Marvel's Spider-Man: Miles Morales

by Brittney Morris

  In fact, they have a whole beak, just like in that video Ganke showed me.

  I duck down so just my eyes are peeking over to look at them. They’re so much… scarier up close.

  One by one, they turn their hideous gray faces toward us and spread their wings wide, flapping wildly while they open their beaks and squawk, hissing spit everywhere and revealing row after row of razor-sharp teeth.

  They jump down off the truck and…

  Wait, why are they still looking at us?

  “Run!” hollers Peter, grabbing my arm again. I swipe my bag out from under the booth and we dart out of the restaurant together. I’ve never sprinted so hard in my life, and I know not to look back, but I do anyway, just in time to see a gray beak snap its jaws shut mere feet away from my ankles. I yelp and summon more energy into my legs, following Peter out the back door and into the alley. We duck behind the silver restaurant trash cans, startling a stray cat away in the process.

  Good. Let the little guy get away while he can!

  We both unzip our bags, knowing the drill well by now.

  Check to make sure the coast is clear.

  Stand back to back.

  Take the suits out of our bags.

  And it’s go-time.

  I slip my web-shooter onto my wrist.

  Except, this time, before I can get the rest of my uniform on, I glance up halfway through sliding the gear out of my bag, and realize the coast isn’t clear anymore. One of the winged things screeches and slams someone to the pavement in the street, someone in a green hoodie with dark hair and a phone that’s flown out of their hand with a Wi-Fi booster hooked to the top.

  It feels like everything happens in slow motion.

  Instinct kicks in.

  I drop my bag and my uniform, and sprint to the end of the alley.

  I hear Peter call my name behind me.

  “Miles, wait! Your mask!”

  But all I can see is Ganke, my friend, my roommate, unconscious on the pavement, with some bird-raptor looming over him, pinning him to the ground as it opens its jaws and eases its drooling fangs toward him.

  “Leave him alone!” I yell, instinctively reaching my hand forward, wrist up, and bending it. Before I can remember that I’m not in my mask, I’ve already released my web. The white ropes are flying forward, they’re enveloping the beast’s face, and it’s clawing at itself, reeling backward until it trips over the hood of a taxi and stumbles down the street, shrieking and growling in frustration that it can no longer see.

  It’s then that I turn back to Ganke and realize he’s not unconscious after all. His face was just turned away. He’s looking up at me in awe, eyes wide with disbelief as he pushes himself to his feet.

  “S-s-sp-sp-spuh…” he croaks. He’s so flustered, he hasn’t even bothered to pick up his phone with the Wi-Fi amplifier on the top, or noticed the panicking people sprinting down the street behind him. I kneel, pick up the device, brush it off a little, and hand it to him. He takes it in his hand and turns it over and over before looking at me again. My heart is pounding out of my chest. Ganke knows.

  Ganke knows.

  “You… you are…” he says. “Aren’t you?”

  I take a deep breath and remember what I told him that night I sneaked into our dorm and was so careful with my words. I was so paranoid about preserving my secret identity all that time. When I told him I would tell him if something was going on, I definitely lied. And now he knows. He knows everything.

  But if it comes down to my identity vs. Ganke’s life, he has to know which one I’m going to choose.

  “Yeah,” I shrug. “Yeah, I am.”

  CHAPTER 13

  “B-BU-BUT you,” stutters Ganke. “A-a-and that thing back there, and-and-and I… how could you… I… Bro!”

  “I know,” I shrug, slipping my hands in my pockets. “I’m sorry—”

  I know what he’s going to ask.

  How could you keep this from me?

  How could you not trust me?

  How could you…?

  Just, How could you?

  “Bro,” he says again, this time a chuckle spilling forth behind it, which surprises me. “This is awesome! How could you be sorry? This is the best day of my life! I always knew you were a weirdo, but this explains everything!”

  A sense of relief settles into my chest at the realization that he’s not mad at me, but seemingly thrilled to find out his best friend specializes in beatmaking by day and haymaking by night. And then a sense of hey what the hell at the “weirdo” comment. My face must change, because he laughs again and claps me on the shoulder.

