Spider-Man

by Stefan Petrucha

  He aimed his camera, thinking of the notes Robbie Robertson had given him about composition (which were much more helpful than Editor in Chief Jameson’s go-to critique of This stinks!). He took some shots he hoped would make the little rock look more impressive to an untrained eye—such as his own.

  * * *

  OUTSIDE, Kittling and his small group of coordinators struggled to keep the protestors in check. “Feel that power?” he said to Randy. “It’s like we’re trying to hold back the tide! We’ll go in with just the coordinators, but sooner or later we’re just going to have to let go and let it all flow.”

  The mix of fear, awe, and glee on Josh’s face made Randy even more uneasy. “But what about what Peter said? What if people get hurt?”

  Kittling eyed the wildly packed plaza, then the relatively quiet entrance. He turned to Randy and lowered his voice. “Listen, if NYPD and campus security start in with the pepper spray and rubber bullets, yeah, people will freak, and yeah, there’ll be damage. But they can’t get to us because of the crowds. Right now, the only thing between us and the hall are a few rent-a-cops in over their heads. Want to make it quick and easy? I’ve got an idea. Once we go in for the takeover, I’ll split off and grab that old hunk of rock. With that as a hostage, they’ll have to back off and pay attention.”

  “That’s not what we’re about,” Randy said “Besides, that thing’s priceless. What if you damage it?”

  “I say it’s time to find out what we’re about.” He waved the crowd toward the steps and shouted, “Coordinators, follow me! We’re going in!”

  And the sea of people crashed forward.

  * * *

  A HORRIFIC pounding sent Peter running back toward the entrance. He was halfway there when the doors opened and about a dozen students swarmed in, led by Kittling. The two guards stumbled backwards into the hall, dropping their nightsticks and drawing their sidearms. Seeing the weapons brought the students to a halt.

  Moving a bit faster than a human should, Peter raced toward the guards.

  “Hey! Put the guns down! Those are students— they’re just demonstrating!”

  The guards turned his way. One shouted back, “I don’t give a damn about their protest! We were paid to guard that tablet, and that’s what we’re going to do!”

  They leveled their handguns at the protestors.

  “Back out, all of you! Now!”

  Though clearly frightened, Kittling held his ground. “You shoot, and the people out there will tear this place apart!”

  The steadier of the two guards aimed at the floor and nudged his partner to do the same. “No one wants to shoot anything. Just back off!”

  “We’re not going anywhere. You, stand aside!’

  Peter relaxed slightly. Stalemate, for now. I could switch to Spidey, but what good would that do? Wait a minute…

  He held up his camera and snapped a picture. Instantly, one of the guards covered his face. “Put that down!”

  In response, the defiant students held up their phones. They took photos, began recording videos.

  Not only am I making those guards think twice, I’m getting some great exclusive shots!

  Kittling’s admiring glance was cut short when a great roar rattled the building. The chanting outside turned into screaming. A glimpse through the window of rising smoke told Peter that something at the far edge of the plaza had exploded.

  The crowd was panicking. The police were already rushing toward the blast site, taking them even farther away from the Exhibition Hall. Peter couldn’t see whether anyone was hurt, but at least the crowd was thinnest there. Why this spot? Why this timing?

  It’s almost as if it was intended as a distraction—

  A second blast, smaller and closer, made him turn him back inside. At the end of a long hallway, an emergency door tore loose from its hinges. Six armed men marched in. Though dressed like the protestors, they moved with military precision. Behind them, an oversize limo was visible in the service alley.

  With the police focused on the plaza blast, they hit the side of the hall facing the street. Smart.

  A larger shadow appeared at the fallen door. At first Peter thought it was three more men—but it was only one. Wearing a tailored jacket and vest more suitable to a gala than a heist, a massive figure stormed ahead of the gunmen. His bald head shone beneath the fluorescents like an oversized bowling ball. Each footfall boomed like a small explosion all its own, his diamond-topped walking cane making little ticks against the marble.

  “To the main gallery, quickly. And keep those gas masks at the ready!”

