by Neil Kleid
No, he counseled himself, shaking his head in dismay, feeling the disappointment of his ancestors at his back—the mocking laughter of the unseen, absent Beast he’d buried in the ground. No, I am no Spider.
I am Kravinoff, the man.
“I am Kraven,” he said hoarsely to nobody at all, to the curious multitude of arachnids just beyond the thin pane of glass. “I am Kraven the Hunter!” He leaned forward and pressed his face against the window, staring at the spiders. Fury and pressure darkened and reddened his face as he pushed closer and closer to that which he feared most.
I am Kraven, and my metamorphosis is not yet complete.
Sergei pulled away, shivering and unsteady. He turned from the spiders back to the center of the room, where waited a thin, simple bowl of shimmering liquid. Sergei knew that he had to merge the Hunter and the Spider (why), had to become one with the Beast’s blasphemous, sacred essence (why am I), to find peace in the horror and majesty of the Spider’s core (why am I doing this?).
He bent down on all fours again before the bowl, lapping softly at the mixture of herbs and roots—the fruits and flowers that could widen his mind, shatter the Hunter, and let the Spider take hold. He drank deeply, letting the poisons and juices pervade him. Then—with a sudden wrench at his gut, a thin blade to the back of his skull—the serum took effect. Pain coursed through Sergei’s body and released itself with a primal, animal howl.
Why am I doing this?
Doubled over, trying not to gag, Sergei felt his thoughts split apart like wheat in a thresher, torn from the root and ripped through a whirlwind. Why was he doing this? For honor (pain!)? Or for dignity (dear lord the pain)? For everything that Sergei’s father had bequeathed to him, here in this strange alien land?
(sweet death please stop the pain the PAIN)
No. Sergei’s father had been a pompous fool—a Russian nobleman, once powerful but then exiled and sent to live in poverty here in America. He’d been too obsessed with the spoils of the past, too firmly attached to what was instead of what is.
(mother father the PAIN please PAIN)
Sergei regulated his breathing, letting the potion fill his veins. He allowed his system to adjust to the sudden, eye-opening expansion of consciousness. As the pain receded, he dropped to all fours once more and did his best to order his fragmented, excruciating thoughts.
His father. Sergei’s father had died when he was young, not long after coming to America from St. Petersburg. After Sergei’s father died and his mother had been taken away, Sergei had learned to survive. He stowed away, traveling abroad to see the world. In Africa, he’d found a natural talent for stalking and securing big game, so he pursued a life in which he could hone those skills, becoming a successful game hunter. His life had been given meaning—aided by the potion that granted him increased speed, strength, and agility. His reputation grew, allowing him to achieve the wealth and honor his father had been forced to leave behind.
Sergei’s father had been a god—the last remnant of a world saturated in culture, decency, and honor. A world his father had longed to recover, while his mother was lost to the jaws of America and the great Beast that dwelled here.
A world the Spider had consumed.
Furious, Sergei rose to his feet and rushed at the wall of spiders. With the serum pumping through his system, he shattered the glass in a single blow. Hammering at the pieces, eight-legged pests spilling over his arms and back, Sergei roared and punched until the window was no more. “You did it!” he cried. “You crushed it!” he shouted at the poor, confused spiders.
Russia had been the model for a new and better civilization—and the Spider had destroyed it, just as it had destroyed his parents (my heart, he screamed into the daze of blood and adrenaline). The Spider— elegant trickster, mythological tale-spinner, Prince of Lies. It took the guise of a Trotsky, or a Lenin; a Hitler, Reagan, or Gorbachev—men in masks and sinister disguises. The faces made no difference to Sergei. The Spider crawled, the world shattered into meaningless pieces, and mankind tumbled into the pit.
(I am)
Sergei stood in the center of his sanctum, its carpet obscured by crimson incense, shards of glass, and dark, questing, angered spiders. He spread his legs, balled his fists, and prepared for battle. He faced the broken window and roared his accusations as his family’s ancient enemy spilled forth and pooled on the floor before him.
