Spiderman 3 (9 page)

Peter had never moved with less consideration for his own safety. Even with the web-slinging skills he had developed, swinging one-handed was remarkably dangerous. Rather than alternate arms, he would fire a webline, swing to its apex, release, fire another one, and keep moving. The advantage was that it resulted in great, distance-eating arcs. The disadvantage was that if he miscalculated, he could wind up smeared all over a building or on the side of an ill-timed passing truck.

As he swung, he scrambled to recall everything he'd read about brain damage that could set in from lack of oxygen. What was it? Three minutes? Five minutes? How long before irreparable harm was done? How long before, even if Harry were brought back to full respiration, he would wind up being a vegetable?

Peter spotted a huge red cross six blocks west. Instantly he headed in that direction. Time had slowed to a crawl, even though he was moving faster than anything else in Manhattan. In seconds, he was within sight of the emergency room, taking only the time required to yank the rest of the Goblin armor off Harry. Thank heavens there were passable street clothes underneath. Peter just didn't feel the need to answer certain questions right then.

Peter dropped to the street a block from the hospital and sprinted the rest of the way. He had no idea how much time had elapsed since Harry had been injured. He wasn't even sure if the tortured young man slung over his shoulder was still alive. But he had no choice. He couldn't let Harry die. And if, despite his best efforts, Harry didn't make it…

Don't think about it. You always get in trouble when you think about things. Just run. Running, you're good at.

He was moving so quickly that the automatic doors to the emergency room almost didn't open in time. Peter charged in, shouting for help, and a nurse and some guys in green shirts came running toward him. Part of him was surprised that it was really just like what one sees on television. Within seconds, Harry was being loaded onto a gurney and the doctors were doing triage. Peter was so numb that he didn't even remember Harry being lifted off his shoulder.

He watched as they shoved the gurney through a large set of double doors. They were shouting complicated medical terms, all at the same time, and it was so fast and loud that Peter couldn't follow any of it. But none of it sounded good. He took a step toward Harry, and then his way was blocked by a doctor or orderly or paramedic or someone who was shouting into his face, "What happened? Tell us what happened!"

Peter said the first words that came to mind: "Hit and run." Miraculously, that seemed to satisfy the person who'd been demanding answers. Either that or Peter looked and sounded so much like someone in shock that they simply figured they weren't going to get any better answers out of him.

"In shock" would have been the correct diagnosis for Peter. He was still processing that Harry had followed his father's path so completely, all driven by a desire to kill Peter, and hadn't quite made it to the notion that Harry might not survive the night.

The inquiring someone had vanished, and Peter—moving like a sleepwalker or a man in a trance—walked through the double doors. Harry was lying on the gurney a few feet away. They had yanked out the defibrillator paddles from a crash cart and positioned them on Harry's chest.

"Clear!" a doctor shouted. Verifying that no one was touching Harry's body, the doctor triggered the paddles and Harry's body violently spasmed. Peter watched, trying not to panic and not succeeding.

"No response," said the nurse, checking the readings.

"Recharge and go again!" the doctor snapped.

At that moment, someone noticed that Peter was standing in a restricted area, and two orderlies descended upon him. He offered no resistance as they pushed him from the room. The door swung shut, blocking his view of what was going on.

He felt stricken and terrified and guilty… but not guilty because he had caused the injury that had landed Harry in the hospital. No, it was guilt because Harry knew Peter's secret, and if Harry died, then the secret died with him.

The terrible truth was that Peter's life would be much easier if Harry Osborn died here in the emergency room. That realization produced not only guilt, but self-loathing. What kind of person was he, to dwell on the notion that someone's death would be personally convenient?

The kind of person who's concerned about other people. What if Harry recovers and he decides the best way to get to you is through your loved ones? Why not? Norman figured out that I was enamored of Mary Jane and played upon that. If Harry dies…

No! He's not going to diet
Peter angrily cut himself off.
He's going to make it! And… and we'll get it all worked out somehow
.

How?

Somehow! Now shut up!

He leaned against the wall, feeling as if his soul weighed a hundred pounds. He glanced at the clock. Still well before dawn. Peter rubbed the bridge of his nose, fighting fatigue, and decided that this had to be the longest night of his life. He briefly wondered if anyone was having a worse night than he was.

THE LONGEST NIGHT (PART Two)

Dr. T. Alan Chafin hated his job.

What the hell was he, a scientist of his standing, doing testing a particle accelerator in the middle of the night? He should be home in bed, spooning with his wife, who was beginning to make loud noises about feeling like a widow thanks to the hours that her scientist husband was keeping. He would keep assuring her that things were going to change, and in one respect, he was right. They did keep changing. They kept getting
worse
, thanks to the increasing paranoia of Quest Research's upper management.

