Spider Man 3

by Peter David

  * * *

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  CRISIS POINT

  HARRY OSBORN SAT IN his apartment in darkness, something he much preferred nowadays. He was facing a wall with assorted television screens on it, each tuned to a different TV station. Typically he used them for various sporting events. Now, though, he was watching a variety of news outlets, and all of them were focusing on the same developing story.

  CBS:

  “All New York is holding its breath as the hostage situation continues to unfold.”

  NBC:

  A clip of a construction site showed a multidimensional latticework of what could only be described as black webbing, suspended seventy stories above the ground. Several items were snagged in the giant web: construction barrels, a shovel, an industrial Dumpster, and a taxicab. All dotting it like so many flies caught in a spider’s web.

  ABC:

  A SWAT team in riot gear was advancing on the construction site in armored Humvees. The sand beneath them heaved. (Harry loved this part; it was chaotic and destructive. They’d run it twenty times, and each time was better than the last.) The vehicles were sent tumbling. Two Humvees crashed down upon the construction site. Pedestrians in the street scattered as the third vehicle tumbled toward them and crushed an empty taxi.

  CNN:

  “Every attempt by the police to rescue the hostage has been thwarted by Sandman. Compounding the danger is the appearance of a strange, black-suited figure. Early reports had believed him to be the black-suited Spider-Man, but he has now been identified as something entirely different.”

  Sure enough, someone in the black spider suit was leering like a jackal as the camera zoomed in on him. He swung down, dispatching members of the SWAT team with disturbing ease. Some tried to get a shot off and didn’t even come close. He tossed them aside, juggling them like plates, and showing them to be just as easily breakable.

  Harry sighed heavily to the empty room. “So much violence on TV these days.”

  MSNBC:

  They had a helicopter. Good for them. The news camera aboard zoomed in on the taxi that was up in the webbing, and a terrified Mary Jane Watson was in the backseat.

  “The hostage has been identified as Mary Jane Watson, an actor recently seen in a brief stint on Broadway. She is currently a singing waitress at a downtown jazz club. We’re now going to take you live to the scene, with news action team reporter Jennifer Dugan.”

  The camera shifted to the site; a miniskirted young woman looked to be in way over her head and knew it. She was game, though, Harry had to credit her that. Running alongside her camera team, she was saying, “We’re only a hundred feet away now, Hal, and… wait!”

  The camera view whipped around as the black-suited figure fired black weblines up at the partially completed skyscraper.

  Incredibly, the weblines were creating letters.

  “It seems to be some kind of message,” Jennifer Dugan announced. The camera was only picking up a few letters… a T, an 0 , some others…

  “Pull back,” said an annoyed Harry to the TV “Give us a better view.”

  As if responding to his demand, the cameraman promptly pulled back, and the entire message came into view:

  “If Spider-Man did come, it would be a suicide mission,” Dugan declared. “For what chance would he have against—”

  Harry pushed the mute button. He’d heard enough.

  He slumped back in his chair, closed his eyes. He wasn’t certain he was capable of feeling anything anymore.

  A stiff breeze blew across his apartment from the balcony. He thought he had closed the large glass doors and started to stand up to attend to it. Then he stopped in his tracks.

  Peter Parker was standing in the open doorway. He looked…

  … humbled. When he spoke, Harry had to strain to hear him.

  “I can’t take them both,” Peter admitted. “Not by myself.”

  Harry stood in the shadows for a moment, then stepped forward into the narrow sliver of light cast by the nearby lamp. It was just enough for Peter to see his ruined face. Half of it was now hideous, grotesque, mangled from the bomb that Peter had hurled at him.

  Peter was clearly shocked by the sight, taken aback. Here was a stark, irrefutable reminder of the black costume’s continuing legacy, and he clearly wanted to look away… but could not do so. His shoulders sagged, and he looked stricken with despair, apparently knowing that he had embarked upon a fool’s errand but being committed to seeing it through.

  “I need your help, Harry.”