“You!” he yelled. “You, Spider! Come out and face me! I am Kravinoff, the man! I am Kraven the Hunter! I am—”
(I am so)
“—the Spider!”
(I am so afraid, Sergei thought.)
Slowly, awkwardly, the spiders came together in a fluid, restless mass of shiny, black globules. Sergei shook his head and blinked, trying to clear the disturbing vision—either a waking nightmare or drug-induced hallucination—from his mind. As he watched, the creatures merged together to form a single, shifting, sinister Spider. A looming ebon-and-crimson monster that cast a shadow over Sergei and crawled forth to meet him. Horrified, eyes wide and immobile with fear, Sergei could do nothing but watch and wait for the terrible, hideous arachnid to make its move.
(Get away!)
This is insane, Sergei thought. He stood before a shadow that could not exist, a vision created by his drugged and altered mind. He had nothing to fear (Get away!). He was Kraven the Hunter (Kravinoff, a man). And despite the fevered accusations of the Spider haunting his life and destroying his family (Get away while you can!), there was no Spider, no supernatural creature inhabiting men’s souls and driving them mad. There was only Spider-Man—a costumed fool who through sheer luck had managed to beat Sergei time and again, through the years. He wiped his eyes and tried to smile, hoping to stem the effects of the drug and wash away the fictional Spider standing in his inner sanctum.
Yet the Spider remained.
Of course it does, Sergei thought as he evaded the giant Spider’s mammoth mandibles.
(But what)
Only by taking the hero’s place, by proving himself the stronger Spider-Man, would Sergei’s victory have any meaning. So of course the hallucination persisted
(what if it’s)
because Sergei insisted on creating this thing— this demon, this Spider. He’d spent his life hunting animals. It was easier to visualize his enemy that way—not as a man, but as another animal, another predator he could face as the Hunter. Then, using all of his skills, all of his talents, he would prove himself its better by utterly destroying it.
Cowering in the corner, crawling beneath the millions of spiders, Sergei felt his heart hammering inside his chest, pounding in his ears like a drum. Feeling scared and embarrassed, he forced himself to stand.
Face him, he roared, balling his fists. You are Kravinoff, the man. Face your enemy and bring him to heel.
“I am Kraven!” he shouted at the beast. “I am the Hunter and there is nothing to fear!”
Sergei pounced on the monster’s back and drove his fists into its neck, squashing dozens of spiders in a single blow. Wading into the churning mass, held together by webs and will, Sergei lashed out and punched his way to the nightmare’s center, immersing himself in the belly of the beast.
I am Kraven, he shouted to the storm, voice carrying across the heavens to be welcomed by gods and monsters alike. I turned my back upon this corrupted world, this sewer that dares call itself civilization—and I found purpose in the primal, the unsullied. The jungle!
The spiders regrouped and secured themselves on Sergei’s left arm, dragging him down. He struck another blow, teeth bared and hair unkempt as he attempted to send each spider to a Valhalla of its own reward.
He had found dignity and honor in that which most men would find uncivilized—the hunt, an act in which his own noble father would never have indulged. But Sergei was not most men, and he feared no man or beast—or the judgment of those less worthy.
“I am Kraven!” he assured the whirlwind of biting, crawling arachnids drowning him be
neath their combined weight. “I am Kraven, and I fear nothing!”
(GET AWAY)
The spiders—real or hallucinatory—wrapped their tendrils around Sergei’s struggling arms, pushed him down under the great mass of their bodies. They spilled into his hair, his nose, his ears.
I am Kraven! he screeched again to the gods. And I remember now! I remember why I am doing this. I know…I know that to become Spider-Man, I must absorb the essence of Spider-Man. I must let the Spider in, surrender to it.
The spiders filled his mouth and scampered along his tongue, falling to the back of his throat and making their way inside his body. He tried to scream, but could not find his voice, left only with the shouts and horror inside his mind as he slipped beneath the ebon, glossy waves.
I am Kraven, he thought.
I am…
…what am I?
And then everything went dark.
FIVE
THAT noise.
That noise—the sound—out there in the darkness.
I…I hear you…I hear it…but I don’t—
(kra)
I don’t like it.