  The Kingpin! I’ve seen photos, but he looks even bigger in person. What’s he doing here?

  Before Peter could guess, Wilson Fisk’s moose-sized shoulder hit him. To preserve his identity, Peter let himself be tossed aside, then watched as the Kingpin bulldozed a path through the students.

  Before anyone could tell whether the two security guards were going to attack, the Kingpin’s men fired, taking them down. Ignoring the screams of the students, the villains approached the entrance and braced the doors closed with telescoping bars that fit neatly through the handles.

  Now locked inside, the dozen protestors looked to their leader, Kittling. He, in turn, stared numbly at the bodies of the security guards. “You can’t just…”

  Seeing the attention the others paid to Kittling’s choked-off words, Fisk gripped the youth’s shirt and wrenched him into the air.

  In a flash, two of the protestors—linebackers from the look of them—rushed up. An angry Randy Robertson was right behind them.

  “Randy, stop!” Peter tried to grab him, but before they even got close, the gunmen formed a tight line between the Kingpin, Kittling, and the students. A single shot fired into the air stopped Randy and the others in their tracks.

  Wilson Fisk’s thick lips curled. He grabbed Kittling’s phone, crushed it, and then twisted his albino-bull of a skull toward the trembling group. Letting go of Kittling, he turned toward the cowering students.

  “Stay out of our way, and you’ll have an exciting story to tell your friends. But if any of you take the additional step of identifying me to the police, I’ll find you. You don’t have to lie, just tell them you were all frightened and confused. That always makes it hard to remember details.”

  All eyes on the Kingpin, Peter stepped back. Once he was behind the students and blocked from the mobsters’ view, he ducked into an adjacent hall.

  I may not be much with politics, but these jokers are definitely my speed.

  He looked for a quick place to change but found only a locked supply closet. With a twinge of guilt, he broke the knob and wedged his way into the cramped space. Knocking over buckets, brooms, and pungent cleansers, he scrambled to remove his civvies, revealing the blue-and-red webbed suit beneath.

  Mask in place, he bounced out, scuttling along the tiled walls. By the time he reached the lobby’s high ceiling, only the students remained.

  The Kingpin must be after the tablet!

  Kittling, dazed and sprawled on the floor, pointed up at him. “First the Kingpin, now Spider-Man! It’s like some crazy super-conspiracy is trying to bump our protest out of the news!”

  Spider-Man fired a web and swung across the open space. “Stay out of this, all of you! It’s not about the protest! If you want to be useful, go warn the police that gunmen are trying to steal the tablet!”

  He landed on the ceiling of the wide hall leading to the main gallery. At his back, he heard Randy apologize to Kittling.

  “I feel like a coward! I should have tried to stop them.”

  Kittling’s response impressed the wall-crawler. “Forget it, man—the only way to stop a bullet is with your body. Let’s pry those bars off and get these front doors open!”

  Relieved to hear it, Spider-Man paused outside the main gallery. Before starting any fights, he wanted to give the students time to flee the building—and set up his automatic camera. Within, the Kingpin and his men als
o seemed to be taking their time. Half-hidden behind the tall signage, they were donning gas masks as the four remaining security guards braced for an attack.

  That can’t be good.

  Still unseen, Spider-Man crawled along the ceiling, but before he could reach the crooks, the Kingpin hurled a handful of pellets toward the tablet. They shattered as they hit the case, releasing a curling green mist. The guards started gasping and clawing at their throats.

  “Make sure those masks are on tight!” the Kingpin called out. “That gas is powerful enough to knock me out!”

  As the guards fell, the Kingpin strode up to the display case and raised his walking cane. At first Peter was confident the polymer would withstand the blow, but it didn’t. The diamond at the tip of the Kingpin’s cane cracked its surface.

  Is he hiding a jackhammer in that tux? Another shot like that and he’ll shatter the case. The alarms are already screaming, but with the mess outside, who’s left to respond? He planned this perfectly, except for one thing…

  Spider-Man dropped from the ceiling. “’Scuse me, but you’ve got something on your chin…”

  It worked well enough. The startled Kingpin turned just in time for Spider-Man’s blow to connect with the hard bone of his jaw. “My fist.”

