Part 3
The old car rumbled up the long gravel drive, stones popping under its tires. It was dusk; the sun hanging low on the horizon, as the night time creatures scurried out of their habitats and Pete Ross drove his classic car up to the Kent farm. His thoughts weighed heavily on his teenaged mind. Thoughts of his parents' recent divorce, his hiding out in the Torch office at school, his mother's move, and the distance that had begun existing between him and his best friend. The latter he planned on finally concluding that evening.
'I don't want to do this, Clark,' he thought to himself, 'But it's the only way,'
The fact was that he was going to tell Clark of his upcoming move to Wichita with his mom. He had found that there was nothing left for him in Smallville--there was never really anything for him in the first place. A move to a new city would be a fresh start where he could be able to renew his view on life and find a place for himself. At least he hoped.
Pulling the car to a halt next to the family's red truck, Pete removed the keys from the ignition and stepped out of the car. He began walking up the path to the front porch. As he ascended the stairs, he noticed that the farmhouse's front door had been broken in. Dark stains of a dried liquid were splattered about on the cream-coloured entrance rug.
'This isn't right,' Pete thought. He carefully stepped over the threshold of the front door and around the dirtied rug. He peered into the living room to his left and the guest room to his right. Nothing.
"Hello?" He called out, unsure if anyone would hear him. He tried again, "Mr. Kent? Mrs. Kent? Clark?" Taking a few steps further into the silent house, "Is anybody home?" Reaching the kitchen, Pete took notice of the dishevelled appearance of it all. There was a pile of stained rags on the counter-top, with 'Blood?' Pete wondered. A heap of blue and red blankets lay on the step down into the living room, which was equally disturbed. As he took another few steps into the kitchen, his foot suddenly fought purchase on a sticky substance. Looking down, Pete noticed he had stepped into a small puddle of the dark texture that had been dripped throughout the house. Upon closer examination he found that it was indeed what he had feared. Someone in the Kent family had been injured.
Pete called out, "Mr. Kent! Mrs. Kent!" Hesitantly, "Clark!"
"Who's down there? Pete?" A man's voice, obviously Jonathan's, yelled down from upstairs.
Pete bolted for the stairs, ascending into the upstairs hall.
"We're in here, Pete," Jonathan called from his and Martha's bedroom.
Pete rushed into the room. "What's going on? I saw blood on the floor downstairs. Who's hurt?" It was then he took notice of the position the elder couple was in. Martha sat on their bed, sobbing into her husband's chest, as Jonathan calmingly rubbed his hands across her back.
"It's Clark, Pete. He's gone."
Secluded in a forest far from any real means of civilization, stood a lone hut. Moonlight shone through the tall pine trees onto the wood-shingled roof of the run-down, old structure, peaking into the tiny broken slats of glass which stood as windows along its walls. Inside the hut existed two beings—one human, one not. The latter of the two lay suffering in pain on a roughly constructed table. His ankles and wrists were bound down to the paint-peeling surface, leaving him immobile save for the shivers of cold, which ran down his spine, causing his body to wriggle around helplessly. Opening his heavy eyes, the teen squinted at the bright light of a bulb, which hung above his head, leaving him blinded to his surroundings. The boy's chest heaved in pain, as he called out into the emptiness.
"Hello?" he rasped, "Is anyone there?" His voice quivering, Clark's eyes involuntarily welled up in tears, "Please, somebody. Help me."
"How could this have happened?" Pete questioned aloud as he sat with his friend's parents at the kitchen table of their home. His hands were red, the result of endless wringing in his tense attitude after being informed of Clark's whereabouts—or lack, thereof.
Looking to his silent, grief-stricken wife, Jonathan answered, "We're not all too sure ourselves, Pete. The important thing right now is getting him back."
"And you guys suspect it was this Jeremiah character who took him?" Pete re-established, looking to the older man, who nodded in response. "Well, then I guess we'll just have to do some investigating—find out where Jeremiah could be keeping Clark, if he is keeping him somewhere. I mean, he could've left him on the side of the road somewhere, for all we know!"
A deep sob escaped from the mother as she started to mourn for her missing son once again.
Realization dawned upon Pete, "Oh, god. I shouldn't have said that. I'm so sorry, Mrs. Kent," he spoke, taking Martha's hand in his and giving it a reassuring squeeze. "I'll do my best to get Clark back. I promise you that—anything it takes," giving her a small smile. Sobering up, he looked to the father, "Well, should we start looking for him now?"
Jonathan glanced between the two, then outside through the window. "It's pretty late, we might not find very much," With a sigh, "I hate to say it, but I think it's best we start tomorrow morning—we'll have better chances that way," looking towards the younger boy, who nodded sombrely in reply. It was going to be a long night.
