Part 4
He was cold. So cold, that the deep, raw emptiness sent a sense of fear to his very soul. It wracked his body and twisted around his mind. The fear for his family, of his death, and of what the crazed man would do to him and those in which he loved. It was an endless fear, unlike anything Clark had felt before. This man had power over him, in both kryptonite and the alien metal currently in his possession. It was with this power that the man could do almost anything he dared. And he dared to kill Clark Kent.
A shuffling and the sound of heavy footfalls startled Clark out of his thoughts. He cracked his eyelids open slightly to watch Jeremiah walk across the room towards him. The queasy, unsettling feeling increased in the pit of Clark's stomach. He had no idea what was coming, and that scared him even more.
"Why hello there, Kent. It's nice to see you're finally awake," Jeremiah spoke, his voice snarling with deceit, "Now it's time for some fun." He pulled a large chunk of kryptonite from his pants pocket, and placed it on a nearby table.
Clark looked over at the now-glowing green rock and felt the effects of the stone wash over him in a fury of pain. He gulped, clearing his throat before he answered, "Wh-What are you going to do to me?" A pause. "What do you want from me?"
Jeremiah smiled, running his calloused hand across Clark's face. "Oh, don't worry about that, phoney prophet. It will all come in due time—or not. What you need to know now is that I am in control. Anything I say goes. That means whatever I tell you to tell me, to do, and not to do," Wrapping his hand around Clark's already-bruised arm and squeezing roughly, "Understand?"
The teen winced at the pressure on his recently developed wound, biting his lip in the process. Shakily he nodded his head in the positive in response, and turned his head to look out towards the broken window of the dank room.
With a mumble of his own, Jeremiah stepped away from the restrained young man to open the doors of a nearby cupboard. Digging around for a bit, he finally withdrew a tray of small metallic items, which created a tinkling noise as they rattled around upon the tray.
Snapping his head back over towards his captor, Clark's curiosity and fear was peaked at the sight of the implements. "What are-What are those for?" Clark's voice trembled.
"Did I say you could ask questions!?" Jeremiah roared. He slammed the tray down on a nearby table. "No, I didn't – that means you do not speak unless I tell you. I thought I had made that point already, or was it not clear enough for you?" Grabbing one of the tools off of the tray.
"I'm sorry, I mean, I..." Clark stuttered. Before he could complete a coherent sentence, Jeremiah took action.
"This'll teach you to talk, Freak," he stated and then plunged all four inches of surgical knife into the teen's upper leg, then continuing on to the boy's abdomen.
Clark screamed at the entry, the pain shooting throughout his body. The tears in his eyes gathered immensely until they overflowed and seeped out onto his cheeks. But the pain didn't end anytime soon. It was only the beginning of one of the longest nights in his entire life.
Many hours later, Clark lay gasping in the old hut. He was still restrained, but for now that was a good thing. Any movement sent shockwaves of immense torture throughout his body. He was bleeding from practically everywhere, a tight burning sensation deep within each wound. The sensation had sent his body into a sort of shock. He was weak, his mouth dry, and his vision blurry. Clark knew that he would pass out again soon, but he both did and did not want the darkness to come. If it did, Clark would have relief from conscious torture—for a little while. But during his last stint of unconsciousness, Jeremiah had only taken advantage of his silent state to increase more upon his degrading activities and Clark woke to twice as many injuries as he has sustained previously. Clark settled upon forcing his heavy eyelids to stay open.
The sound of Jeremiah approaching startled the teen, and he shifted his gaze to the elder man.
"Pitiful," the native man stated, "A man with the greatest abilities in the world brought down to a pathetic wimp at the effects of a stupid rock. You are truly not the savoir of my people—a savoir should be someone of strength, someone who fears nothing, and can stand up to everyone. You, young Kent, are none of those things," Jeremiah's beady stare pierced into Clark with each bemoaning word he spoke. He grabbed another oddly shaped tool off of the old tray and slowly lifted it up to Clark's face. "I will teach you for ever messing with my people—for once and for all."
The knife was pressed against Clark's perspiration-dampened skin, slitting a thin line in the boy's cheek. A thick, dark stream of blood seeped precariously from the fresh wound and trailed down the back of his neck to join the crimson puddle, which layered the tabletop. The deep cut caused the young man to cringe, as he drew his brow up in pain and clenched his jaw and eyes closed tightly.
