Of course, Peter's spider senses had warned him of the incoming
threat, and narrowly avoided the bullet by deflecting it with the guard's
rifle he had stolen. It struck the butt of the rifle, then ricocheted
through the ceiling panel above his head. BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! A flurry of
bullets shot toward him. Same guard, same .44. Peter deflected them as he
had done before; raising the rifle, deflecting them. One hit the magazine,
and yet another struck near the hammer, rendering the now mangled M-16
useless. Tossing it aside, he proceeded to rush the guards.
POPOPOPOPOPOPOPOPOPOPOPOP! The nearest guard, a tall middle-aged man with
short brown hair and brown eyes, reached for the safety on his M-16. Before
he could switch it off, Peter vaulted off the wall and delivered an almost
lethal kick to the side of his head. The other guard with the .44, a tall
man with a buzz-cut and blue eyes, rose his .44. CLICK! The guard looked at
it, puzzled. CLICK! CLICK! CLICK! It was out of ammo. Before the guard
could process this, Peter shot a wad of webbing, hitting him in the face,
blinding him and cutting off his air. Peter shoved him through the
remainder of the glass on the one-way mirror, and onto the other two
unconscious guards in the webbing cocoon. His head struck the floor,
knocking him out. Peter shot looks all around. No general. "Damn!" Peter
exclaimed when he realized the General was gone. He ran down the hallway to
the stairs. He continued to sprint up, floor after floor. Poking his head
out of the stairwell door, he gazed into a large conference room. There was
one guard with his back to him on the other end of the room, guarding
another doorway on the opposite end. Peter, being as quiet as humanly (and
as arachnidly) possible, crept up the wall, and up to the bare white
ceiling. Crawling across it, he positioned himself directly over the
guard's head. Reaching down, he pinched the guard's neck hard. THUD! The
guard went down without a peep. "I knew that Vulcan nerve pinch wasn't just
a concept," Peter whispered to himself in amusement. He flipped off the
ceiling, landing crouched close to the carpeted floor. Inching slowly to
the door, he spied about a dozen soldiers in the next room, lounging
around. Some were just sitting around, some were playing cards, and some
were even sleeping in big padded executive chairs.
"Hey, Jack!" one soldier yelled towards Peter's direction, not looking up from his magazine. "Yo! Jack!" One of the soldiers looked over at the doorway. Peter propped the guard up against the doorway just as the soldier's gaze landed on him. "Hehe. Asleep. JACK!" The same soldier threw a beer can at Jack's head. WHAP! It hit the guard's head hard. Now, if you have ever read up on the Vulcan nerve pinch, you would know a hit to the head could wake up the individual who has been pinched. "Huh?" The guard was knocked awake, leaning against the doorway. "Rise and shine, sleepy- head!" Jack looked around, confused. He rubbed the section of his neck where he'd been pinched. "Hm. Musta fell asleep. Sorry." Jack surveyed the room, swearing he didn't just fall asleep. He turned around, and looked straight into the eyes of Peter. "Who-whoomph!" the guard uttered, right before Peter belted him in the stomach. Jack gave a gasp of breathlessness, just as Peter brought his knee up into his head. WHAM! Jack flew back, hitting his head once more on the side of a desk right outside the door. "Fire!" all the other guards in the room rose their weapons and began firing. POPOPOPOPOPOPOPOPOPOP! One guard, a Captain with a name patch that said Lowd on it, managed to score a glancing blow to Peter's calf. Stunned by the blow, Peter stopped for a split second. He was still one second too late, and another soldier, dressed in fatigues, burst in with a very large, very deadly heavy machine gun. CLACKCLACKCLACKCLACKCLACKCLACKCLACK! The 16- millimeter bullets tore up anything in their way. Peter's spider-sense kicked in at the last second, allowing him to dodge many of the rounds. Peter tended to try his absolute best to make sure nobody was ever killed, but he knew that this time, it was either kill or be killed. He rolled across the floor, the rounds tearing up the floor behind him. The Major holding the machine gun was too focused on Peter to notice where he was heading. Peter rolled behind the Captain that had previously hit him. WHUMP! WHUMP! WHUMP! WHUMP! Rounds pelted the Captain like he was tissue paper, blowing through him, spraying blood everywhere. He fell to the floor hard, wincing as he hit. Peter noticed, and crawled over to him. Grabbing the Captain's sidearm, a .44 Magnum, he clicked off the safety and fired twice at the major who was shooting at him. WHUMP! CRACK! The second round hit him in the head, killing him instantly. All the other soldiers, who had taken cover during the Major's rampage, looked upon his body in shock and terror. That soon turned to anger, however, and they all removed their weapons. Peter, still lying by the dying Captain, picked up his M-16, set it to automatic, and sprayed the carpeted floor by the soldiers' feet with rounds. The soldiers, too wary to continue fighting, ran out of the room.