The old car rumbled up the long gravel drive, stones popping under its tires. It was dusk; the sun hanging low on the horizon, as the night time creatures scurried out of their habitats and Pete Ross drove his classic car up to the Kent farm. His thoughts weighed heavily on his teenaged mind. Thoughts of his parents' recent divorce, his hiding out in the Torch office at school, his mother's move, and the distance that had begun existing between him and his best friend. The latter he planned on finally concluding that evening.
'I don't want to do this, Clark,' he thought to himself, 'But it's the only way,'
The fact was that he was going to tell Clark of his upcoming move to Wichita with his mom. He had found that there was nothing left for him in Smallville--there was never really anything for him in the first place. A move to a new city would be a fresh start where he could be able to renew his view on life and find a place for himself. At least he hoped.
Pulling the car to a halt next to the family's red truck, Pete removed the keys from the ignition and stepped out of the car. He began walking up the path to the front porch. As he ascended the stairs, he noticed that the farmhouse's front door had been broken in. Dark stains of a dried liquid were splattered about on the cream-coloured entrance rug.
'This isn't right,' Pete thought. He carefully stepped over the threshold of the front door and around the dirtied rug. He peered into the living room to his left and the guest room to his right. Nothing.
"Hello?" He called out, unsure if anyone would hear him. He tried again, "Mr. Kent? Mrs. Kent? Clark?" Taking a few steps further into the silent house, "Is anybody home?" Reaching the kitchen, Pete took notice of the dishevelled appearance of it all. There was a pile of stained rags on the counter-top, with 'Blood?' Pete wondered. A heap of blue and red blankets lay on the step down into the living room, which was equally disturbed. As he took another few steps into the kitchen, his foot suddenly fought purchase on a sticky substance. Looking down, Pete noticed he had stepped into a small puddle of the dark texture that had been dripped throughout the house. Upon closer examination he found that it was indeed what he had feared. Someone in the Kent family had been injured.
Pete called out, "Mr. Kent! Mrs. Kent!" Hesitantly, "Clark!"
"Who's down there? Pete?" A man's voice, obviously Jonathan's, yelled down from upstairs.
Pete bolted for the stairs, ascending into the upstairs hall.
"We're in here, Pete," Jonathan called from his and Martha's bedroom.
Pete rushed into the room. "What's going on? I saw blood on the floor downstairs. Who's hurt?" It was then he took notice of the position the elder couple was in. Martha sat on their bed, sobbing into her husband's chest, as Jonathan calmingly rubbed his hands across her back.
"It's Clark, Pete. He's gone."
Secluded in a forest far from any real means of civilization, stood a lone hut. Moonlight shone through the tall pine trees onto the wood-shingled roof of the run-down, old structure, peaking into the tiny broken slats of glass which stood as windows along its walls. Inside the hut existed two beings—one human, one not. The latter of the two lay suffering in pain on a roughly constructed table. His ankles and wrists were bound down to the paint-peeling surface, leaving him immobile save for the shivers of cold, which ran down his spine, causing his body to wriggle around helplessly. Opening his heavy eyes, the teen squinted at the bright light of a bulb, which hung above his head, leaving him blinded to his surroundings. The boy's chest heaved in pain, as he called out into the emptiness.
"Hello?" he rasped, "Is anyone there?" His voice quivering, Clark's eyes involuntarily welled up in tears, "Please, somebody. Help me."
"How could this have happened?" Pete questioned aloud as he sat with his friend's parents at the kitchen table of their home. His hands were red, the result of endless wringing in his tense attitude after being informed of Clark's whereabouts—or lack, thereof.
Looking to his silent, grief-stricken wife, Jonathan answered, "We're not all too sure ourselves, Pete. The important thing right now is getting him back."
"And you guys suspect it was this Jeremiah character who took him?" Pete re-established, looking to the older man, who nodded in response. "Well, then I guess we'll just have to do some investigating—find out where Jeremiah could be keeping Clark, if he is keeping him somewhere. I mean, he could've left him on the side of the road somewhere, for all we know!"
A deep sob escaped from the mother as she started to mourn for her missing son once again.
Realization dawned upon Pete, "Oh, god. I shouldn't have said that. I'm so sorry, Mrs. Kent," he spoke, taking Martha's hand in his and giving it a reassuring squeeze. "I'll do my best to get Clark back. I promise you that—anything it takes," giving her a small smile. Sobering up, he looked to the father, "Well, should we start looking for him now?"
Jonathan glanced between the two, then outside through the window. "It's pretty late, we might not find very much," With a sigh, "I hate to say it, but I think it's best we start tomorrow morning—we'll have better chances that way," looking towards the younger boy, who nodded sombrely in reply. It was going to be a long night.