Chapter 6
The Hunter Becomes the Hunted
Clark instantly knew that the bullets had been made of kryptonite not only by recognizing the shooter—Van McNulty, but how the bullets had not only struck him, but had gone all the way into his body instead of stopping at his normally impenetrable skin. The realization made its way to his brain as the pain seeped in, and started to cloud his mind. His placed one hand to his chest, feeling the blood starting to flow from the two small protrusions in his shirt. His eyes slowly closed against his will and the world around him faded to black as his legs gave way under him, and he fell back.
Andy caught Clark as he fell backwards. She felt as if she were in a dream, everything slow moving as she lay Clark down on the floor, trying to push the thought out of her mind: she had just witnessed the murder of both her mother and the only person who she could even consider a friend. The grief and emotional pain welled up inside her as she looked at the shooter in the doorway. He too stared at the fallen boy, shocked at how fast his old enemy had been able to intervene. But it didn't matter now—he was dead. Andy pushed her other emotions aside as the anger and revenge made its way into her pained heart—she was going to get her revenge. Van knew his kryptonite bullets were limited, so he turned his attention from Clark to his original target. He raised his gun in his attempt to get rid of the meteor freak which he so despised. She was gone.
Andy's mind was completely blank as she snuck her way around the man, whose face shone with shock as he gazed down at the now-dead Clark. She had forgotten where she was, what time it was, why she was wherever she was, even who she was. She didn't know why, but all she knew was that she had to kill the man, who was now cautiously walking into the room, clearly searching for his lost target. He searched the ceiling and the corners, even the closet, before he suddenly stopped and seemed to come to a realization before whirling around to face her. He took aim at her once again, but never had the opportunity to take the shot.
Andy unsheathed all 6 of her claws to their full length, and slashed at the shooter. He rammed the gun, his only protection, in front of himself and her claws swept right through it as if it were paper. His face drained of its color in a matter of seconds, and he backed into a wall. Andy's eyes saw nothing more than an enemy. Van knew this was his end; he was going to leave this world, murdered by the one thing that he was so intent on killing himself—a meteor freak. Her face expressionless, Andy put all of her strength into a smooth motion as 3 of her claws stabbed her adversary in the gut, the tips finding air on the other side.
Andy swiftly yanked her claws from the man, dripping with blood. She sheathed her talons, the blood swiped clean from the blades as she retracted them, her knuckles left stained red with the blood that wasn't her own. All at once, her mind came back to her, and she remembered the two other bodies that littered the floor. She looked at the man who stood in front of her, 3 slits in his tight-fitting tank top which was now stained with red. Confused at first, Andy looked more closely—the stab wounds resembled ones of her own. She then remembered advancing upon him, and delivering the final blow without any thoughts of doing so. Van's eyes rolled back into his head and he too, fell dead to the world at Andy's feet.
Andy stood on her bedroom floor, disbelieving of the situation. She, Andy, a shy small-town girl with wings, was a killer? No, she thought. It had been in self-defense, hadn't it? Would that still count as murder? She didn't know, and though she tried to deny it, she didn't care at the moment. The man had killed her mother and her only friend, while Andy had simply been wondering what she had done to the man. She didn't even recognize him! Andy had only been able to come out of the house for a few days, she couldn't possibly have done anything to him. As she thought, she realized why the man had come after her—her wings. She couldn't do anything about them, it wasn't her fault they had ruined her life. Being locked in her house for the better part of her life, how could anyone know about the wings? Clark was the only one who had seen them besides her mother. The Torch article! The killer must have seen it, and been some sort of a fanatic, killing any freaks that crossed his path.
White-faced, Andy ran to her mother, all the while knowing her worst fears were confirmed—her mother was dead, never to see the light of day again, all because of her. If she didn't have her wings, the shooter would have never come after her, and her mother wouldn't have sacrificed herself in order to save her daughter. She felt her mother's neck for a pulse, but none was evident. Bursting into much delayed tears, she hugged the body as if it were still alive. She didn't know how long it was that she sat there; it could have been minutes, hours, even days. She only thought of her mother and how she could have cherished her time with her, when all they ever seemed to do was argue about Andy's wings. Damn wings! They had ruined her life, over and over again, finally taking her mother's life. She fell asleep, letting herself forget the horrible, unforgettable events of the day.
Andy awoke suddenly to a horrible stench. She was sitting next to her mother, now only a lifeless body, but the smell was so strong, she stood and backed up. She glanced into her room, noticing the bright light shone through the poor excuse for a shade. Her gaze traveled lower and her breath caught in her throat: Clark lay on the floor, surrounded in blood. Andy instantly looked away, knowing he was dead. She couldn't believe it, so she looked one more time, and noticed his chest slightly rise and fall slowly, his eyes shut as he lay unconscious on her bedroom floor. She knew no-one could take two bullets to the chest at point blank and live, but here he was, only unconscious. She had to get him back to his home, but didn't know where it was. She racked her brain for any sign of a hint—hadn't she heard someone say he lived on a farm? She and her mother, though it pained her to the core to think about it, had flown over a farm the night they crashed the car.
Andy slowly walked over to Clark, hoping she wasn't dreaming. She watched for a few seconds, he was definitely breathing. Taking a deep breath that made her instantly gag at the smell, she knew what she had to do. She was grateful for all the time she had spent working out in her basement gym for the first 5 years she had wings so that one day, she could fly. She had maintained a weight that bordered too-thin, but made sure she was always strong enough with her diet. In the last few years, all her hard work and self-motivation had finally paid off and she had flown for the first time.