  There were so many things Harry wanted to say at that moment. None of them, though, could surpass the elegant simplicity of “Get out.”

  Harry turned away and, when he glanced back, saw that Peter had indeed departed. Harry started pacing the room, thinking of Mary Jane trapped, thinking of Peter hurtling toward certain death to save her. Because that was what Peter was going to do; Harry was positive of that. Peter was just that determined, just that “heroic,” just that reckless, and just that stupid to go in against overwhelming odds, knowing that he couldn’t possibly survive.

  You lucky stiff, his father’s voice growled in Harry’s head. He’s going to die and all you have to do to make that happen is do nothing. And considering you were always good for nothing, this is something that even you can’t screw up.

  Harry buried his head in his hands, his father’s voice orerwhelming. He sagged against the wall, choking back a sob… then became aware of Bernard standing in the main entranceway of the great room.

  “If I may, sir,” said Bernard. Harry shrugged. “I’ve seen things in this house I’ve never spoken of,” the butler continued. “I’ve watched a darkness come over your father. A madness that cost him his life.”

  Why was Bernard bringing all this up? “What are you trying to tell me?” Harry said, ghosts screaming in his ears.

  Bernard took a deep breath and let it out. “The night your father died, I cleaned his wound. The blade that pierced his body came from his glider, his invention. Only he could have discharged it.”

  Harry was stunned. Bernard… knew? Here he had thought he’d managed to keep his secrets from the faithful servant. Bernard had been out visiting relatives on the night of Peter’s attack. Despite the severity of his wounds, Harry had still managed to hide away the more incriminating elements of the Goblin’s equipment. When Bernard had returned, Harry had told the appalled retainer that he’d injured himself in a chemical experiment gone terribly wrong, and had refused all pleas to go to the hospital.

  But now Bernard was claiming that he’d actually known the truth, going all the way back to his father’ “original sins”?

  He knew what Norman Osborn had become? Known what he was capable of? Why hadn’t he said anything at the time?

  The answer was obvious, really. Bernard had been with the family for as long as Harry could remember. The old butler’s peculiar code of ethics simply wouldn’t have allowed him to tell the world of his master’s wrongdoings. Plus, from a practical standpoint, if Bernard did go around and tell people, Norman might well seek him out and kill him. And since Norman had died… what point was there in letting people know?

  “I know you are defending your father’s honor, but there is no question that he died by his own hand,” Bernard assured him. “I loved your father as I have loved you, Harry. As your friends love you.”

  Harry had nothing to say.

  So Bernard turned and walked away, leaving Harry in the darkness and to his own miseries.

  * * *

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  SOMETHING IN THE AIR

  It appealed to Mary Jane’s morbid sense of humor that Eddie Brock had left the meter running even as he suspended the cab some seventy-five stories in the air. She currently owed in excess of eighty bucks and couldn’t help but think that insult was most definitely being heaped upon injury.

  As the cab gently swayed in the wind, she heard what sounded like fingers gently vibrati
ng the strings of a piano. She mulled over her predicament.

  “Why do they always come after me?” she wondered aloud. “What, do I have the word BAIT stamped on my forehead? Did somebody stick a CAPTURE ME sign on my back?”

  A strand of webbed snapped with a sound like a banjo string coming undone. Her car dropped a few feet, then somersaulted downward. Mary Jane screamed as the taxi tore through several webs and tumbled end over end. Mary Jane was slammed around inside the cab, then it snagged on another level of the massive web and halted seventy stories up.

  From far, far below she thought she heard something: a distant cry of approval. Sick bastards. They were waiting for her to fall. They wanted to see a show. What we things coming to, that—

  Suddenly something landed on the hood of the cab. Mary Jane jumped back, startled, assuming that it was her captor.

  Instead the masked face of Spider-Man peered in at her.

  “Peter!” she gasped with a mixture of both relief and dread. “They’re never going to let you out of here alive.”

  “I…” He didn’t seem to know what to say. Finally he told her, “I’m sorry I pushed you.”

