CHAPTER I

Nothing happened the way it was supposed to happen.

What should have been a miracle cure for cancer had somehow morphed into a global pandemic, wiping out ninety-seven percent of the world's population in less than eighteen months. Humanity was gone, finished, all except for Dr. Peter Parker, May Parker, and nearly three hundred million hemocytes. The Parkers owed their survival to their arachnid DNA, which Peter had acquired from the bite of a genetically engineered spider and May had inherited. The hemocytes owed theirs to the rapidly mutating virus which transformed them into flesh-eating vampires that swarmed across the night like piranhas on a feeding frenzy.

New York City had been ground zero. Once home to more than eight million souls, the city that never slept was now still and silent, except for the chirping of birds and crickets, the wind whipping between buildings, an occasional creak of a traffic light swinging in the breeze, and the thwipp from Peter's shooting weblines. Massive skyscrapers stood dark and mute, their facades pockmarked with broken windows. Many were covered with huge plastic tarps dotted with red, orange, and yellow biohazard signs, a final, feeble defense against the unstoppable wildfire that destroyed civilization. Shards of glass were everywhere. Mounds of garbage, pushed around by swirling winds, were piling up in alleys. Abandoned, rusting vehicles had turned once-bustling avenues into junkyards. Weeds, grass, and trees were breaking through pavement and sprouting up in the streets and on sidewalks, a sure sign that nature was reclaiming the territory.

Yet even in the midst of decay, this once-thriving metropolis had managed to retain its predilection for diversity, counting among its new residents thousands of deer, a family of black bears that had migrated down from the Adirondack Mountains and had taken to hibernating in a subway car near the Union Square station, and animals from the Central Park Zoo that a sympathetic keeper had released just before the end. All this on top of countless insects, birds, squirrels, chipmunks, rabbits, rats, mice, cats, foxes, dogs, and hundreds of other species.

With great power comes great responsibility, Peter would hear his uncle Ben whisper in the wind as he torpedoed through long-deserted concrete canyons, still clad in red and blue spandex.

Those whisperings had real poignancy now, resonating to the very depths of his soul. A lifetime ago, he took it upon himself to protect those who could not protect themselves, almost always risking his own life in the process. But now, he had only one responsibility left. Through a cruel twist of fate, it had fallen to Peter Parker to save humanity from extinction. And that meant finding a cure for Krippin Virus as soon as possible, a goal he pursued with a single-mindedness that was more than an obsession. Apart from his daughter, it was his only reason for staying alive.

The physics side of Peter's double major and his unfettered access to the labs at E.S.U. had brought out his latent talent for practical engineering. Hidden behind the mirrored eyepieces of his balaclava mask were miniature infrared goggles that extended his peripheral vision to two hundred and eight degrees, enabling him to see behind himself in the dark. The spider emblem on his chest, once nothing but a glorified hood ornament, was now a homing device that could lock onto signals originating up to several miles away. The transmitters, which he proudly called "spider-tracers," were crudely fashioned micro-devices that fit neatly inside tiny plastic toy spiders he had taken from a CVS Pharmacy. Ear pieces inside his mask enabled him to hear the signals.

Those devices proved to be very useful in tracking the movements of the hemocytes. Peter estimated that there were several hundred thousand of them lurking in the sewers, in subway tunnels, and inside buildings. While his spider-powers were still formidable weapons, he knew that he and May would be in mortal danger if the infected ever attacked them en masse. Thus, he would spend considerable time beefing up the security zone around their heavily fortified Greenwich Village townhouse, which they had christened "Fort Parker."

On his back was strapped an enormous, custom-designed, military-styled pack with a reinforced steel frame that could hold up to two hundred pounds of equipment and supplies. Around his waist, he wore a wide, twin-holstered utility belt with oversized pouches containing the tools of the virologist's trade - vials, hypodermic needles, scrapers, scoops, specimen jars, anesthetics, and various chemicals used for field-testing. In the holsters, he carried a pair of long-handled, high-powered, ultra-violet flashlights.

To the infected, those lights might as well have been flamethrowers. Krippin Virus had ravaged their metabolisms so badly that a few seconds of exposure to sunlight would be enough to incinerate them. Whenever a test subject died, an event that occurred with frightening regularity, Peter would leave the remains in the sun for a few minutes and use the ashes to make fertilizer for his rooftop hydroponics garden.

