Originally published November 27, 1998, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1306

 

A PETER DAVID FILM

MARVELMANIC

The owner was not happy.

The collision had jolted him from his sound sleep. It had been a serene slumber, for he had had his usual pleasant dreams. It had been dreams of his ownership of the Marvelmanic, the biggest, most powerful of its kind. He dreamt of others looking on in amazement, Marveling at what he had constructed. He was the king of all there was, he was the surveyor of a world that looked upon him with awe. He reveled in adulation, he foresaw new towers of power that he would climb and from there he would look down upon all those whom he had left behind. They admired him, they feared him, they sought to be like him and all the while knew that they could never begin to match his greatness.

And there were the headlines, the headlines he was always boasting that he would achieve, headlines that he was constantly seeking. Headlines describing his latest, greatest triumph—whatever that might happen to be. He was determined that Marvelmanic was going to give him opportunities for newer, even bigger headlines. Full-page banners, crowning him as the new king of entertainment, touting his empire…

All very pleasant dreams—until the sudden, massive thud, followed quickly by a grinding noise evocative of a thousand coffin lids opening. It sent him tumbling to the floor, and, once he pulled himself together, he yanked on a robe and headed to the command center.

There he saw a situation that could best be defined as controlled chaos. The captain was there, and so was the architect. The architect, of advancing years but astoundingly spry, was bent over various charts of the Marvelmanic’s infrastructure. He looked like a coiled spring, ready to leap out in any direction but, instead, barely contained. The captain was cool and yet he seemed apprehensive.

“What’s going on?” demanded the owner. “Why have we stopped?”

“Five compartments, yes, but not six,” the architect was saying.

“What are you talking about? What’s this about compartments?”

“We appear, sir,” the captain said, “to have hit something. A series of somethings. And it’s had a calamitous effect on the Marvelmanic.”

The owner shook his head in annoyance. “Oh, nonsense. Certainly, we’ve had some bumps in reorganization—but it was bound to happen. It’s nothing to be concerned about. So when can we get under way again?”

“You don’t understand,” said the architect. Almost through force of will, he guided the owner’s gaze to the diagrams. “Those ‘bumps’ you speak of are just the tip of the iceberg. Look here.” He started pointing, one compartment after the other. “Management who knew what they were doing were replaced by management who had no comprehension of the comics market. That’s one. Then we tried to self-distribute, and it was a disaster. It laid waste to the direct market, making it not only dámņëd near impossible to get our comic books, but also driving retailers out of business because their shipping and ordering costs skyrocketed. That’s two. We glutted the marketplace with assorted gimmicks and tons of issue #1s. That’s three. We ran up such massive debt that we drove the company into bankruptcy. That’s four. We established a cut-off line for cancellation of titles, thereby guaranteeing that titles which were marginal-but-promising would be dumped, thereby alienating readers. That’s five. We might have been able to stay afloat, even with all of that.

“But we’ve torn an gaping hole in the New Reader Department. We’re doing nothing to bring in new readers. We’re canceling books while, at the same time, firing the editorial staff who would be overseeing new titles and not pushing anything through that’s new and different. We’re withdrawing all but eight titles from the newsstand and concentrating on the direct market—except the direct market doesn’t bring in new readers. The newsstand does that.

“That’s six compartments. She was built to withstand five compartments being breached—but not six.”

The owner still couldn’t quite wrap himself around what the architect was saying. “I—I don’t understand…”

“I’m saying we’re taking on water.” The architect’s hand glided over the diagrams. “It’s spilled in through the breach in the first compartment, and now it’s moving through the second, and third, and so on, faster and faster. Within a very short time—Marvelmanic—will flounder.”

For the briefest of moments, the owner thought it was a joke. A sickly laugh died in his throat. “But—but the Marvelmanic can’t sink.”

“She’s made of paper, sir,” the architect said stiffly. “I assure you—she can. And she will. It is,” and his voice took on a funereal tone, “a mathematical certainty.”

The owner felt the cold, hard stare of the captain upon his neck. He turned to face him.

“Well, Mr. Owner,” the captain said with surprising calm, “it looks like you’re going to get your headlines after all.”

*

Jack and Rose had broken away from the tour group and were running through the halls of the Marvelmanic. The precariousness of their situation had not fully dawned on them yet. They were two young fans who felt as if the entire world was theirs. They believed in Marvelmanic, and managing to get two tickets on the tour had been one of the greatest joys of their young lives.

They had felt the Marvelmanic shudder, but thought nothing of it at first. It had been a disconcerting enough jolt, but it seemed to be of no consequence. It had certainly felt as if they’d hit something, but so what? The Marvelmanic was unsinkable. Everyone knew that.

They took one turn around a corner, then another. Suddenly Jack started to slow. “Hold on, Rose,” he said. “Are you—are you noticing anything?”

“What do you mean, Jack?” she asked, but then she started to look around. “Wait a minute—where is everybody? Didn’t there used to be—people here?”

“Yeah. A lot of people,” Jack said.

The editorial office—the area that had been called “editor’s row”—was empty. Offices were darkened, cleaned out. There was a frightful silence. The famed Bullpen was, likewise, deserted.

They moved quickly, looking for someone, anyone. In one office they found a few editors, huddled together, frightened looks in their eyes. “What’s happened?” Jack demanded. “What’s going on? Where is everyone else?”

“Gone,” whispered one of the editors, as if communicating from beyond the grave. “Gone—all gone. Soon, we will be, too. We’ll—”

Suddenly he stopped talking, something having caught his attention. Jack and Rose turned and saw someone dressed entirely in black, heavily cloaked. It was impossible to tell if it was a man or a woman. The figure held a scythe firmly in its grasp.

“Well, this can’t be good,” observed Jack. Rose clutched his arm ever more tightly and whimpered softly in fear.

The figure stood there a long moment, and then stretched out a bony arm and pointed at one of the editors cowering in the back corner of the room. And then the figure spoke six terrifying words in a raspy voice:

“Human Resources wants to see you.”

The selected editor let out a piteous moan and looked to the others for help, but there was nothing to be said. Without a word, he followed the dark figure out.

The moment the dark figure was gone, another editor—looking terrified and desperate—scuttled into the office. “They got Millie,” he said in a hoarse whisper.

There was a loud wail then, cries of utter disbelief, shouts of “Not Millie!” Then, their agony spent, they lapsed into silence once more.

“We have to do something!” Rose cried out. But none of the remaining editors replied. “Don’t just sit there!” she urged once more. “We—”

Then she felt a wetness around her shoes. She and Jack looked down. The carpet was becoming soaked. “Oh—my God,” whispered Rose. “We’re—we’re sinking. Marvelmanic—is sinking.”

“That’s not possible,” Jack said.

Suddenly they heard skittering noises. They looked around, then down—and around—

Spiders. Hundreds, no, thousands of them, moving across the wall and ceiling like a great black mass. Moving as quickly as they could, up and out.

And the water was rising…

To Be Concluded

(Peter David, writer of stuff, can be written to at Second Age, Inc., P.O. Box 239, Bayport, NY 11705.)