  Spider-Man’s knuckles crunched under the impact. Thrown off-balance, Fisk took several staggering steps away from the case. Thinking the crime-boss was as good as out, Spider-Man shot out several webs, tripping up two of the Kingpin’s men. Turning back to their portly leader, he was surprised and a little frightened to find him still standing.

  “Uh…that was the part where you were supposed to fall down.”

  “Spider-Man?” The Kingpin crouched the way a tiger might before pouncing. “Perhaps you’ve heard that no one ever gets ahead by doing as expected.”

  By the time Fisk finished the sentence, Spider-Man had a third goon down.

  When the Kingpin lunged, Spider-Man swung one of the inert gangsters by the shoulders, striking Fisk’s chest with the man’s heels. The maneuver barely delayed the Kingpin, but the follow-through sent the unconscious lackey hurtling into the remaining gunmen. In one move, he’d taken the last of them out of play.

  But the Kingpin held another surprise: his speed. When Spider-Man came at him, Fisk likewise threw his considerable mass into the air. In an instant, he’d wrapped his arms around the wall-crawler’s waist, and landed square on his feet. Unharmed, but disoriented, Spider-Man twisted for leverage.

  “Many of my foes mistake my muscle for fat,” the Kingpin said.

  Still maneuvering to free himself, Spider-Man looked down at his foe’s smooth, hairless scalp. “Really? Do they also mistake your head for a baby’s butt? Because, you know, from here there is a strong resemblance.”

  “Angering me won’t help you.” Fisk puffed and drew his anaconda-arms tighter around Spider-Man’s waist until he was able to clasp his own wrist. “I’ve read of your fabled spider-strength, but the man doesn’t live who can endure my grasp!”

  Peter pushed down against the elephantine forearms, but the Kingpin’s grip remained locked. Any more force, and he might break Fisk’s bones.

  “Fabled, huh? You’ll make me blush.”

  The Kingpin squeezed tighter. “Good. That will be the first sign of your impending death.”

  The air forced from his lungs, the only comeback Spider-Man managed was, “Ungh!”

  Certain he could take the Kingpin by surprise, if only he could catch his breath, Peter went limp.

  Besides, Jonah always pays more for the pics where it looks like I’m losing…

  But rather than simply let go, the Kingpin lifted his foe overhead and hurled him into the floor’s hard marble tiles.

  Okay, that hurt. But now that I’m free, all I need is a couple of deep breaths—

  An earnest, youthful cry echoed through the gallery. “Back off of him!”

  Who the heck…Randy?!

  Sneakers squeaking on the tiles, the teen hurled himself onto the Kingpin’s back. “Somebody’s got to tackle you. Might as well be me!”

  Holding onto the prodigious neck, Randy tried to ride the mobster like he would a mechanical bull.

  “Trust me, lad, you were far better off beneath my notice.”

  As if shaking off a fly, Fisk tossed him into the nearest wall. Randy’s body slammed into the tile and crumpled to the floor. The cracked marble façade shed flakes onto his limp form. Spider-Man caught his breath, but after a few seconds, he saw Randy’s shoulders lift.

  He’s alive! But hurting bad. Have to settle for a half-breath, then.

  Spider-Man bolted to his feet, drawing the Kingpin’s attention away from the fallen youth. “Any of your foes ever mistake your muscle for a punching bag…like this?”

  With blistering speed, he unleashed a barrage of blows, leaving the larger-than-life crime lord no time to respond. When Randy managed to crawl a few feet away, Spider-Man slammed Fisk into the same cracked wall, not once, but again and again. Each time, he let the big man fall forward just far enough for the next punch to maximize the damage.

  “It’s not like you’re easy to miss!”

  Spider-Man continued to pummel the Kingpin, beating and battering every inch of his body, but he would not fall. Plaster came down in bigger and bigger chunks. The support beam began to buckle.

  “What? No comebacks? Like how your foes confuse your lack of responses for stupidity?”