May would usually accompany her father on his daily sojourns, helping him with the never-ending task of searching for supplies. But on days like today, when he needed to capture live hemocytes or infected animals for vaccine trials, she would wisely opt to remain safely ensconced in Fort Parker, doing her schoolwork, playing with her American Girl dolls, and tending to the garden.

She was an extraordinarily responsible child who had been robbed of her childhood.

It was late afternoon by the time Peter reached his intended destination. Exhausted by perpetual lack of sleep, his head pounding, he alighted on a patch of knee-high grass growing in the middle of the street, near the intersection of 44th and Broadway. Lying in the grass was an overturned baby stroller. Under the stroller lay a small stuffed teddy bear, soggy, but still intact despite years of being pounded by wind, rain, and snow. Pocketing his mask, Peter picked up the teddy bear, trying to form a mental image of the toddler to whom it once belonged.

"Welcome to Tsavo," he murmured. He had learned that word from Dr. Mathias Mahina, a colleague on the E.S.U. faculty who hailed from Kenya.

In the language of the Wakamba Tribe, it meant, "place of slaughter."

How appropriate…

A lone tank was blocking the intersection, its gun turret pointing straight at him. The pavement around the tank was so chocked full of weeds that it reminded Peter of the Palisades Cliffs overlooking the Hudson River, where trees practically grew out of the rocks. As he unhitched his backpack, he caught sight of a graffiti message, spray-painted on the side of the tank, in blood-red letters:

GOD STILL LOVES US.

Peter's eyes widened. He stared at the message, incredulous. Caught between its irony and its hypocrisy, he started to laugh, softly at first, then louder and harder until it echoed far across the silent cityscape.

His laughter spent, Peter tossed the teddy bear aside, took a swig of water, and produced a crumpled schematic depicting the sewer system. Checking the intersection signs, he located the manhole he had been looking for. It was partially covered by the treads of the tank. Just what I need, he thought, his eyes rolling, more aggravation. Wearily summoning his strength, he grabbed the front end of the tank, lifted it nearly a foot off the ground, and repositioned it so that the manhole was dead center between the treads. The bottom of the tank would give him the platform he needed to lower himself into the sewer by webline.

As he let go of the tank, the low-level ringing that was constantly in his ears suddenly became much more intense. To his mind, which was always on edge, it sounded like…

Church bells...?

The cacophony seemed to grow louder and louder as a bout of dizziness suddenly overtook him. Leaning against the tank, he squeezed his eyes shut and covered his ears with his hands. "There are no bells ringing, dammit!" he shouted, trying to blot out that impossible sound and regain control of his faculties. "There are no bells."

By the time he opened his eyes, the hallucination had subsided.

Stay focused son, Ben Parker warned. You have a little girl who needs you. Mental breakdowns are not an option.

Meanwhile, the ringing sound had given way to a low-grade buzzing sensation. It was his spider-sense, informing him that something was approaching that did not present immediate danger. A fraction of a second later, he observed a deer wander past the tank, followed by another, and another, and another. Soon there were close to a hundred of them, grazing in the street, oblivious to his presence.

As Peter watched the deer with quiet fascination, his attention was drawn to a century-old theater up the block that had once been a centerpiece of the Great White Way. It had been nearly two years since he had last seen it. He checked his watch and quickly glanced at the sun, still partially visible over the roof of an office building.

Peter, don't you have a job to do?

"Take it easy, Uncle Ben. I have at least an hour before sundown."

Just watch your ass, Michelangelo.

"I've got it covered. Don't worry."

Very quietly, almost tiptoeing, he walked toward the theater. A few of the deer lifted their heads and glanced in his direction as he passed, but promptly returned to their grazing. Since he never bothered the deer, they never considered him a threat.

On the theater's façade, directly above its marquee, was a huge mural depicting its final production. The painting ran the entire length of the theater. It featured a thirty-foot likeness of May's mother, dressed in a vintage WAC uniform from World War II, belting out swing-era classics. Her natural red hair had been dyed blonde for the lead role in a musical extravaganza about the Andrews Sisters. Surprisingly, the image had remained intact, despite long exposure to the elements.

Peter smiled as soon as he got close enough to the read the marquee.

THE SHUBERT THEATER PROUDLY PRESENTS, AMERICA'S SWEETHEARTS, WINNER OF 9 TONY AWARDS IN 2012. STARRING MARY JA E WATSON, EMILY KURTZMAN, AND KATIE ARCHLAW.

"Held over for five years," Peter murmured. "Awesome."