Peter, stunned by the events which unfolded so suddenly not 5 minutes ago, rose from the floor. "Please..." Peter looked down to see the Captain looking at him pleadingly. "Don't leave..," the Captain whispered. Peter surveyed the room once more, and knelt beside the Captain, who was now pale and sweating. Peter removed the Captain's vest, only to find the most gruesome sight he'd ever seen; the rounds from the machine gun had nearly torn the Captain in half, leaving him connected just by his now exposed spine and a few strips of flesh. The Captain, now on the verge of death, spoke to Peter, his voice full of rage. "I never...wanted to do this. They...forced us. You were my hero...and I tried to kill you," the captain struggled "You get the bastards, Spiderman. Get 'em..." The Captain's head lolled to one side and dropped, lifeless. Peter fought back tears, knowing he was a sitting duck and that the other soldiers had alerted the rest of the building of his location. On one hand, if he tried to escape, he would be seen, and his identity would be revealed, endangering Aunt May and MJ. In the second, he knew he would not be able to secure the building without deadly force. Letting his rage get the better of him, he decided on one thing; no one would die, but he would get out without endangering anyone else. Hearing the sounds of boots stomping toward his location, his brain kicked into overdrive. He went around the room, finding the heaviest objects he could find and barricading the doors shut. The hardest was the door that he got through the conference room from, since it was a sliding door. As quick as he could, he found a roll of heavy duty steel wire in the dead Major's fatigue pockets. He tied off the door at the handle to a utility pipe in the wall, courtesy of a hole he put there, and pushed two desks in front to be safe. The two doors now sealed, he had to escape. He broke through one of the plate glass windows in the room. Looking down about ten stories, he saw news crews and police teams. He yanked his head back in before they could get a chance to see him, as the breaking of the windows had gotten their attention. He knew he could not be seen.
WHAM! WHAM! WHAM! The other soldiers outside the doors began to pound on them, trying their best to enter. Peter now knew he absolutely had to leave. Near panic, he frantically searched the desk for something to cover his face with. He ran over to the Captain's body, knowing all Air Force personnel always carried gas masks in a pouch on their belts. He found the pouch and unrolled it. The wire holding the door shut was doing fine, but the flimsy plastic handle was not, under the stress of soldiers pushing on it. He put the gas mask over his head, and bailed out through the window before a team of heavily armed soldiers broke through the conference room door. Nobody noticed the heavy machine gun tucked into Peter's pants.
