Spider Man 3 Page 8

  “Can’t remember much of anything. I’m… thinking about my dad.” He sounded bewildered, as if he couldn’t figure out why that would be the case.

  Peter didn’t know why either, but if it was because Harry was remembering that he had followed his father’s lead and become a cackling, flying maniac out for blood, he sure didn’t want his friend’s thoughts to continue in that direction. “Doctor wants you to rest,” he said.

  “My dad,” Harry persisted. “He…”

  Peter braced himself.

  “He died… didn’t he?” He looked up at Peter with great pools of sadness in his eyes. “Did he die?”

  It was all Peter could do not to let out a wholly inappropriate sigh of relief, then instantly regretted it. How could Peter be glad that Harry’s first moment of clarity was the realization that he was an orphan? Reining in his emotions, Peter said, “Yes. He did.”

  Harry took that in with the air of a tourist who just had some interesting sight pointed out to him. “This is all so weird,” he said finally. “It’s like I’m looking at my life from a hundred miles away. Like I’m on the outside looking in, and it’s happening to some other guy. Know what I mean?”

  “More than you can possibly believe,” Peter said ruefully.

  The curtain was suddenly pushed aside. Peter expected it to be an orderly shooing him out. Instead it was an out-of-breath Mary Jane. Her hair was slightly damp, confirming Peter’s earlier supposition as to her whereabouts. He had no idea how she had managed to talk her way into the ICU and chalked it up to the notion that, once Mary Jane Watson was determined to go somewhere, nothing short of a brick wall was going to stop her.

  “Hi. Got here fast as I could,” she said, except it was all in a rush and came out Higoderefasdlkood. She stopped, composed herself, then struck a casual pose that was amusing in its breathtaking artificiality. With a sideways flip of her hair, she said chipperly, “Hello, Harry.”

  A genuine, huge grin lit up his expression. “I know that face,” he declared.

  She walked over to him and took his untubed hand gently in hers. “How you doing?”

  “I don’t know,” he said honestly, and frowned. “Last thing I remember I was fine… somewhere.”

  “The doctor says you’re going to be okay,” she assured him, answering for Peter the question of how MJ had gotten in here. She’d obviously caught up with the attending physician and had had little trouble managing to sweet-talk him. Hell, he was probably down in the gift shop at the moment buying her flowers. “That’s all that matters.”

  “It’s good to have you back,” Peter said, meaning that in a way that neither Harry nor Mary Jane was going to fully appreciate.

  Patting the back of Harry’s hand, MJ whispered, “Get some sleep.”

  Harry was starting to fade. “Thanks for coming…”

  A nurse stepped in, mastering an expression that allowed her to look both compassionate and yet firm. “I’m sorry, I have to scoot you out,” she said to them. “He needs to rest.”

  She certainly had good timing. Peter had ascertained everything he needed to know, at least for the time being. It was a good idea to get out now while Harry was still thinking of Peter as his friend, rather than the evil creature who had killed his father. Let the former impression sink in and become the lasting one. “See you tomorrow,” he told Harry.

  Harry nodded slightly, sinking toward sleep, and half-raised his hand in farewell. As Peter and Mary Jane stepped around the curtain and headed out, he could hear the nurse say to Harry, ‘“You have lovely friends.”

  “My best friends. I’d… give my… life for them,” Harry said, each word suffused with fatigue. Then, a few moments later, he heard Harry say, both by way of informing the nurse and coming to terms with it himself, “My father died.”

  Peter closed his eyes tightly against the sting of tears he felt welling up in them. For the life of him, he didn’t know whether he wanted to cry out of sympathy or relief.

  The bottom of the pit where the particle gun had been tested remained in shadow for a good part of the morning. As noon approached, the continually rising sun finally stretched its rays to the bottom, chasing away the shadows and illuminating a bit of glinting metal that was a little girl’s locket.

  The sand lay there in a pile.