Leave me alone.
Edward wanted to be left alone, left to hide. Down here in the dark, the wet, the cold, where he could eat in peace. Where the world up there, with its people and pain, would not bother him. He gnawed nervously on a finger bone and hunkered down in sludge with his rat friends—doing his best to shut out the intruding noise. The rats squeaked and swam around him, brushing up against his leg, begging for scraps from his latest kill.
take another look, Vermin said inside Edward’s head. take another look at the bad man.
Edward closed his eyes and shook his head. He threw away the finger bone and covered his face with filthy, blood-encrusted hands. The rats scampered after the discarded bone, shrill voices rising as they raced each other to the half-eaten prize. “No, leave me alone. Go away. I don’t like it.”
look, Vermin wheedled. the bad man brings the noise. the bad man brings the pain. look at the man in the paper and fuel our anger.
Mewling, Edward rose from the corner and reluctantly shuffled back over to the newspaper. It had been hours since his last look, since the sight of the bad man. He’d left the paper where it lay, amid his leftovers, sodden and turned over so he wouldn’t have to see the bad man by accident.
look at it! Vermin screamed, raw hatred ringing through Edward’s head. Another noise joined it, coming from above. Unfamiliar and curious, but also worrisome.
(krak)
He lifted the newspaper, paging through its damp remains, glancing at the photos and barely reading the stories. The rats, finished with Edward’s leftovers, had drifted back and settled down around his legs. They stuck wet noses into the air, sniffing the newspaper as if waiting for Edward to tell them a story. Words jumbled together in Edward’s head; he found it hard to read. Before, he knew, he’d been able to think… no, tell…no—read the words. Before…what, exactly? What was Edward before? He tried to remember, but Vermin was shouting in his brain, screaming and hurting Edward’s head. And the other noise— the terrible noise—got louder, and he kept looking through the paper until he found—
No! nononononononono—
Edward recoiled from the photo, backing up against the wall. It stared him in the face, laughing at him, mocking what Edward was now and what he’d been before. The picture of the bad man, the very bad man.
look, edward, Vermin said. look at him again.
Sobbing, sniffling, Edward shuffled back toward the paper and looked at the bad man once more. The crawly man. Insect man.
Vermin breathed inside his mind, hungry and exultant.
sssspider-man.
“He hurt me,” Edward explained, making his case to both Vermin and his skittering, curious rat companions. “The bad man hurt me…wasss it yesterday? Today? Forever ago.” Time had lost all meaning down here in the dark, and Edward could not recall how long it had been since the paper with the photo of the bad man had first arrived. All Edward remembered was the pain. How the bad man had hurt and hit him. And the other one…the crawly man’s friend. Now Edward could remember—it was that nasty soldier man with the redwhiteblue. The flag man, who hurt Edward’s pets and stopped him from gathering food for the winter. They were the reason Edward was always hungry. They hurt him and webbed him and hit him with their shieldssss. The spider man and his friend, captain…flag. No. Captain…
america.
Yessss.
that’s why you’re hiding, Vermin explained.that’s why you’re wasting our time down here, away from food and warmth. you hide and let them win. but i’m not afraid of anyone! let me go above; i’ll rip those two to pieces and chew ’em up.
Edward shook his head violently, trying to clear his mind of Vermin’s poisonous encouragement. “No,” he whimpered. “No, I won’t.” He crawled away, down a tunnel, splashing in the sewage with a retinue of rodents nipping at his heels. Vermin was wrong. Wrong. Edward didn’t hide out of fear. It was good to hide: When you hid in the dark, no one could see or touch you, or tell you what to do. The darkness offered warmth and safety; the dark was strong. No police or bad men down here. Only Edward and his squealing, dirty rat friends, starving and foraging beneath the city.
He leaned down to stroke the fur of a nearby rat and looked around to see where he was. The tunnels beneath New York went on for miles and miles, and Edward was always finding places he’d never been before. This time, he found himself in a wide, cavernous reservoir where sewage collected from four diverging corridors. A runged ladder had been installed against one wall, leading up to a manhole and the street above.
we have to show them, edward. show them all.