  “Hey, no worries, man, we’re both weirdos. I just… I just can’t believe I didn’t figure it out. Of—” he clamps a hand over his mouth and his eyes get huge. I raise my eyebrows questioningly.

  “Of course!” he exclaims with a laugh. “The window! It all makes sense! Oh, my god! So, wait, I have questions. How many Spider-Men… or women… Spider-People… are there? Can you communicate with actual spiders, or just human-spider mutants? Do you eat flies? How do you hide your extra eyes? Like, where even are they? Can you shoot webbing out of your ass? Because, you know, that’s where most spiders spin web from—”

  “Uh, Ganke,” I say, taking several steps back as another one of those giant bird-humans leaps over the gap between the buildings across the street, “not to blow off your questions again, but can they wait? We’ve got bigger problems here.” Yet another bird squawks in our direction before thankfully losing interest and proceeding with its chicken-walk down the street.

  Ganke seems totally unbothered somehow, looking down at the phone in his hand with the Wi-Fi booster hooked into it, flipping it over and over again in his hand before turning it on and clicking a few buttons.

  “Seems to be only surface-level damage,” he says, as another bird leaps off the roof of the building to our right and lands on top of a city bus with a clang! The back window shatters and glass falls all over the ground. I flinch at the sound, but Ganke keeps talking. “I should be able to repair this pretty easily with some tinkering. Maybe I could open it up… and anyway, these winged things flying around? Uh… tell me you know something about what’s up with them?”

  “You might know more than me, actually,” I say, grabbing Ganke’s shoulders and ducking out of the way with him to dodge a flying metal flowerpot. A cat squeals from somewhere behind us as it clanks its way down the sidewalk.

  “Not much, unfortunately,” says Ganke, as one of the winged creatures swoops down from a lamppost and lands on top of a dump truck. A man shrieks and practically flies out of the truck door in a scrambled panic as another bird-human sails down the street behind him, grabbing another screaming man holding hands with his partner, and throwing him to the ground. The partner screams and watches helplessly as the winged thing overpowers the man he loves and clamps his teeth down over his wrist. I gasp, and I hear Ganke gasp, and I instinctively press my hand in front of my friend and step forward so I’m standing between him and the… what do we even call them… mini-vultures?

  What are baby vultures called?

  Chicks?

  My heart is racing. There has to be something I can do, mask or no mask, even if I can’t use my web-shooter again without my mask. But there’s just random debris—splintered wood pieces and overturned garbage bins and cooking utensils from the restaurant and that metal flowerpot—wait… that’s it! That’s perfect!

  I dive for a wooden spoon and the flowerpot and go to town banging away at it.

  “Hey!” I holler, whacking the metal and keeping my eye on the bird with its teeth sunken into the man’s wrist. But it doesn’t take long before the man on the ground’s eyes glaze over, and then go dull. The partner is still watching, standing still, petrified, and the winged thing turns to him.

  Run! I want to yell, but it’s too late. The vulture is on him in seconds with the same treatment. A brief struggle, a bite, and then… stillness.

  Then
, the vulture turns to look at us.

  It takes one step, revealing huge gray bird feet, which have poked clean through a pair of dress shoes that are now dangling off their smallest claw. Each stomp leaves a three-pronged footprint in the pavement as it approaches. I take a step back.

  “Uhhhhh, Miles?” asks Ganke from behind me, his voice squeaky and shaky. My hand is still out in front of him. Then I get angry at the bird, looming down on us like we’re helpless prey.

  “Ay, you wanna end up like your friend over there?” I hiss up at it. “Then I suggest you back off!”

  Each of its feathers slowly rises off its back, and its shoulders hunch up high before it slides its wings away from either side of its body and extends them to full wingspan. And now that I’m up close and personal, now that I have a good look at its features, that’s when I realize who this is. That face… that slender face with the sharp jawline and the nose now curved into a beak-like shape. Those flashing eyes, once blue. That’s… that’s Mr. O’Flanigan!