  The police officers were long gone, reluctantly reporting to their superiors that a golden opportunity, not to mention man-hours, had been wasted. Flint Marko had gotten away somehow.

  The scientists had never mentioned the anomalous readings that might have been a major clue as to Marko’s whereabouts, or more accurately, lack of whereabouts. The scientists’ caution was understandable: they were balancing the fate of one random thug against an intense investigation into exactly the type of work that was being done in the facility. Police reports were matters of public record, and the scientists simply didn’t need too much information leaking out for anyone’s consumption, specifically journalists.

  The project had temporarily been shut down while the scientists concentrated on studying the readings and results of the previous night.

  Thus, no one was around to see the sand in the bottom of the pit beginning to stir. At first glance it would have seemed that a vagrant breeze was responsible. Moments passed and then the sand started to undulate in a way that could not be explained by anything in nature. Stray particles from all over the pit started moving, seemingly of their own volition. They streamed toward the center area, and other streams joined in, like multiple branches of a river. More and more came together, particles that had been blown or carried as high as the top of the pit. Soon every grain of sand in the area had met in the center of the pit, forming one large pile.

  The pile began to move.

  Slowly at first and then more quickly, the growing mound began to take the shape of a man. Initially it was little more than a crude form, like a featureless sculpture made by a five-year-old. Then the face began to define itself. A mouth appeared where there had been none before, then thin lips. The mouth wasn’t closed, but open wide, frozen in the shape of a scream, as if it were constructing itself in accordance with the last memory it carried. No voice emerged from it, and then tongue and teeth became visible, although still little more than vague outlines. There was a loud gasping for breath, but it was more habit than anything else since there weren’t truly any lungs to suck the air into.

  Like an hourglass running in reverse, the sandy form began to bear a resemblance to an unfinished sculpture of Flint Marko. It was doubtful that anyone in his family would have recognized him. In fact, it was unlikely that Marko himself would have been able to gaze at a reflection of the flat, featureless creature that had seeped into existence and know it to be him.

  At that moment, Marko was scarcely able to comprehend his own existence. He felt as if he were looking in a million directions at once, as if every molecule (particle, grain) of his body (form) was infused with its own little piece of his consciousness. Worse, each wanted to go in a different direction. Just trying to hold his body together was like undertaking the notoriously problematic job of herding cats. It was all Marko could do to focus sufficiently and form the sketchy outline of a human being.

  His awareness had likewise been scattered to the four winds, but as he physically pulled himself together, his shattered consciousness began to reassert itself. He held up the extended, crudely shaped, sandy stumps that constituted his arms and stared at them (how are you staring? You have no finished eyes. What part of you is seeing this? All of you. Every particle of your body is aware of every other part. It’s just a matter of figuring out how to use it. You have to. Penny needs you to) with only the slightest dawning of comprehension (there was a thing above you. The thing that made a noise like a million screaming bees. It did something to you. It made you a freak. Penny’s father is a freak. Oh my God, oh my God, what will Penny say, oh my) of his predicament. He looked down (you don’t need to. You already know what you’re going to see
because that part of your body is already seeing it) and saw that his body ended at the waist. He was merged with the ground. To an observer, it might almost have appeared comical. He looked like some poor sap who had fallen asleep at the beach, and some kids had come along and buried him (except this ain’t no day at the beach. Haw! Laugh. That’s right. Laugh, clown, laugh, so you won’t scream, because if you start screaming, you’re never gonna stop).

  (“He always cried.”)

  The disdainful words of his wife came back to him, and he knew them to be true because he was crying now at the freak he had become. His shoulders were slumped, and they began to shake with great racking sobs, but there were no tears. He had no tear ducts. Or eyes. Or bodily organs of any sort. His existence was completely impossible, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d be better off dead, except he wasn’t entirely sure that he wasn’t already dead. This might just be some bizarre form of hell on earth, and he was suffering this torment for everything he had done wrong.