Peter knew full well camera crews and pedestrians were filming and taking pictures of him, but no one could make him out through the gas mask. He crawled up another four stories, checking every window on his way. He went one window too far, when a heavily armed Colonel noticed him, and began squeezing off rounds from his XM-29. The rounds penetrated the window, sending glass everywhere. Peter got a good hold on the wall, and swung through foot first through the window, landing on the Colonel, and knocking him out cold. Peter picked up the XM-29 and fired at the nearest guards, who had done their best to get their weapons upholstered and ready. The rifle was set to the smart bullets, and he accidentally ended up tearing the first guard to shreds when it exploded not a foot from him. Peter aimed lower, and shot the second guard in the leg, sending blood everywhere. Peter, knowing it was too late for the first guard he shot, went over to the second guard, a Private First Class in the Army, and tore off one of the guard's sleeves. He tied it around the guard's right leg, stopping the worst of the bleeding. The guard was now passed out from the blood loss, but Peter knew he would be fine. He scoped the room around him. It wasn't much; a few chairs, a desk, and two doors on either side. There were stacks of papers and a briefcase on the desk, but he was more interested in the stuff that surrounded the desk; military supplies, ranging from first-aid kits to what he swore were rocket launcher cases. They were stacked up against the wall, or so he thought. Pushing a few cases aside, he came across another stack of cases. He pushed through until he found the actual wall, which was about twelve feet back from where the wall of cases began. He locked the doors and opened up a first aid kit. He found alcohol, band-aids, gauze, a tourniquet, some syringes, medical tape, aspirin, and a few other things, including penicillin. He removed the alcohol, uncapped it and poured it on the Private First Class's legs. He removed the band-aids and placed them on the smaller wounds, while he packed the larger wounds with gauze and wrapped medical tape around it. Thank God Uncle Ben had taught him proper medicine. Removing one of the syringes, he wiped down a spot on the Private First Class's arm with alcohol, and injected the penicillin. After he finished with the Private First Class, he went over to the Colonel. He stripped the Colonel of his weapons and opened a few of the first-aid kits before finding what he needed; tranquilizer. He removed another syringe and filled it with the tranquilizer. He injected it into the Colonel. He went over to the other guard, which, according to the patch on his shoulder, was a Sergeant. Peter checked for a pulse, but it was too late; the Sergeant was dead.
Peter already had been through enough. He'd been beaten, shot at, and emotionally traumatized enough. What came over him, he didn't know. He knew he shouldn't have killed the personnel, but he did. He knew now, for sure, he would probably have to kill much more. He dropped to his knees, and prayed. Not usually religious, he still thought it was best God knew it was for the betterment of life. He dug through the cases, finding what he needed. Right before he left, he had grabbed the Major's heavy machine gun from the floor. It was a chain feed, and it was nearly empty; maybe 50 rounds were left in it. Sure enough, he found ammo boxes filled with 16- millimeter chain feeds. He grabbed two, and placed them aside. He surveyed the Colonel. He knew that if he wanted to get out, he needed some sort of disguise. He stripped the Colonel down to his boxers and put them on after removing his own tattered clothing. It was close to his size, a little looser, though. He put the chain feeds in his thigh pouch on the Colonels fatigues, and slung the machine gun over his shoulder so it was resting on his back. He grabbed two Bowie knives from the cases and sticking them into his belt. He put a flashlight, a .44 with extra clips, a walkie talkie to look like he was an actual Colonel, and grabbed an XM-29 from the case, loading it with dumb and smart bullets, along with about four extra clips. He dragged the Private First Class away from the door, along with the Colonel and dead Sergeant, made a space in the wall of cases, and placed them all in it, hiding them from all angles to anyone who may enter. He grabbed a rag from one of the cases and wiped away the blood on the walls and floor, also stashing them with the personnel. For some reason, Peter broke down, right then and there. He sobbed for what seemed like hours before letting hunger get the best of him. He hadn't eaten for nearly a day, and he needed something quick. He looked for ten minutes before finding a case filled with MREs. He opened a few, and ate their contents. Not bad, but it was the best he'd eaten so far. Well, he thought, let's do it.
He unlocked both doors and crept out into a hallway. He peeked briefly out, just enough to survey the situation. There weren't many people around; about two or three at the very end of the hallway. Explaining why they did not hear the gunshots. He did not want any more death, so he grabbed a charcoal pack from a small case near his feet, and rubbed it around his eyes and nose. Searching through the desk and found a pair of dark sunglasses. He put them on, and put on his Air Force hat that the Colonel had on. He thought it was best not to look shaken as he was, for fear the other soldiers might notice. He caught a glimpse of himself on the window; he was barely recognizable. He opened the door and briskly strode out. The guard in the hall pointed their weapons at him, but quickly put them down and saluted him. He returned the salute stiffly, trying to look like a true blue weathered Colonel. It his best commanding voice, he demanded, "Major! Report!" The Major he was talking to, without looking at him, began speaking, "Spider-Man's loose, sir. Sentries ten floors down reported him crawling through a window, heading upwards. So far, there hasn't been a sign of him. General Raytheon gave the order to stand down, sir." Peter stood for a second, silent, trying to make himself look professional. "Alright. Do not leave from this spot. General's orders." "Yes, sir!" the soldiers said in unison. He strode past them briskly, going down the stairs. He stopped about five stories down. He opened the door, and walked straight into General Raytheon. "Whoa! Watch it, Colonel! These are my good fatigues." Peter saluted him and said, in the deepest sounding voice he could muster, "Yes, sir! Sorry, sir." The General eyed him for a few seconds before responding, "Colonel, do you have a cold or something? You sound kind of congested." Peter gave a fake cough and replies, "Yes, sir. Fighting allergies, that's all." The General said, "Alright. Carry on, Colonel." Peter saluted stiffly, and walked away to nowhere in particular. "Say, Colonel?" the General called back to Peter. ""Yes, sir?" Peter said, now nervous. "It would be a lot more convincing if you didn't have spider silk seeping out of your wrists. Get 'im!" The General had figured it all out, seeing as Peter's silk sacs were still infected and oozing.