Ever since that incident when the test of their new mechanized war suit was destroyed by some lunatic on a glider, Quest had been frantic about the prospect of industrial sabotage. So Quest had chosen increasingly remote places to build research facilities and opted for strange times of night to conduct the actual tests. The belief was that atypical procedures were required if they were going to stay one step ahead of those who were going to spy on, or trash, their endeavors. That this policy was beginning to weigh heavily on their staff didn't factor into the equation.

"Alan? You okay?"

The question came from his assistant, Ashley Michel. She was diminutive, but with a solid frame, brown hair, and brown eyes. Chafin forced a smile and said, "Fine, Ash, fine. Just working hard on keeping everything together." He sat back in his chair, which was woefully uncomfortable, and continued, "So… where do we stand?"

"Capacitators are at seventy percent." Looking over the instrumentation, Ashley checked the dials with her customary meticulousness. She was well-known for her almost obsessive attention to detail; if the readings were off by so much as a fraction, she would notice it. She wiped a hank of her perpetually unruly hair from her face. "Estimate full charge in… three minutes, seventeen seconds."

A third technician, Donnie Blaswell, nodded confirmation. Not that anyone expected Ashley to be wrong. "Do you think we'll manage it this time?" he asked.

The other scientists looked at young Blaswell with amusement. Donnie's energy was legendary around the facility. He was referred to as Too Much Coffee Boy since most of his enthusiasm was attributed to an excess of caffeine. Curiously, Donnie didn't actually drink coffee, but that did nothing to dissuade the nickname.

"You mean really accomplish total demolecularization?" asked Chafin. He shrugged. "Does it matter?"

"Well, of…" Donnie looked surprised and pushed his glasses up on the bridge of his nose. "Of course it matters. I mean… total demolecularization… it's…"

"They'll weaponize it," Michel said sourly. "Just you wait."

"They keep saying it's going to be just for molecular research," Donnie protested, but he didn't sound entirely convinced.

"They can keep saying a Big Mac is filet mignon, but it's still gonna taste like a Big Mac," a fourth scientist, Sean O'Shea, commented. He was walking into the lab and heard the tail end of the conversation. Tall and lean, he filled the room with his presence and said with quiet authority, "Gentlemen, ours is not to question why, and so forth and so on, you know the drill. Let's get our baby up and running, shall we?"

He always referred to the project as "our baby." Chafin suspected it was because he was more comfortable calling it that than "our future weapon of mass destruction."

Giving in to the inevitable, Chafin propelled his wheeled chair across to his station with impressive agility, sliding across the floor like an accomplished skateboarder. "You heard the man," Chafin called out. "Let's get ready to roll."

His love for his job had not increased.

Flint Marko felt his freedom slipping through his fingers like sand.

For a brief time… a wonderful time… Marko had been certain that he had lost his pursuers. He was quickly disabused of the notion, however, as he heard the sounds of barking dogs in the distance.

Damned police. Damned lawmakers. Why couldn't they leave him the hell alone? Why did they insist on pigeonholing him into the role of the bad guy? Why couldn't they see shades of gray in their black-and-white world of cops and robbers? It was like some big kids' game to them, and he was the prize.

He had eluded them sufficiently to get out of New York, jacking a car and driving into one of the more remote areas of the New Jersey marshlands. But he'd had to fill up the tank. While the pump was filling the car, Marko had gone to the bathroom, and when he came out, it was just his crappy luck that a cop car had likewise chosen that exact moment to pull in to gas up. The instant that the cop in the passenger's seat glanced Marko's way, he knew he'd been made. He hadn't even bothered to go back to the car. He'd turned right around and bolted for the back of the service station. The howling protest of the cop car's siren assured Marko that he'd been absolutely right.

The back of the service area opened onto a steep dropoff, which, in turn, led into a heavily wooded area. Marko vaulted over the low mesh fence that lined the perimeter of the service area and rolled down into the brush. By the time the cops managed to get to the top of the hill, he was already sprinting into the woods.

"Police! Stop where you are!" one of them shouted, and a warning shot snapped a branch off a tree just to his right. He ignored it. Instead he vanished into the concealing forest and ran headlong without the slightest care as to which way he was going or where he was going to end up. The only thing that mattered was that he got as far away from them as possible.

The ground had slowly become boggier, and as the trees thinned out, the grass got taller. He was no longer able to run with assurance; instead every step felt like a tough slog. There was a full moon, thank God, but every time it went behind the clouds, he found himself tripping and sprawling over random branches, stones, and depressions in the ground that seemed to be there purely to make him fall.

A gentle wind blew into his face, and only when he heard the sounds of the barking dogs behind him did he realize he'd had yet another piece of crummy luck. Because the wind was coming at him, it meant he was upwind of the dogs, and they'd have an even easier time tracking him. But how had they gotten his scent? Obviously: he'd left the car behind in the service station. They'd sniffed around on the seat, on the steering wheel, the gas and brake pedals. That would have been more than enough to put them on his tail.