You always said I'd light up Broadway, Tiger. Now, how about making yourself useful and fixing that marquee?

Looking around for the missing N, he saw that it had fallen onto the sidewalk, but was not broken. He picked it up, and with a swift vertical leap, caught the edge of the marquee with one hand and clipped the foot-high ruby-colored letter back into place with the other. "There," he said as he dropped back to the sidewalk, still taking care not to startle the deer. "How's that?"

Perfect.

"I love you, Mary Jane," Peter said softly as he gazed up at the mural, struggling to hear the strains of Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy in the background noise.

"Hey…"

He imagined her standing a few feet away from him, framed by the front door of the theater, dressed in the black jeans and pink sweatshirt that she had worn when they rode up to the Palisades on his motorcycle to celebrate the premiere of America's Sweethearts. Her long red tresses flowed like a shimmering waterfall, and in her emerald eyes he could still see that sparkling laughter that made every guy she had ever dated fall in love with her.

She stepped right out of Peter's imagination and threw her arms around him, her magnificent eyes filled with unbridled joy. Her appearance was so real to him that he could actually smell her Emma Rose strawberry perfume. He heard her muffled sob, not realizing that it was his own. "I'm so happy to see you, Peter," she whispered as her their lips met, those eyes now glistening.

"You're looking great, MJ, as always."

"And you look like you belong on the cover of 'Soldier of Fortune'," Mary Jane said giddily as she lightly touched the barrel of one of his flashlights. "How's life in paradise these days?"

"Same as always. Scavenging by day, searching for the holy grail by night."

"Have you isolated the right DNA sequence?"

Peter shook his head. "I've been close so many times. I thought I'd nailed it with GA three-ninety, but the vaccine didn't take. The subject expired this morning." He shook his head and sighed. "Just fishing in the dark, MJ."

"Hang in there, Tiger," Mary Jane said, stroking his stubble-covered cheek, an expression of sympathy on her face. "I know you'll find the answer. You always do."

For, Peter talking shop was becoming too depressing. "You want to go for a walk?"

"Love to, love."

They strolled up Broadway together, arm-in-arm, jostled by harried pedestrians, most of them commuters anxious to get home to their families in the suburbs.

"I saw you and May at Yankee Stadium last week," Mary Jane said.

"You were there?"

"In the bleachers, right behind home plate. I wasn't going to miss my little girl's major league debut."

"Wasn't she something, smacking those web balls out of the park?"

"With Derek Jeter's bat, no less."

"What a ballplayer she would've been," Peter mused. "Her last shot must've gone over two thousand feet. Broke a window in some tenement on the other side of the parking lot. Scattered a flock of pigeons."

Mary Jane nestled her cheek against his. He could feel the softness of her skin. "You're such a devoted father, Peter. I'm so proud of you, the way you've handled everything."

"Dad, mom, teacher, coach, best friend, cook, valet, and a hundred other jobs," Peter replied with that aw-shucks shrug of the shoulders which had always endeared him to his wife. He opened a pouch on his belt and pulled out a letter written in crayon. "She wrote it this morning. Want to hear it?"

Mary Jane nodded.

Peter unfolded the letter. "Dear Mommy Angel," he read. "Today, I got A's from the computer on fractions and French. My daddy says that if we still had school, I would be in fourth grade. He says that I'm a genius. I think it means that I am really smart. I watch your pictures and videos every day. You are so beautiful and I like hearing you sing. I am so glad that you're my mommy and I love you very, very, very much. Oh, and by the way, tomorrow is my birthday. I will be six years old. I have a birthday wish. Please help my daddy make good medicine so he can turn all those dark seekers back into people and I can have other kids to play with. Love, May Allison Parker. That's what she calls them now."

Tears were welling up in Mary Jane's eyes again. Her lips began to quiver. "I miss my baby so much," she sobbed. "I want to hold her in my arms and tell her how much I love her."

"She knows, Mary Jane. I keep you in her thoughts every day."

They continued walking, but did not seem to be going anyplace.

"Are you doing anything special for her birthday?" Mary Jane asked, her buoyant mood apparently returning.

"I promised her that we'd take a ride out to the Queen Mary in the morning. Then it's off to American Girl with Lindsay for afternoon tea. She doesn't know it, but I've already baked her a birthday cake. I had to dip into the sugar and flour reserves, but it was worth it."

"Peter, are you sure it's safe to go into that building?" .