A dozen Air Force, Army, and Marine soldiers, ranging from Privates to Majors, swarmed into the hallway. Peter tried to run, only to find both doors he was aiming for were locked. Nowhere else to go, he raised his XM- 29, and fired into the crowd. He aimed low to minimize casualties. The three or four soldiers that were hit fell like their legs were kicked out from under them, hitting the floor hard. A few tried to shoot at him, but his spider-sense kicked in, allowing him to evade the rounds. He fired wildly now, missing all shots. He switched it to dumb bullets, and fired low once more. It did not have as much effect as the smart bullets had, but it did the job. Two soldiers were hit, and tried to limp away before falling to the floor. Before he knew it, he was out of rounds. He was about cornered, and knowing he couldn't escape, whipped out the huge heavy machine gun that was slung around his back. The crowd of soldiers stopped dead, not daring to challenge the 16-millimeter bullets. Peter aimed it at the crowd, then quickly turned it on the door, shooting through the lock, letting the door swing open. He turned the gun back onto the crowd, which had not moved, and backed through the door. He fired a few times as warning shots, then bolted. He ran everywhere, not knowing where to go. He could hear boots storming through every hallway, doorway, and room toward him. There were five doors in the room he was currently in, with nothing to block them with. He was panicking, knowing if he couldn't escape, he would have to start shooting. He felt a blast of cool air in his hair. He gazed up, and noticed a vent. It was small, but if he tried he could make it. He jumped as hard as he could, popping the vent cover upwards. He threw the machine gun into the vent, followed by the XM-29 and .44. He grabbed onto the side of the vent, and swung himself upwards. Right before he slid the vent shut, he fired a round from the .44 into the window, shattering it, right before dozens of heavily armed soldiers stormed into the room. "Where'd he go!?" Peter recognized the General's voice, and the officer stepped forward, sticking his head out of the window, looking up and down. ZIP! POP! A round from the ground barely missing the General's head, entering the vent shaft. "DAMN! The police are shooting. Froy, Peterson, and Grouton! Load up and return some warning fire. We can't have 'em shooting just yet." All the soldiers filed out, muttering to themselves. What they didn't know was that the bullet that barley missed the General, was now causing Peter to bleed internally as he lay unconscious in the vent.
