this gun.”

  “Sure there is, friend,” Spidey said. “There’s all kinds of gunk clogging up the barrel.” The Web-slinger curled the middle fingers of both hands to depress the two small buttons secreted beneath his gloves. Twin strands of webbing shot from the nozzles at his wrists and flew accurately across the room to their target.

  Jocko pulled the trigger a split second later. The bullet struck the already-hardening webbing material and exploded, shattering the gun in the man’s hand. He howled in pain and dropped the smoldering, ruined pistol.

  “Gee, that was fun,” Spider-Man said. “Anybody else wanna play with me for a while?”

  “Damnit,” Jocko screamed, cradling his wounded hand to his chest. “Get him, you idiots!”

  “ ‘Get him’?” Spidey asked. “ ‘Get him’? Can’t you creeps ever use some new material, y’know, something with a little snap and some of the old pizzazz. You can’t imagine how dull it gets listening to a whole bunch of clowns who sound like they learned to talk from a 1938 John Garfield movie.”

  The two black-clad men moved toward Spider-Man from the center of the room. The costumed youth’s pose was casual but he was inwardly tensed, ready to move at the slightest provocation. And that came soon enough as the thug on Spidey’s right lunged forward, his hands reaching for the Wall-crawler’s throat. Spidey caught his wrists in his gloved hands.

  “Hi, sailor,” he said. “New in town?”

  He moved at the exact second as the second thug, swinging the first man’s body around to intercept a clenched fist. The captured man grunted in pain as the blow skipped off his ribs and he tried to pull free of Spidey’s grasp.

  Still holding tight, the Wall-crawler swept his booted foot past his captive and kicked the second thug in the shin. While the punk hopped on one foot holding his wounded leg, Spider-Man released the first man’s wrists. The man looked in surprise into the staring white orbs for a moment and then smiled, drawing back his fist.

  “Don’t get cocky, punk,” Spidey said.

  His webbing shot out, snagging the man’s raised hand. Spider-Man jerked the web leash forward, sending the startled burglar stumbling toward him. “Come to papa,” the Web-slinger said lightly. The man’s face smacked into Spidey’s gloved hand with a sharp crack that sent his head snapping back. With a deep sigh, the thug crumpled to the floor.

  Spider-Man turned to the other man who stood in the center of the room with a look of pain on his face and a gun in his hand. “Just what is this strange fascination you creeps have with those things?”

  “They shut up wise guys, wise guy!” the
man growled. He pulled the trigger.

  The Wall-crawler was moving the instant he saw the thief tense to fire. He crouched and sprang up at the ceiling. His fingers touched the soundproofing material and stuck. He swung his legs up and plastered his body against the ceiling as the bullet whizzed harmlessly by beneath him. The crook cursed and readjusted his aim. Hanging by his feet, Spider-Man reached down and grabbed the gunman’s arm. He pulled him off the floor.

  “You really oughta see the view from up here, chuckles. It’s simply breathtaking!”

  The crook’s feet kicked helplessly in the air, but the Wall-crawler’s hold was firm—almost supernaturally strong. The man opened his mouth to speak, but the costumed youth stifled his words with a gag of webbing. “No, don’t speak,” Spidey pleaded. “It’ll just spoil the atmosphere.”

  More of the thick, viscous webbing was wrapped around his body until the burglar was thoroughly bound and Spider-Man could stick the still-struggling man to the ceiling like a giant caterpillar nestled in its cocoon.

  The Web-slinger dropped to the floor and regarded the trussed-up thief. “Whew! Whenever you get out of that glop, junior,” he said, shaking his head in disbelief, “you’re gonna be the biggest, ugliest butterfly anybody’s ever seen!”

  A sudden, sharp tingling in his head made Spider-Man whirl around, alert. It didn’t take long for him to see what his spider-sense was trying to tell him: except for the two thugs he’d just fought, the vandalized office was empty.

  Awww . . . heck!

  Spidey ran toward the open door. I was having so much fun with those goons I forgot about the other two. What would all my loyal fans say if they heard I let the bad guys get away, with the loot, yet!

  . . . Whatever the loot happens to be.

  He raced out into the darkened outer office. To his right he heard the echo of rubber soles slapping rhythmically against a linoleum floor. Harsh, barely audible whispers followed the footsteps from the darkness.