~*~
…three…
~*~
May 13th, 2009
Clark groaned, as he pulled himself out of the memories. Just the thought of how they used to be brought on ache of longing that he couldn't squash. Himself, Chloe, Pete… The Musketeers – as Pete nicknamed them the first day of high school. That in itself wasn't an auspicious beginning. Whitney had overheard him, and for the next several months had referred to the members of their little gang as Orifice, Porthetic, and Fartagnon! Clark found a wry smile from somewhere. Nobody ever accused Whitney Fordman of being incredibly original or witty.
The point was he did remember what had happened that night. It had changed his life, and the way he saw himself. So, how could he ever forget? It seemed Chloe remembered too… and now she was calling to him – just when he thought he'd lost her.
What could she want, though? If she wanted to talk, why didn't she just come to the farm? Why the foundry?
Clark didn't know… but after all the time he'd spent searching for her, desperate to get her back – to save her – he couldn't let this opportunity slip. He checked his watch. Five minutes to midnight. Five minutes until…
"Tomorrow is the day you die…"
Clark hesitated. But only for an instant. Some things were more important.
~*~*~*~*~
The foundry looked exactly the same. The rusted gates, long since detached from their hinges. The remnants of the fence curled in on itself. The buildings mere husks, homes for shadows in the moonlight.
Clark walked at normal pace, ducking through the various buildings, until he came to the trapdoor.
It was open.
Light spilled out of the hole, and Clark was wary as he approached. He looked down. There was the iron ladder, bracketed into the wall – just as he remembered.
"Chloe!" he called.
No answer.
She had to be here, though, Clark reasoned. Who else would have opened the door, and turned on the lights? Clark couldn't shake an uneasy feeling. There were no lights thirteen years ago. Something had changed. Maybe more than he knew.
Where was Chloe?
The answer to that was obvious. Shaking his head, Clark tried – somewhat unsuccessfully – to banish old childhood fears as he stepped down into the hole, his boots finding the first rung of the ladder.
He paced himself, climbing slowly… almost as if he were travelling not into the bowels of the earth, but back in time itself…