"Hey, Jack!" one soldier yelled towards Peter's direction, not looking up from his magazine. "Yo! Jack!" One of the soldiers looked over at the doorway. Peter propped the guard up against the doorway just as the soldier's gaze landed on him. "Hehe. Asleep. JACK!" The same soldier threw a beer can at Jack's head. WHAP! It hit the guard's head hard. Now, if you have ever read up on the Vulcan nerve pinch, you would know a hit to the head could wake up the individual who has been pinched. "Huh?" The guard was knocked awake, leaning against the doorway. "Rise and shine, sleepy- head!" Jack looked around, confused. He rubbed the section of his neck where he'd been pinched. "Hm. Musta fell asleep. Sorry." Jack surveyed the room, swearing he didn't just fall asleep. He turned around, and looked straight into the eyes of Peter. "Who-whoomph!" the guard uttered, right before Peter belted him in the stomach. Jack gave a gasp of breathlessness, just as Peter brought his knee up into his head. WHAM! Jack flew back, hitting his head once more on the side of a desk right outside the door. "Fire!" all the other guards in the room rose their weapons and began firing. POPOPOPOPOPOPOPOPOPOP! One guard, a Captain with a name patch that said Lowd on it, managed to score a glancing blow to Peter's calf. Stunned by the blow, Peter stopped for a split second. He was still one second too late, and another soldier, dressed in fatigues, burst in with a very large, very deadly heavy machine gun. CLACKCLACKCLACKCLACKCLACKCLACKCLACK! The 16- millimeter bullets tore up anything in their way. Peter's spider-sense kicked in at the last second, allowing him to dodge many of the rounds. Peter tended to try his absolute best to make sure nobody was ever killed, but he knew that this time, it was either kill or be killed. He rolled across the floor, the rounds tearing up the floor behind him. The Major holding the machine gun was too focused on Peter to notice where he was heading. Peter rolled behind the Captain that had previously hit him. WHUMP! WHUMP! WHUMP! WHUMP! Rounds pelted the Captain like he was tissue paper, blowing through him, spraying blood everywhere. He fell to the floor hard, wincing as he hit. Peter noticed, and crawled over to him. Grabbing the Captain's sidearm, a .44 Magnum, he clicked off the safety and fired twice at the major who was shooting at him. WHUMP! CRACK! The second round hit him in the head, killing him instantly. All the other soldiers, who had taken cover during the Major's rampage, looked upon his body in shock and terror. That soon turned to anger, however, and they all removed their weapons. Peter, still lying by the dying Captain, picked up his M-16, set it to automatic, and sprayed the carpeted floor by the soldiers' feet with rounds. The soldiers, too wary to continue fighting, ran out of the room.
Peter, stunned by the events which unfolded so suddenly not 5 minutes ago, rose from the floor. "Please..." Peter looked down to see the Captain looking at him pleadingly. "Don't leave..," the Captain whispered. Peter surveyed the room once more, and knelt beside the Captain, who was now pale and sweating. Peter removed the Captain's vest, only to find the most gruesome sight he'd ever seen; the rounds from the machine gun had nearly torn the Captain in half, leaving him connected just by his now exposed spine and a few strips of flesh. The Captain, now on the verge of death, spoke to Peter, his voice full of rage. "I never...wanted to do this. They...forced us. You were my hero...and I tried to kill you," the captain struggled "You get the bastards, Spiderman. Get 'em..." The Captain's head lolled to one side and dropped, lifeless. Peter fought back tears, knowing he was a sitting duck and that the other soldiers had alerted the rest of the building of his location. On one hand, if he tried to escape, he would be seen, and his identity would be revealed, endangering Aunt May and MJ. In the second, he knew he would not be able to secure the building without deadly force. Letting his rage get the better of him, he decided on one thing; no one would die, but he would get out without endangering anyone else. Hearing the sounds of boots stomping toward his location, his brain kicked into overdrive. He went around the room, finding the heaviest objects he could find and barricading the doors shut. The hardest was the door that he got through the conference room from, since it was a sliding door. As quick as he could, he found a roll of heavy duty steel wire in the dead Major's fatigue pockets. He tied off the door at the handle to a utility pipe in the wall, courtesy of a hole he put there, and pushed two desks in front to be safe. The two doors now sealed, he had to escape. He broke through one of the plate glass windows in the room. Looking down about ten stories, he saw news crews and police teams. He yanked his head back in before they could get a chance to see him, as the breaking of the windows had gotten their attention. He knew he could not be seen.
WHAM! WHAM! WHAM! The other soldiers outside the doors began to pound on them, trying their best to enter. Peter now knew he absolutely had to leave. Near panic, he frantically searched the desk for something to cover his face with. He ran over to the Captain's body, knowing all Air Force personnel always carried gas masks in a pouch on their belts. He found the pouch and unrolled it. The wire holding the door shut was doing fine, but the flimsy plastic handle was not, under the stress of soldiers pushing on it. He put the gas mask over his head, and bailed out through the window before a team of heavily armed soldiers broke through the conference room door. Nobody noticed the heavy machine gun tucked into Peter's pants.