Andy slipped her hands under Clark's arms, and attempted to lift his body. Her strained attempts were to no avail as she knew she just wasn't strong enough to carry Clark, big muscles or not. Instead, she gathered up a handful of Clark's blood soaked shirt and began to drag him towards the doorway—she would never feel the same about her house, especially her bedroom, again. It took her the better part of 20 minutes to even get him to the flight of stairs, delicately making her way past the stinking corpses. She navigated the staircase next, holding back the empty bowels of her stomach as Clark's unconscious body tumbled down them, knocking her down. With only heartbreak fueling her, it took much of her determination to rise again, and begin to drag her friend the last few feet to the front door, left open by Van.
Finally, Andy had made it and hauled Clark out onto the porch. For once in her life, she didn't care if anyone saw her, she was going to have to fly Clark to his farm to let his parents take a look at the condition of the farm-boy and decide what to do. Out onto the grass she went, her arms straining with the effort. Not releasing her grasp on Clark's shirt, she brought her wings to life, straining them for a second before her sweatshirt ripped down the middle and her magnificent wings unfurled in the sunlight. With great strokes of her wings, she slowly took to the air, desperately trying to hold onto the body whose weight outdid hers by more than twice. She strained to keep them off the ground—this was even harder than when she had to hold her mother in the same fashion after the accident! Even so, she began to rise, and scanned the area for the long fields and small barn and house that she assumed was the Kent Farm. As she spotted it, she began to fly towards her target: the small yellow house near the barn, where she hoped to find Clark's parents.
Martha and Jonathan were in the kitchen that morning, completely oblivious to what had happened to their son. The gunshots were too distant for their normal range of hearing, and both of them thought Clark was just running a little late, as usual, and planned to wake him in a few minutes. Jonathan switched on the T.V. and the news blared a new warning to all the residents of Smallville: the supposed mentally instable Van McNulty, murderer to all those who had been affected by the meteor shower, had escaped from the Belle Reeve Asylum the night before last, and everyone was warned to be on the lookout, but not to approach McNulty under any circumstances.
"Isn't that the man who shot Clark before he was taken there?" Martha asked her husband.
"Yes, I'm afraid we're going to have to be extra careful until they find him again. I don't want Clark to be on his hit list for the second time…" Jonathan said. "Where is he anyway? Clark! Time to get up, you're going to be late!" he yelled up the stairs. No sound came from the second floor.
"I'll go get him," Martha said, as she went upstairs to more gently wake up their son. As she opened the door, she immediately noticed that the bed was empty, and appeared to have not been slept in. Worry filled her, and as she turned around to run downstairs to check the loft, hoping he was there, she saw something out the window. Just coming into view there was an awkwardly flying bird, carrying something rather large with it, flying directly towards the house. She looked more carefully at the creature, feeling oddly curious as it came closer. Her heart felt as if it had made its way into her throat as she realized that the "bird" was a young girl about Clark's age, and the thing she was carrying was Clark's bloodly body—either dead or unconscious, she hoped it was the latter.
"JONATHAN!" Martha screamed down the stairs from her son's bedroom, her voice shaking with fright and on the verge of tears. She heard him scrambling to climb the stairs as quickly as possible. He was in the doorway in a matter of seconds.
"Martha! What is it? Where's Clark?" he asked, wondering what had upset her so suddenly. Martha pointed out the window as the girl landed in the yard and stumbled a few feet. She then layClark down on the ground, and ran to the front door out of their range of view. Jonathan, though in shock himself, automatically ran downstairs to let in the girl—or what he assumed was a girl.
"Are you Mr. Kent?" she asked, hoping she had assumed right for Clark's life depended on it. Jonathan Kent pushed past Andy without a word, wings and all, dropping to his knees near his son's lifeless and blood soaked body. Martha was close on his heels, her eyes already streaming tears. For both of them, the feeling of deja vu was too familiar.
"What happened?" Jonathan finally said after coming to grips with himself, though he didn't know who exactly the winged girl was.
"He was shot…two times in the chest…" Andy said slowly. Martha and Jonathan knew instantly that the bullets couldn't have been normal—then Clark wouldn't even have bruised, yet here he was, bleeding to death on their front lawn.
"Did the bullets look like they were…glowing green to you?" Jonathan asked the girl. She thought for a moment, and then decided;
"Yes. One of them also killed my mother, but when Clark came, the shot began to glow. Why?" she asked, recalling the painful memory of seeing her mother dead. She got no reply, but the Kents seemed to suddenly understand what was going on, though they should have before: their son had been shot, that wasn't difficult to see. "We should get him to a hospital."
"Uh, no, Andy?" Martha asked gently, remembering her son saying something about the new student.
"Yeah, that's my name," she said.
"Andy, we can't take him to a hospital. We'll take care of him here," she said.
"But he's been shot! He needs medical help!" she said desperately. Couldn't they notice a doctor was needed in this kind of situation?
"No Andy, we'll just take him inside," she said, as Jonathan looped Clark's limp arms with his own and dragged his son up the porch steps, and in through the door which his wife held open for them. Andy could only watch in horror as the couple left her standing outside, wondering why they wouldn't take their dying son to the hospital like any normal parents. Martha had seemed stern in her decision, so Andy let it go. Maybe one of them was a doctor? Not likely, since they lived on a farm, Andy thought.
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