"Stop," he whispered, "Please, just stop."
But his pleas went unanswered. His pain was not lifted. Sliding his eyes towards to the window of the hut again, he gazed out into the rising sunlight, wondering if it would be the last he would ever see. He then let his tormented eyes fall closed as he slipped into unconsciousness and let the darkness envelop him.
"Who are you calling?" The elder man questioned as they stood in the kitchen of his home. It was early morning, the day after their son and friend had been torn away from them. After a restless night, they had all emerged from their rooms tired, but driven on adrenaline in a search for one of the most important people in their lives.
With the phone cradled between his ear and shoulder, Pete glanced up at his friend's father and replied, "Chloe. If anyone can get information on this Jeremiah character, it's her,"
Jonathan didn't look so comfortable at the idea. "Are you sure we should be involving someone like Chloe in on this? We don't need anything about Clark's origins leaking out to someone who could exploit him," he told the teenager steadily.
"I know that, I--" Pete was cut off as someone answered the line. "Yeah, hey Chloe, it's Pete. Look, we need your help...Clark's gone missing...Umm, sometime late last night...Yeah, I know...Well we were wondering...we? Oh, the Kent's and I...Yeah, anyways. We were wondering if you could dig into Jeremiah Holdsclaw. Find out where he lives, and whatever...Sure, okay...Great, Chloe...Talk to ya later. Bye." Hanging the phone back on its cradle, Pete turned to Jonathan.
"Well, what did she say?" The farmer asked anxiously.
"She's on it right now. She said she'd phone us as soon as she finds something." Seeing the older man's apprehensive look, "Don't worry Mr. Kent. We're in good hands, we'll find Clark." He replied, forcing a determined smile. Jonathan could only nod in response.
An hour or so later, Pete was seated in the Kent's living room. He stared absentmindedly at the latest edition of the Ledger as he tried to hear what Clark's parents were talking about in the adjacent kitchen. He knew better than to intrude—it had to be a very tough time for them, their nightmare had come to life—but he couldn't help but be curious.
The shrill sound of the telephone ringing startled him and he grabbed for the cordless that lay on the coffee table before him.
"Hello?...Oh, Chloe. Good...What did you find?...Where?...The woods? Are you sure?...Which part of town?...Okay, anywhere else?...No, alright...Okay, thanks Chloe...What? No, sorry. I think it'd be best if...I understand, Chloe, just please don't...Yeah, yeah. Look, how about you come over here and stay with Mrs. Kent?...I don't want you getting hurt Chloe...Okay, fine...Later." After he had hung up the phone again, Pete looked up at the worried Kents who stood nearby. "She found that Jeremiah owns a piece of property in the woods north of town. There's a house on site, but it's a big chunk of land—if Jeremiah has taken Clark, it's my best guess that he took him there."
"Are we sure about this, Jonathan? I mean, you two could get hurt—as much as I need Clark back, I don't want to lose you both too," Tears gathered in the mother's eyes. It was obvious she was strained over the events of the past night, and that anything more might break her.
Jonathan wrapped his arms around his wife, comforting her as best he could. "We'll be fine, Martha. What matters is getting Clark back."
Pete allowed the elder couple to have their moment, before he interrupted to tell them of Chloe's coming arrival to the farm. Knowing his wife would not be left alone put Jonathan at ease for the moment and allowed him to quickly prepare for his and Pete's hunt for his missing teen. Chloe was just pulling into the Kent's drive as Jonathan, Martha, and Pete stepped outside into the mid-morning light.
Parking and then exiting her Volkswagen beetle, Chloe briskly walked towards the parents and her friend, immediately embracing the mother in a tight hug. "Oh, Mrs. Kent, I'm so sorry," she said, her voice thick with tears.
"Thank you for coming, Chloe. I-I appreciate it very much." Martha managed to reply.
"Well, we're off," Jonathan announced. "I'll call you as soon as we know anything, alright sweetheart?" He said, embracing his wife.
She nodded in reply, deep worry etched into her features. "Be careful Jonathan...Bring our son home."
With a short nod, Jonathan then led Pete down the steps and across the lawn to the truck. Tossing a few supplies into the back, they got in the cab and then drove away. A broken wife and friend stood together on the porch, watching the truck fade into the distance. They didn't know what the next few hours would bring, nor that they would be some of the most traumatizing hours of their lives.