Peter knew full well camera crews and pedestrians were filming and taking pictures of him, but no one could make him out through the gas mask. He crawled up another four stories, checking every window on his way. He went one window too far, when a heavily armed Colonel noticed him, and began squeezing off rounds from his XM-29. The rounds penetrated the window, sending glass everywhere. Peter got a good hold on the wall, and swung through foot first through the window, landing on the Colonel, and knocking him out cold. Peter picked up the XM-29 and fired at the nearest guards, who had done their best to get their weapons upholstered and ready. The rifle was set to the smart bullets, and he accidentally ended up tearing the first guard to shreds when it exploded not a foot from him. Peter aimed lower, and shot the second guard in the leg, sending blood everywhere. Peter, knowing it was too late for the first guard he shot, went over to the second guard, a Private First Class in the Army, and tore off one of the guard's sleeves. He tied it around the guard's right leg, stopping the worst of the bleeding. The guard was now passed out from the blood loss, but Peter knew he would be fine. He scoped the room around him. It wasn't much; a few chairs, a desk, and two doors on either side. There were stacks of papers and a briefcase on the desk, but he was more interested in the stuff that surrounded the desk; military supplies, ranging from first-aid kits to what he swore were rocket launcher cases. They were stacked up against the wall, or so he thought. Pushing a few cases aside, he came across another stack of cases. He pushed through until he found the actual wall, which was about twelve feet back from where the wall of cases began. He locked the doors and opened up a first aid kit. He found alcohol, band-aids, gauze, a tourniquet, some syringes, medical tape, aspirin, and a few other things, including penicillin. He removed the alcohol, uncapped it and poured it on the Private First Class's legs. He removed the band-aids and placed them on the smaller wounds, while he packed the larger wounds with gauze and wrapped medical tape around it. Thank God Uncle Ben had taught him proper medicine. Removing one of the syringes, he wiped down a spot on the Private First Class's arm with alcohol, and injected the penicillin. After he finished with the Private First Class, he went over to the Colonel. He stripped the Colonel of his weapons and opened a few of the first-aid kits before finding what he needed; tranquilizer. He removed another syringe and filled it with the tranquilizer. He injected it into the Colonel. He went over to the other guard, which, according to the patch on his shoulder, was a Sergeant. Peter checked for a pulse, but it was too late; the Sergeant was dead.
Peter already had been through enough. He'd been beaten, shot at, and emotionally traumatized enough. What came over him, he didn't know. He knew he shouldn't have killed the personnel, but he did. He knew now, for sure, he would probably have to kill much more. He dropped to his knees, and prayed. Not usually religious, he still thought it was best God knew it was for the betterment of life. He dug through the cases, finding what he needed. Right before he left, he had grabbed the Major's heavy machine gun from the floor. It was a chain feed, and it was nearly empty; maybe 50 rounds were left in it. Sure enough, he found ammo boxes filled with 16- millimeter chain feeds. He grabbed two, and placed them aside. He surveyed the Colonel. He knew that if he wanted to get out, he needed some sort of disguise. He stripped the Colonel down to his boxers and put them on after removing his own tattered clothing. It was close to his size, a little looser, though. He put the chain feeds in his thigh pouch on the Colonels fatigues, and slung the machine gun over his shoulder so it was resting on his back. He grabbed two Bowie knives from the cases and sticking them into his belt. He put a flashlight, a .44 with extra clips, a walkie talkie to look like he was an actual Colonel, and grabbed an XM-29 from the case, loading it with dumb and smart bullets, along with about four extra clips. He dragged the Private First Class away from the door, along with the Colonel and dead Sergeant, made a space in the wall of cases, and placed them all in it, hiding them from all angles to anyone who may enter. He grabbed a rag from one of the cases and wiped away the blood on the walls and floor, also stashing them with the personnel. For some reason, Peter broke down, right then and there. He sobbed for what seemed like hours before letting hunger get the best of him. He hadn't eaten for nearly a day, and he needed something quick. He looked for ten minutes before finding a case filled with MREs. He opened a few, and ate their contents. Not bad, but it was the best he'd eaten so far. Well, he thought, let's do it.