  Peter could see the fury in the man’s eyes, a deep rage not only at his foe but at his own helplessness. Peter kept punching until finally, finally, the odd animal grace that had informed Fisk’s movements was gone. His cannonball knees buckled. He fell forward, his face landing ignominiously flat on the floor.

  Phew! He’s down!

  He rushed to Randy’s prone form. “You still with us?”

  “I think so.”

  Randy managed to sit halfway up, but the way he favored his shoulder meant it was probably dislocated. Spider-Man took a few seconds to fashion a sling from his webbing.

  When he glanced back, he was shocked to see the Kingpin up on all fours. Like a rampaging albino hippo, Fisk rammed his head into the damaged wall.

  Peter blinked. What the…? Did the beating leave him crazy?

  The weakened support beam snapped. The wall collapsed, shedding chunks of marble large enough to split a skull. Catching one, the Kingpin used it to finish cracking the display case open.

  The fracture spread along the wall and into the ceiling, sending more rubble falling. The Kingpin’s dazed gunmen staggered out on their own.

  A well-placed web angled a portion of the falling wall catty-corner so it shielded the unconscious guards. Now Peter only had to get out fast enough to keep both himself and the wounded teen safe. It meant leaving the Kingpin with the tablet, but the choice between saving a life or the artifact, even if it was priceless, wasn’t a choice at all. He grabbed Randy under one arm, fired a web, and swung out of the crumbling gallery.

  They’re sure going to need that renovation money now!

  He set Randy down in the lobby. He was out cold, but breathing. Afraid the damage might be worse than it looked, Spidey tapped his cheek.

  “Wake up! The party’s over!”

  Randy’s eyelids fluttered. “What happened? Did the Kingpin get away?”

  This guy has enough guts for a regiment, but what was he thinking?

  Several boys in blue were pushing open the doors, reinforcements visible behind them. Satisfied the police would see to Randy, Spider-Man took it as his cue to exit.

  The path to the main gallery was blocked by debris, so he headed down the access hall to the door the thieves had blasted to get in. The limo and Kingpin were of course, gone. Spider-Man scrambled to the roof, feeling, for the first time, his own bruises.

  Probably from the falling marble, but I doubt getting hurled around by the Kingpin helped. I feel like I’ve been wrestling a roller coaster!

  Other th
an his aches, the first thing he noticed was the plaza. The crowd hadn’t exactly thinned, but it was grouped in smaller pockets. The closest was right below him, in front of the hall. There, under the watchful eyes of the press, dozens of student protestors—Kittling among them—were being led by police into paddy wagons parked along the concrete paths.

  They’re pressing charges? For what? Hold on. They don’t think the students are responsible for the bombing, do they?

  A man in a white shirt and tie had pushed beyond the press cordon to question the police. Even from a distance, Pete recognized Robbie Robertson, no doubt worried about his son. An officer took him to Randy. Despite the sling, the wounded youth was in line for one of the wagons—not for an ambulance.

  Geez, that’s a helluva first semester at college.

  The best way he could help would be to catch the real bomber and bring back the tablet. The service alley was still empty, but in the distance, a delightfully conspicuous limo sped along Sixth Avenue. It was just big enough to carry someone whose muscles could be mistaken for fat.

  Like the man said, someone’s got to stop you. It may as well be me.

  FOUR

  ASIDE from the white noise of spinning tires, the soundproofed limo silenced the sounds of the city. Wesley’s voice over the speakers sounded clearer than if he’d been there in person.

  “I’ve erased the hall’s security tapes, as planned, but, I assume, sir, you’re aware you’re leaving a trail a mile wide?”

  Fisk settled back into the cushioned seat. “Of course. The police are busy at the campus, and the car’s low-intensity lasers are scrambling the traffic cameras as we pass. The students will be too terrified to identify me, and the four guards we left alive never saw me. As for our last witness, that twitchy crusader, I want him to follow. Why expend the energy to hunt him down later when I can destroy him in the comfort of my home?”

  “As you say, sir.”

  The question had been answered, but the connection remained open. “Some other curiosity I can satisfy, Wesley?”