  He was already intimidating standing at the front of the classroom, staring me down after he caught me not paying attention. I don’t want to know what he could do to me with wings, claws, a bird beak, and an extra four feet in height on me. How ironic is it that the biology teacher who was just teaching me all about spiders and the numerous violent ways they can take down their enemies, is now trying to kill me after becoming a biological weapon of his own.

  I hear my phone beep in my pocket, that Spider-Man beat I made with the old school theme song and everything, and I say, “Answer,” to answer it hands-free.

  “Miles?” comes Peter’s voice.

  “Yo, where did you go? Uh, we’re kinda in a situation here, Ganke and I.”

  “Oh,” says Peter again, clearing his throat. The version of his voice he uses next is extremely high-pitched and… just plain weird. “Miles, this is uh… your teacher calling. Mrs. uh… Dela… ware.”

  I stifle a laugh, despite the fact that this man—er—raptor—er… bird-human hybrid, is still breathing down at us, pushing us farther down the street with every step it takes toward us.

  “Ganke knows about me already, man,” I say to him. “You don’t have to act. But Mrs. Delaware, that’s… that’s a pretty believable name right there.”

  “Hey, I tried. As you rushed off, Viv called back. Told me to get downtown ASAP. Whatever’s going on, it’s not just Brooklyn—” he says.

  “Oh my god,” says Ganke, “I know that voice anywhere. You’re… you’re…”

  I roll my eyes at the dramatics, but I give Ganke a moment to absorb everything before he clenches his fists in front of his chin and squeals excitedly. “H-hi, Mr… Spider-Man,” he says nervously. “Oh man, this is the best day!”

  “Is it?” I ask.

  Not because I don’t understand why Ganke’s excited to find out that not only do I know Spider-Man, I also am Spider-Man, but because those two guys this vulture just attacked—the ones with a punctured wrist and forearm—are getting up from the ground now.

  And they’re growing wings.

  Ganke gasps next to me as these… well, former people, grow another two feet in size and sprout downy feathered wings from the middle of their backs, which rip right through their shirts. Feathers sprout through the skin on their arms and legs, and their fingernails sharpen and lengthen into claws that shine in the afternoon sunlight. They reel their heads back and roar, exposing their muscly and veiny necks, which have turned a pale shade of gray like the rest of their bodies. Their growing feet rip right through the toes of their shoes, exposing claws as long as butcher knives, scratching at the pavement as they rise to their full height. Their wings spread out farther and farther, until they stretch across a whole lane of traffic. Then, they both lock their gray, glassed-over eyes on us.

  Another step from the raptor bird guy—who used to be Mr. O’Flanigan—in front makes me stumble backward over my own shoes. I don’t lose my footing completely, though, and I glance over at Ganke.

  “Yo, Spider-Man,” I croak out, swallowing the lump in my throat. “These aren’t just bird-people. They’re uh… zombie bird-people.”

  “What?!” Pete’s voice is frantic. Sounds of a struggle ring out through the phone. A crash here, a punch there.

  “Don’t let them bite you!” I yell.

  Turns out these bird-people don’t like yelling either, because Mr. O’Flanigan cranes his neck down, levels his glassy gray eyes at me, which I can now see are covered in a thin blue film. I feel my back hit something, and I glance back to realize I’m up against the front bumper of an abandoned taxi. I have nowhere to go.

  I lean back, back, back, and he gets closer and closer.

  And those eyes.

  I can see my reflection in them, and then I look closely and see the fluid covering them seems to be… moving? It’s crawling with tiny active dots, making it look like his eyes are swimming in themselves, like they’re drowning.

  “The nanobots,” I whisper to myself.

  My lungs are burning, and my chest is on fire, sweat is beading on my forehead and my heart’s pounding in my throat.

  “Alright, man,” I say to Ganke. “On three, we turn around. You run down the street, and I run down the alley to get uh… changed. Deal?”

  He nods.

  “You can count on me. Just like always.”

  SCREEEEEECH!!!!

  “Ganke, now!”