He unlocked both doors and crept out into a hallway. He peeked briefly out, just enough to survey the situation. There weren't many people around; about two or three at the very end of the hallway. Explaining why they did not hear the gunshots. He did not want any more death, so he grabbed a charcoal pack from a small case near his feet, and rubbed it around his eyes and nose. Searching through the desk and found a pair of dark sunglasses. He put them on, and put on his Air Force hat that the Colonel had on. He thought it was best not to look shaken as he was, for fear the other soldiers might notice. He caught a glimpse of himself on the window; he was barely recognizable. He opened the door and briskly strode out. The guard in the hall pointed their weapons at him, but quickly put them down and saluted him. He returned the salute stiffly, trying to look like a true blue weathered Colonel. It his best commanding voice, he demanded, "Major! Report!" The Major he was talking to, without looking at him, began speaking, "Spider-Man's loose, sir. Sentries ten floors down reported him crawling through a window, heading upwards. So far, there hasn't been a sign of him. General Raytheon gave the order to stand down, sir." Peter stood for a second, silent, trying to make himself look professional. "Alright. Do not leave from this spot. General's orders." "Yes, sir!" the soldiers said in unison. He strode past them briskly, going down the stairs. He stopped about five stories down. He opened the door, and walked straight into General Raytheon. "Whoa! Watch it, Colonel! These are my good fatigues." Peter saluted him and said, in the deepest sounding voice he could muster, "Yes, sir! Sorry, sir." The General eyed him for a few seconds before responding, "Colonel, do you have a cold or something? You sound kind of congested." Peter gave a fake cough and replies, "Yes, sir. Fighting allergies, that's all." The General said, "Alright. Carry on, Colonel." Peter saluted stiffly, and walked away to nowhere in particular. "Say, Colonel?" the General called back to Peter. ""Yes, sir?" Peter said, now nervous. "It would be a lot more convincing if you didn't have spider silk seeping out of your wrists. Get 'im!" The General had figured it all out, seeing as Peter's silk sacs were still infected and oozing.
A dozen Air Force, Army, and Marine soldiers, ranging from Privates to Majors, swarmed into the hallway. Peter tried to run, only to find both doors he was aiming for were locked. Nowhere else to go, he raised his XM- 29, and fired into the crowd. He aimed low to minimize casualties. The three or four soldiers that were hit fell like their legs were kicked out from under them, hitting the floor hard. A few tried to shoot at him, but his spider-sense kicked in, allowing him to evade the rounds. He fired wildly now, missing all shots. He switched it to dumb bullets, and fired low once more. It did not have as much effect as the smart bullets had, but it did the job. Two soldiers were hit, and tried to limp away before falling to the floor. Before he knew it, he was out of rounds. He was about cornered, and knowing he couldn't escape, whipped out the huge heavy machine gun that was slung around his back. The crowd of soldiers stopped dead, not daring to challenge the 16-millimeter bullets. Peter aimed it at the crowd, then quickly turned it on the door, shooting through the lock, letting the door swing open. He turned the gun back onto the crowd, which had not moved, and backed through the door. He fired a few times as warning shots, then bolted. He ran everywhere, not knowing where to go. He could hear boots storming through every hallway, doorway, and room toward him. There were five doors in the room he was currently in, with nothing to block them with. He was panicking, knowing if he couldn't escape, he would have to start shooting. He felt a blast of cool air in his hair. He gazed up, and noticed a vent. It was small, but if he tried he could make it. He jumped as hard as he could, popping the vent cover upwards. He threw the machine gun into the vent, followed by the XM-29 and .44. He grabbed onto the side of the vent, and swung himself upwards. Right before he slid the vent shut, he fired a round from the .44 into the window, shattering it, right before dozens of heavily armed soldiers stormed into the room. "Where'd he go!?" Peter recognized the General's voice, and the officer stepped forward, sticking his head out of the window, looking up and down. ZIP! POP! A round from the ground barely missing the General's head, entering the vent shaft. "DAMN! The police are shooting. Froy, Peterson, and Grouton! Load up and return some warning fire. We can't have 'em shooting just yet." All the soldiers filed out, muttering to themselves. What they didn't know was that the bullet that barley missed the General, was now causing Peter to bleed internally as he lay unconscious in the vent.