He was cold. So cold, that the deep, raw emptiness sent a sense of fear to his very soul. It wracked his body and twisted around his mind. The fear for his family, of his death, and of what the crazed man would do to him and those in which he loved. It was an endless fear, unlike anything Clark had felt before. This man had power over him, in both kryptonite and the alien metal currently in his possession. It was with this power that the man could do almost anything he dared. And he dared to kill Clark Kent.
A shuffling and the sound of heavy footfalls startled Clark out of his thoughts. He cracked his eyelids open slightly to watch Jeremiah walk across the room towards him. The queasy, unsettling feeling increased in the pit of Clark's stomach. He had no idea what was coming, and that scared him even more.
"Why hello there, Kent. It's nice to see you're finally awake," Jeremiah spoke, his voice snarling with deceit, "Now it's time for some fun." He pulled a large chunk of kryptonite from his pants pocket, and placed it on a nearby table.
Clark looked over at the now-glowing green rock and felt the effects of the stone wash over him in a fury of pain. He gulped, clearing his throat before he answered, "Wh-What are you going to do to me?" A pause. "What do you want from me?"
Jeremiah smiled, running his calloused hand across Clark's face. "Oh, don't worry about that, phoney prophet. It will all come in due time—or not. What you need to know now is that I am in control. Anything I say goes. That means whatever I tell you to tell me, to do, and not to do," Wrapping his hand around Clark's already-bruised arm and squeezing roughly, "Understand?"
The teen winced at the pressure on his recently developed wound, biting his lip in the process. Shakily he nodded his head in the positive in response, and turned his head to look out towards the broken window of the dank room.
With a mumble of his own, Jeremiah stepped away from the restrained young man to open the doors of a nearby cupboard. Digging around for a bit, he finally withdrew a tray of small metallic items, which created a tinkling noise as they rattled around upon the tray.
Snapping his head back over towards his captor, Clark's curiosity and fear was peaked at the sight of the implements. "What are-What are those for?" Clark's voice trembled.
"Did I say you could ask questions!?" Jeremiah roared. He slammed the tray down on a nearby table. "No, I didn't – that means you do not speak unless I tell you. I thought I had made that point already, or was it not clear enough for you?" Grabbing one of the tools off of the tray.
"I'm sorry, I mean, I..." Clark stuttered. Before he could complete a coherent sentence, Jeremiah took action.
"This'll teach you to talk, Freak," he stated and then plunged all four inches of surgical knife into the teen's upper leg, then continuing on to the boy's abdomen.
Clark screamed at the entry, the pain shooting throughout his body. The tears in his eyes gathered immensely until they overflowed and seeped out onto his cheeks. But the pain didn't end anytime soon. It was only the beginning of one of the longest nights in his entire life.
Many hours later, Clark lay gasping in the old hut. He was still restrained, but for now that was a good thing. Any movement sent shockwaves of immense torture throughout his body. He was bleeding from practically everywhere, a tight burning sensation deep within each wound. The sensation had sent his body into a sort of shock. He was weak, his mouth dry, and his vision blurry. Clark knew that he would pass out again soon, but he both did and did not want the darkness to come. If it did, Clark would have relief from conscious torture—for a little while. But during his last stint of unconsciousness, Jeremiah had only taken advantage of his silent state to increase more upon his degrading activities and Clark woke to twice as many injuries as he has sustained previously. Clark settled upon forcing his heavy eyelids to stay open.
The sound of Jeremiah approaching startled the teen, and he shifted his gaze to the elder man.
"Pitiful," the native man stated, "A man with the greatest abilities in the world brought down to a pathetic wimp at the effects of a stupid rock. You are truly not the savoir of my people—a savoir should be someone of strength, someone who fears nothing, and can stand up to everyone. You, young Kent, are none of those things," Jeremiah's beady stare pierced into Clark with each bemoaning word he spoke. He grabbed another oddly shaped tool off of the old tray and slowly lifted it up to Clark's face. "I will teach you for ever messing with my people—for once and for all."
The knife was pressed against Clark's perspiration-dampened skin, slitting a thin line in the boy's cheek. A thick, dark stream of blood seeped precariously from the fresh wound and trailed down the back of his neck to join the crimson puddle, which layered the tabletop. The deep cut caused the young man to cringe, as he drew his brow up in pain and clenched his jaw and eyes closed tightly.