  Then the glint of something shining in the sunlight caught his (no eye, you have no eye, not one, not two, nothing you freak, you) attention. It was buried in the outer perimeter of the sandy base that formed his lower body, and he seeped tentatively toward it. Spiraling into hopelessness, he drew desperate succor from that glint and everything it represented.

  It lay half open in the sand, and he reached for it. He found that his crudely shaped hand was unable to grasp it. It slipped through his fingers (like sand, isn’t that just too sick for words) and for a moment despair threatened to seize him once more. He pushed it away, determined not to allow that to happen. There was no way that he was going to be so close to the locket and everything it stood for, his one link to humanity, and fail.

  Burning with furious intensity, he closed his hand. He remembered the story about the sculptor who claimed that the secret to his art was simplicity itself: all he needed to do was chip away everything that didn’t resemble the image he had in his mind. Marko now followed that same philosophy. He visualized exactly what he wanted his hand to look like. He didn’t stop until he could see it perfectly, and then he willed the vague, mittenlike appendage at the end of his hand to mimic it. Fingers began to form, and they were still made of sand, but they were clear and distinct and—most important—hard. Tentatively, almost afraid to find out whether it would work, he reached down and gasped with joy as the newly created fingers deftly picked up the locket. He raised it so that it was at eye level and gazed at the image of the smiling, young girl within.

  In a gravely, raspy voice, Marko said softly, “Penny.”

  Just speaking her name aloud was enough to galvanize his determination. He had been given a second chance at survival. More, he started to realize that he had been thinking of his status all wrong. Yes, he was a freak, but that didn’t mean that it made him less than a man, less than human. If he could pull himself together, so to speak, he could become far more than either. Penny’s picture, her name said aloud, the thought of what he could accomplish on her behalf, provided all the incentive he required; indeed, all that and more.

  Marko became emboldened, as if he were truly alive for the first time in his existence. He had no internal organs, no blood, no heart. But the locket substituted for that most vital of organs as he clutched it against his chest tightly and drew strength from it. Willing himself to stand, he started to rise, the sand beneath him coming together to form rudimentary legs.

  I’m doing it, I’m doing it!

  He celebrated his success too soon, as the sandy columns proved inadequate to support his weight. He crumbled like the tower of a child’s sand castle. Moments earlier that would have been enough to cause him to break down in despair, but it was now no longer the case. He was convinced he was going to triumph over his present circumstances. That it was simply a matter of when, not if. Marko took a mental step back and envisioned once more what he wanted the lower half of his body to do. The legs reformed, this time more dense than before. Quickly, before he could topple once more, he willed feet to come into existence. They did so, supporting him and providing balance where he’d had none earlier.

  He stayed there for a time, just making certain that he could keep this up. He didn’t want to rush his first step. He had plenty of time. After all, no one ever saw sand on a beach in a hurry, did they? Human rules and priorities no longer applied to him. He was of the earth now. Immortal? Quite possibly. Like unto a god? Too soon to say, but it couldn’t be ruled out.

  He took an unsteady step forward. It was difficult recapturing muscle memory when one didn’t have any actual muscles anymore, but he was going to do his best. He couldn’t help but think he probably bore a strong resemblance to Frankenstein’s monster, lurching forward with his arms outstretched to help maintain his balance, staggering one step at a time. That was only temporary, though. Soon he would be walking relatively normally. He would sculpt his body so that it was indistinguishable from what it had been before. Yet anyone who thought that he or she could approach him, deal with him, treat him the way that Flint Marko had been treated before, was going to discover that there had been a major paradigm shift.

  To his ex-wife, he had been a figure of contempt upon whom she could blame everything wrong with her life. To the cops, he was just a dumb con, a slob who had gotten lucky in eluding them for as long as he had and deserved to rot in jail.