"Absolutely," Peter reassured the mental projection of his wife. "I hung up a dozen or so ultraviolet lamps around the kitchen and dining room this morning. The infected won't get near the place. I promise."

"Are you two going to dress up for dinner?"

"Of course, May insisted on it. She's got a whole wardrobe full of fancy dresses And I've got a few designer suits myself."

Mary Jane threw back her head and laughed.

"What's so funny, MJ?"

"The thought of Spider-Man walking into Macy's Saks Fifth Avenue or Neiman Marcus and taking whatever he wants," she giggled. "You always used to stop the bad guys from stealing and now you're doing it yourself."

In the midst of his three-dimensional daydream, Peter was able to reflect on his most profound concerns about their daughter's upbringing. "She has no concept of theft, Mary Jane. It doesn't exist anymore. I mean, it's like we're back in the Garden of Eden or something. She thinks nothing about breaking into some stranger's apartment and taking whatever toy catches her fancy. She doesn't know any other way."

But Mary Jane never acknowledged his point. She quickened their pace as they arrived at a very familiar destination. "Come on," she urged, practically pulling him inside the door and through the dimly lit lounge as the band on stage motioned for her to join them.

Peter sat down at a round table in front of the stage as Mary Jane stepped under the spotlight. The manager and the bouncer were still glaring at him, even after all these years, giving the unmistakable impression that they had never forgiven him for the ruckus he had started. "Hey guys, that was years ago," Peter called out to them. "Get over it."

The bouncer emitted a low growl that sounded just like a lion.

Peter turned back to the stage. Mary Jane held up her hand toward the band's guitarist and gestured for him to toss her his guitar. The guitar player happily obliged. In a surprisingly fast display of reflexes, Mary Jane reached up and plucked it out of the air.

Strumming gently on the guitar, Mary Jane began to sing an Abba hit from the seventies:

I can still recall our last Summer,

When we had it all…

The last time Peter had heard Mary Jane do this number was in an audition for Mamma Mia. Even though she didn't get the part, the producers remembered that audition when casting for Oliver!.

Pete and Mary Jane

Laughing in the rain.

Our last summer

Memories that remain…

The lyrics were not quite right. And Mary Jane had never played the guitar, or any other instrument. These oddities were warnings, but Peter was ignoring them. One could hardly blame him, of course. Years of unimaginable isolation had taken their toll on his psyche. Daydreaming had become his way of coping with the everyday horrors that defined his life. Against his own survival instincts, he had allowed himself to become lost in a world and where fantasy and reality blended seamlessly together. And every time sojourned into that world, he would lose awareness of the dangers lurking all around him.

And now you're working in a lab

A family man, a baseball fan

And your name is Peter

How dull it seems

Yet you're the hero of my dreams…

"Hey, Liberace," the keyboard player called out to Peter. "How about coming up here and showing us something?"

Peter got up out of his chair and had moved toward the stage when a jackhammer suddenly went off inside the back of his head.

A second later, a thunderous roar came from the direction of the lounge's entrance.

Peter found himself staring straight into the flaming eyes of a charging lion.

The people in the Jazz Room scattered, leaping out of their seats in a panic.

Mary Jane screamed.

Peter tried to spring into action, but to his horror, found himself completely paralyzed, unable to move. "Noooooooohh!" he shouted as the lion bore down on his wife, leaping onto the stage and knocking her down with one swipe of its paw, its powerful jaws closing around her golden throat. With one shake of its enormous maned head, the lion violently flipped Mary Jane over as if she were a rag doll, smashing her against the asphalt, breaking her neck. Her hand twitched briefly before falling limp.

And then it was all over.

Crouching barely twenty feet away from Peter, the lion held fast to the carcass of the deer it had just killed.

The rest of the herd had fled, no doubt frightened into a stampede by the lion's attack.

For a moment, the two hunters regarded each other warily. The lion roared at Peter, as if daring him to try and take away its hard-earned prize. As soon as it was satisfied that Peter did not pose a threat, the lion dragged the deer off behind a garbage truck and began to feast on it, leaving him alone once more.

Still not fully extricated from his daydream, Peter instinctively turned around to make sure his wife was all right.

But Mary Jane Watson-Parker was gone.

No, Peter corrected himself, his heart sinking, his eyes filling with tears.

She was never there.

All that remained was the final echo of a fading dream…

Pete and Mary Jane

Laughing in the rain.

Our last summer

Memories that remain.