“No no no no no.” The bad men, the people, were up there. And the noise—the unfamiliar, thunderous noise.
(krak)
ssspider-man and captain america, edward. we’ve got to show them that we’re not afraid.
Warily, Edward eyed the ladder. Then, with a tentative, hesitant touch, he reached for the bottom rung. Slowly, egged on by the voice in his head, he began to climb the ladder. The rats gathered at the base of the ladder, squeaking up at Edward, growing in volume the higher he climbed.
yessss. show them…show them what you can do show them
Edward placed a hand against the manhole cover and pushed it up, allowing light to creep into his hiding place, letting rain and water drip down and mat his filthy, tangled fur. He peered up and out with squinting red eyes as he had done several times before, the times when Edward had forced himself to hunt prey. Vermin was right. He had to show them both, show them all…
“Show them that I can come up out of the dark whenever I…”
Edward’s voice trailed off as something came down over the top of the manhole cover, scuttling out of the rain. It skittered on eight tiny legs, dropping slowly on an invisible strand of thread. Edward’s eyes widened at the sight of the spider, and his heart froze at the distant sound of thunder.
(kraKOOM)
He dropped the manhole with a heavy metallic clank and clambered down the ladder, back into his hidey-hole.
“Run away!” Edward shouted. His multitude of rodent retainers followed him back down the way he’d come, screeching and fleeing the large, open reservoir room for the safety of their wet, cold, dark corners.
Edward stopped beneath a low portcullis, doing his best to calm himself. Vermin berated him inside his head, and the rats would not stop their panicked squeaking. “Quiet! Quiet, now,” he warned the rodents. “We don’t want anyone to hear us or hurt us!”
But the rats continued, wheeling around at his feet. Edward grabbed one of their tails and slammed the rat against the concrete path. “I said quiet!”
The spider had undone all of Vermin’s encouragement, had sent Edward back into hiding. We’ll try again tomorrow, Edward thought, absentmindedly chewing on the tiny, furry body of his former friend, blood squirting down his chin. Edward promised
himself that tomorrow would be better, but Vermin knew he was fooling himself. The spider had spooked him, and the noise, the sound, was getting closer.
He heard it—but Edward didn’t.
The thunder.
“Leave me alone,” Edward begged. “Go away and let me hide.”
Another noise sounded from above—closer now, echoing against the ceiling. Edward looked up. He recognized this sound, knew it for what it was, and both curiosity and hunger peaked his interest. But the other noise, the thunder, drowned it out along with a frightened voice.
(I am)
the storm. a reckoning, Vermin breathed.
(I am so)
“Who’sss there?” Edward asked, looking around for the source of the deep, hungry voice. “Is that you, Vermin? Who’s calling?”
(I am so afraid)
What did the voice want? Why was it calling to Edward? Discarding the broken rat, he slowly moved back into the reservoir, splashing through the sewage. The drums grew louder, as did the familiar sounds from above, and he began to understand.
The frightened voice was Edward’s.
we have to go up there, edward. there’s something important we have to do.
“Yesssss.” He reached the ladder once more, placed a hand on the lowest rung as the familiar sound
(soft skin sweet smell the sound of heelsssss)
passed directly above, intermingling with the thunder and drums, drowning the voice of the frightened man. we have to go up, edward. we have to show him. We have to show him that we’re not afraid. the thunder is coming. the storm brings a reckoning with
“Sssssspider-Man.”
Vermin climbed up the ladder and pushed aside the manhole, letting in the cool night air.
SIX
MARY JANE crossed the street, bootheels tapping against the wet concrete, trying her best not to trip on a partially open manhole. The umbrella offered barely any cover from the torrential rainfall; her legs were soaked.
She’d been walking for hours despite the rain, hoping fresh air would clear her head, and get her away from old photos and anxious channel-changing. The streets were mostly empty now. She’d been crossing the avenues, staring up at skyscrapers like a tourist, hoping to catch a glimpse of red and blue. The soles of her boots were nearly worn out; and she realized that no matter how long she walked the island, the chances of randomly running into Spider-Man were slim to none.