  Only Penny had seen the real Flint Marko. Only Penny loved him, and yet she was the one that a cruel god was intent on removing from the world. Now it seemed, though, that God wasn’t as cruel as Marko had been supposing. Marko had been given this amazing gift, and he was going to use it for all it was worth.

  He was going to use it to help Penny, reward her for her love and devotion.

  Penny Marko’s dead father had risen from his grave, and heaven help anyone who got in his way—for if they sowed the storm, they would reap the sandstorm.

  * * *

  Chapter Seven

  PRIORITIES

  Mary Jane Watson sprinted up the stairwell in Peter’s apartment building, clutching the newspaper to her chest. She was doing everything she could to keep herself together, furious over her self-pity and inability to remember what was important. Mere hours ago she had been at the hospital where Harry Osborn might well have died. Yet he had survived, and wasn’t that really far more important than the contents of the paper she was holding? Didn’t one really have to prioritize in life and—

  She stopped, gripped the stairwell railing as a wave of nausea passed over her, and realized she was coming close to throwing up because she was so upset. She waited until the impulse was gone, then made it the rest of the way up the stairs. She banged on the door and heard a distracted “Yeah?” from within. Obviously Peter was studying. He always sounded as if he were speaking to her from the surface of Mars when his mind was occupied with his schoolbooks. Normally she found it charming.

  This day she found nothing charming.

  “It’s me,” she said. Peter had given her a key to the front door of the apartment building in which he lived, but she needed his aid to come into the apartment.

  “Hey! Come in!” his voice came.

  She rolled her eyes in annoyance. “You know I can’t open the door!”

  “Pull, lift, and give it a good shove.” He still sounded distracted. Clearly he was in the middle of studying and didn’t want to be bothered to get up. At that moment she would have kicked the door open if she weren’t afraid of breaking her leg. She wasn’t ruling out the possibility of kicking him, though.

  “Just come on and help me!” Her tone of voice made it clear that she was fed up, and if he didn’t get off his ass and open up, she was going to turn around and leave, and it would be a cold day in hell before she saw him again.

  Obviously she had managed to convey her mood exactly, because she heard the sound of a chair being pushed back from the desk (yep, studying), and moments later Peter swung the door open and looked at her quizzically. S
he held up the newspaper in response. Clearly he didn’t understand, because he said, “What?”

  “The review,” she replied icily.

  “The review! I forgot!” He hit his forehead with the base of his hand and obviously thought he knew what the problem was. He assumed she was annoyed with him because he’d forgotten that her play’s opening-night notices were going to be hitting the streets. She was holding the New York Times, unarguably the foremost paper in setting critical perception for New York City. Indeed, most of the other papers were irrelevant. The Times could make or break you. “How was it? Great?”

  She felt her throat constricting with fury. “They hated it. They hated me.”

  Peter looked as if he thought either Mary Jane had read it wrong or he had heard her wrong. “They can’t hate you,” he assured her, as if she had said something on par with announcing that Congress had endeavored to repeal the law of gravity.

  In response, she turned to the Arts and Leisure section and began to read aloud. She uttered each word in a tense, clipped manner.” ‘The young Miss Watson is a pretty girl, easy on the eyes but not on the ears. Her small voice didn’t carry past the first row.’ “

  “That’s ridiculous,” Peter assured her. “I was there.”

  “You were in the first row.”

  “So something was wrong with the acoustics. Or the sound guys didn’t have you wired properly. Any one of a hundred technical things, none of which have anything to do with you or your performance.” Seeing she wasn’t mollified, he took the newspaper from her, tossed it aside, and put his hands gently on her shoulders. “Listen, you have to know you were great. This is something you just have to get used to. You can’t take it so personally. I’ve been through it. Spider-Man gets attacked all the time—”

  “Spider-Man isn’t your real name! At least you have something to hide behind! I don’t!” Here Peter was nattering on about his alter ego? How could he not understand? “This isn’t about you; it’s about me!” she snapped at him, probably more angrily than she should have, but she didn’t care. “It’s about my career!”