  She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry and settled for a combination of both. Here she was dangling high above certain death, and Peter was apologizing for what had happened at the Jazz Room. It was really kind of sweet… although right now he needed to get his priorities in order.

  She spotted her black-clad captor swinging straight toward Spider-Man. Peter wasn’t reacting. It was as if he didn’t sense the impending danger. Mary Jane let out an alarmed cry and pointed, and Spider-Man turned to see. It wasn’t nearly enough time to get out of his attacker’s way as a mighty kick knocked Spider-Man headfirst through the windshield. Mary Jane, who had left the plastic partition open between the passenger’s and the driver’s seat, instantly regretted that as she was showered with glass.

  Spider-Man, recovering quickly, vaulted over the rooftop and landed on the trunk, almost sliding off before getting a firm grip. Mary Jane and he looked up as the black-suited creature stood atop the hood, looming over them.

  The black goo that constituted its mask receded, revealing the face of the man who’d been driving the cab. His burning eyes stared down at them. Beyond that he had taken her captive, Mary Jane had no clue who he was, but from Spider-Man’s reaction she knew that Peter recognized him immediately. “Hiya, pal, remember me?”

  “Oh my God,” gasped Spider-Man. “Eddie Brock…”

  “No. Not Eddie. Not anymore. I’m poison to you now, Spider-Man,” he said, flicking his tongue around. “I’m . . Venom. And I just want you to know, I took your advice You told me if I wanted forgiveness, I should find religion, so I went to church last night and asked for it. I asked for everything that had been taken away from me. Damned if I didn’t get it. And more. I was handed power I never dreamed of, Pete. It just… poured down on me as if from heaven itself.”

  “You’ve got to take off the suit!” Spider-Man told him. “It’ll—”

  Venom leaped to the rear of the car and kicked Spider-Man across the face, knocking him from the vehicle.

  Spider-Man fell, tearing through several strands of web, finally coming to rest about sixty stories up, in a sticky place in the web where the strands were thick enough to obscure the view from the news cameras. But they had already managed to catch enough.

  When Gwen Stacy had learned that Mary Jane Watson was the one captured in the black webbing at the construction site, nothing that her father had said or done could convince her to stay away from the scene. She knew that she wasn’t in any way responsible for Mary Jane’s predicament, but after what had happened at the Jazz Room, she felt an odd kinship to her.

  She’d even done some research into Mary Jane’s past and marveled at the spectacularly bad luck the girl had had. According to police reports, she’d been captured by Dr. Octopus shortly before that madman’s all too timely death. And before that, apparently the Green Goblin had dangled her off one of the towers of the Fifty-ninth Street Bridge, then dropped her.

  Now, watching the TV monitors while her father organized the rescue efforts, Gwen saw that freakish anti-Spider-Man peel back his face mask through some odd means. She was even more shocked at what it revealed. “Eddie!” she gasped.

  Her earlier belief that she had nothing to do with Mary Jane’s situation instantly vanished. She ran from the monitor and sought out her father, who was focusing on high above with a pair of binoculars. “That’s Eddie up there!” she told him.

  “Gwen, step back,” Captain Stacy said. “You can’t help here.”

  “I feel responsible.”

  “You’re not responsible for the actions of a madman,” her father assured her, but Gwen felt that way nonetheless. Her father, though, was clearly not interested, and she had to admit she couldn’t really blame him. “Excuse me, Captain.” Police officer Nauck was hauling a nervous-looking man forward. The man was waving some sort of ID that indicated he was part of a research facility. “This man, he’s a doctor. Claims to have some important information.”

  “What’s this about, Dr…” Captain Stacy glanced at the ID. “Dr. Wallace.” “Flint Marko.”

  Captain Stacy frowned. “What about him?”

  “I don’t know how to tell you this, but…” Dr. Wallace indicated a nearby news monitor that was replaying Sandman’s annihilation of the Humvees. “This Sandman creature… it’s him. Look,” he said pleadingly, “I know why he’s doing this. It might help you to stop him.”