"Stop," he whispered, "Please, just stop."
But his pleas went unanswered. His pain was not lifted. Sliding his eyes towards to the window of the hut again, he gazed out into the rising sunlight, wondering if it would be the last he would ever see. He then let his tormented eyes fall closed as he slipped into unconsciousness and let the darkness envelop him.
"Who are you calling?" The elder man questioned as they stood in the kitchen of his home. It was early morning, the day after their son and friend had been torn away from them. After a restless night, they had all emerged from their rooms tired, but driven on adrenaline in a search for one of the most important people in their lives.
With the phone cradled between his ear and shoulder, Pete glanced up at his friend's father and replied, "Chloe. If anyone can get information on this Jeremiah character, it's her,"
Jonathan didn't look so comfortable at the idea. "Are you sure we should be involving someone like Chloe in on this? We don't need anything about Clark's origins leaking out to someone who could exploit him," he told the teenager steadily.
"I know that, I--" Pete was cut off as someone answered the line. "Yeah, hey Chloe, it's Pete. Look, we need your help...Clark's gone missing...Umm, sometime late last night...Yeah, I know...Well we were wondering...we? Oh, the Kent's and I...Yeah, anyways. We were wondering if you could dig into Jeremiah Holdsclaw. Find out where he lives, and whatever...Sure, okay...Great, Chloe...Talk to ya later. Bye." Hanging the phone back on its cradle, Pete turned to Jonathan.
"Well, what did she say?" The farmer asked anxiously.
"She's on it right now. She said she'd phone us as soon as she finds something." Seeing the older man's apprehensive look, "Don't worry Mr. Kent. We're in good hands, we'll find Clark." He replied, forcing a determined smile. Jonathan could only nod in response.
An hour or so later, Pete was seated in the Kent's living room. He stared absentmindedly at the latest edition of the Ledger as he tried to hear what Clark's parents were talking about in the adjacent kitchen. He knew better than to intrude—it had to be a very tough time for them, their nightmare had come to life—but he couldn't help but be curious.
The shrill sound of the telephone ringing startled him and he grabbed for the cordless that lay on the coffee table before him.
"Hello?...Oh, Chloe. Good...What did you find?...Where?...The woods? Are you sure?...Which part of town?...Okay, anywhere else?...No, alright...Okay, thanks Chloe...What? No, sorry. I think it'd be best if...I understand, Chloe, just please don't...Yeah, yeah. Look, how about you come over here and stay with Mrs. Kent?...I don't want you getting hurt Chloe...Okay, fine...Later." After he had hung up the phone again, Pete looked up at the worried Kents who stood nearby. "She found that Jeremiah owns a piece of property in the woods north of town. There's a house on site, but it's a big chunk of land—if Jeremiah has taken Clark, it's my best guess that he took him there."
"Are we sure about this, Jonathan? I mean, you two could get hurt—as much as I need Clark back, I don't want to lose you both too," Tears gathered in the mother's eyes. It was obvious she was strained over the events of the past night, and that anything more might break her.
Jonathan wrapped his arms around his wife, comforting her as best he could. "We'll be fine, Martha. What matters is getting Clark back."
Pete allowed the elder couple to have their moment, before he interrupted to tell them of Chloe's coming arrival to the farm. Knowing his wife would not be left alone put Jonathan at ease for the moment and allowed him to quickly prepare for his and Pete's hunt for his missing teen. Chloe was just pulling into the Kent's drive as Jonathan, Martha, and Pete stepped outside into the mid-morning light.
Parking and then exiting her Volkswagen beetle, Chloe briskly walked towards the parents and her friend, immediately embracing the mother in a tight hug. "Oh, Mrs. Kent, I'm so sorry," she said, her voice thick with tears.
"Thank you for coming, Chloe. I-I appreciate it very much." Martha managed to reply.
"Well, we're off," Jonathan announced. "I'll call you as soon as we know anything, alright sweetheart?" He said, embracing his wife.
She nodded in reply, deep worry etched into her features. "Be careful Jonathan...Bring our son home."
With a short nod, Jonathan then led Pete down the steps and across the lawn to the truck. Tossing a few supplies into the back, they got in the cab and then drove away. A broken wife and friend stood together on the porch, watching the truck fade into the distance. They didn't know what the next few hours would bring, nor that they would be some of the most traumatizing hours of their lives.