  I dart left and sprint back down the sidewalk the way we came, hearing things break and fall to pieces around me. A streetside umbrella flies forward into my path and I dart around it and hop over an outdoor picnic table that somehow made it through all of this. As I leap, my hand brushes against something sharp and pain rings through the fingers of my right hand. But I don’t have time to think about that. Almost the moment I get over the picnic table, splintered wood pieces fly up from behind me, exploding in all directions.

  I keep running, but I glance over my shoulder to see if I can see Ganke. He’s running in the opposite direction with no sign of looking back. Which is great. Because he’s not the fastest person I’ve ever met.

  I recognize the alley where I left my bag and dart down it, too fast, slipping on the pavement before scrambling to my feet, scooping up my backpack, and ducking behind a dumpster.

  I shut my eyes and try to catch my breath as I hear the footsteps behind me.

  If you can even call them footsteps. I can feel the ground vibrating every time he sinks one of his fifty-pound clawed feet into the already broken, cracked concrete. As he gets closer, and I slip on my mask, and shoes, and gloves, wincing as I pull one over my cut-up hand, and eventually zip up my hoodie, I find it hard to believe this raptor bird used to be a human, or that if we can clear the nanobots out of his system, there might still be remnants of a human inside him. But what am I doing, trying to save these people, if I don’t believe there’s hope.

  I have to tell myself we can.

  I can hear him breathing. He’s close.

  Then I can feel a rush of hot air coming from above me, and with trembling hands, I look up and see him—the beak, the black feathers—and I see my out.

  I shoot my web straight up and catch his head with it, using him startled, reeling backward, to slingshot myself up into the air, in an arc high above his head.

  “Not that this hasn’t been a delight,” I say, waving goodbye with one hand as I web the top of the building with the other, “but I’ve gotta get busy finding you a cure. Later, sir!”

  And I’m out.

  CHAPTER 14

  I decide to call Peter to find out how far he’s got. If Viv was saying downtown was worse, I can’t imagine what state it’s in.

  “Yo, Pete?” I ask into the phone. I still hear a commotion going on, but I can’t pinpoint what it is.

  “Miles? Oh thank goodness. Are you and Ganke okay? I’m sorry I couldn’t stick around. I know you can handle yourself but—”

  “Yeah, we’re good!” I say,
swinging between two buildings and turning the corner onto an especially busy street. I can only hope Ganke got to somewhere safe without me. “These bird-people are really tearing up NYC, though,” I say, horrified at the extent of the destruction.

  A fire hydrant spews into the air at the end of the block. Mailboxes lie strewn about the street. Abandoned cars halfway crumpled with smoking hoods are parked haphazardly all over the road. Torn clothes are everywhere—in the street, on the sidewalk, in the green, and even on top of roofs and verandas.

  “Looks like the aftermath of a party I’m glad I wasn’t invited to,” I say, launching another web at the next building and swinging over it all.

  “Things aren’t looking too good over here either, Miles. These zombie bird-people are everywhere. Harlem, Brooklyn, Manhattan, they’ve even turned the bay into a gigantic bird bath!”

  Mid-swing—guess my web was too long—a beak comes up and snaps at my ankles as I fly by, half a second after I yank my knees up against my chest.

  “Yikes!” I squeal. “Peter, we’ve gotta do something. What’s the plan here?”

  I hear grunts and kicks just before Peter answers. “See if you can figure out where all these bird-people are coming from. Any idea where this started?”

  “Nope,” I say, sailing down the street just as a bird creature looms over a young man about my age. Since I’m here, I stick my foot out and kick the bird square in the beak. I glance over my shoulder and see it lying unconscious in the street. Part of me feels bad that these used to be people that I’m attacking, but another part of me knows that these people would never approve of how their bodies are being used to terrorize other people, and that I have to stop this at all costs.

  “Where are you now?” I ask.

  “On my way to Manhattan!” he says between punches. “As soon as I can catch a break. Sounds like they might be concentrating near Times Square.”

  And just as I’m about to ask him more about what’s going on over there, and just how much of New York these bird-people have infiltrated, Mom’s ringtone sings from my pocket.