  Sixty stories up, Spider-Man struggled in the webbing. As he started to pull free of it, Venom dropped down from overhead and webbed up Peter’s wrist, binding it to the giant black web. Before Spider-Man could move, his other wrist was webbed up as well. Pinned, his arms outstretched, Spider-Man was trapped.

  Venom came down with a flying knee drop to Spider-Man’s ribs, cracking them. Spider-Man yelled in pain, and Venom reached down, yanking Spider-Man’s mask clear. Peter gasped for air and hoped that he was still out of range of the TV cameras. The prospect of Aunt May being home, watching this, and seeing Peter’s face flashing across the TV screen was unsettling.

  Then again, that might turn out to be the least of his problems.

  Seventy-three stories above the ground, the industrial steel Dumpster that was hanging in the top portion of the web began to shift position. Strands that held it in place were beginning to break.

  Three stories below the Dumpster, Mary Jane watched helplessly as it tilted toward her.

  I don’t know who Eddie Brock is, or what he wants, but he’s really pissing me off, she thought bleakly.

  Seeing the imminent threat to Mary Jane, Peter turned toward Venom and said desperately, “What do you want, Eddie?”

  “I wanted to see you again, Pete,” Venom said with great cheer, as if they were two old buddies hooking up again at a school reunion. “And talk with you and, well, to be honest, I want to kill you.”

  “We can find a way to settle this.”

  “You’re so right. I was thinking humiliation. Just as you humiliated me. But televised. Live-action coverage.” He held his hands up as if envisioning it in a headline or on a marquee. “Spider-Man screws up, and sweet little Mary Jane dies.” He lowered his hands and came in close to Peter. Foul breath, like burnt metal, washed over Peter, who wondered if he’d reeked like that when he’d been wearing the thing. “You made me lose my girl. Now I’m going to make you lose yours, with the help of my friend Sandy. I think you’ve met.”

  As a terrible groan of metal came from high above, Peter looked up and his heart thudded with alarm.

  The Dumpster’s steel lid swung open. Cinder blocks, concrete slabs, and heavy metal brackets began to slide out. They rained down onto Mary Jane’s taxi, ricocheting off with loud clanging and clanking sounds. Peter could see Mary Jane getting low in the backseat, trying to avoid the deadly impacts. He also saw that they were tearing away the webs that supported the car.


  As they rebounded off the cab, they hailed down upon Spider-Man and Venom, tearing through the webs around them. Venom dodged a falling slab of concrete, while a cinder block tore through the web, freeing one of Peter’s hands. Peter reached out, grabbed Venom’s ankle, and pulled him off-balance. Venom hit the webbing right next to Peter, and the both of them swayed as Peter grappled one-handed with his tormentor while heavy objects fell all around them.

  Suddenly a key support of the web was severed by a jagged piece of metal, and the two of them were in free fall. Liberated from the web restraints, Peter struggled at close quarters with Venom as they tumbled end over end.

  The ground was coming up incredibly fast, and Peter fired webs at the last instant to break his fall. Out the corner of his eye, he saw Venom doing the same thing, and although the webbing slowed them down, it didn’t completely save them from violent landings as they hit the ground hard.

  Peter lay there for a moment, unmoving, trying to determine whether he’d broken anything on impact. He moved his limbs and decided that he hadn’t, although his chest was still aching from where Venom had been tap-dancing on his ribs. He hauled himself to his feet and discovered that, fortunately, they were blocked from the view of the crowd by a power shovel, a bulldozer, and some other construction equipment.

  His Spider-Man mask was lying a couple of feet away. He staggered toward it, picked it up, and pulled it on. As he reeled, the world spinning around him, his spider-sense warned him at the last second as Flint Marko’s rock-hard fist came swinging right into his field of vision. But he wasn’t fast enough to dodge it. It connected, hard, and Spider-Man stumbled backward, only to meet the fist of Venom, driving him back in the other direction. He fired a web upward to try to get away, but Sandman once again slammed into him. This time the impact sent Spider-Man against one of the steel uprights, knocking the wind out of him.