clex snippit - Altered Reality -4

I know, I promised this a long time ago. As usual, time got away from me.

Anyways, here's the next (and unfortunately the last part written) of Altered realities.





Part Three

Clark slowed, a half mile out from Smallville proper to take in a sprawl of glass fronted buildings that appeared to be nothing so much as an small office complex, sitting in the middle of what used to be Tom Jacob’s farm. A little bit past that was a mall, with vast, tree-lined parking lots.

The farm was ten miles out of town if you were driving. Six miles down the main road and another four down rural route 261. It took Clark less time to draw a handful of consequitive breaths than to reach the road that ran alongside the Kent acreage and it was with relief that he saw row upon row of waving corn, and green pasturage. It was still here.

He stopped at the end of the long drive that led towards the house and the distant collection of outbuildings. The mailbox sported the Kent name, in his father’s blocky, handpainted letters. Almost reverently, Clark laid fingers on the age worn type.

Something drew his attention, the mournful mooing of a cow a quarter mile up the road. He saw the old Holstein first, standing in the middle of the road and thought, the south fence must be down again, because that particular cow had a sixth sense for finding the loose spots. He’d had to chase her down more than once. And then he drew breath, seeing the tilted body of the truck lying on its side in the ditch just past the cow. The wheels were still spinning, and a faint cloud of escaped steam trickled up from under the front tire wheel wall.

He was there in the blink of an eye, heart trying to hammer its way up his throat. The passenger side door was up, and he was almost afraid to climb up and look in. But then a hand appeared, at the open window, and Clark shook the second of apprehension off, clamboring up and reaching in to help.

His mother’s face looked up at him in shock, a little smudge of grease on her forehead, a cut on her hand.

“It’s okay, I got you. I got you.” Clark assured her, grasping hold of her upper arms and lifting her up out of the window. “Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine - - fine. My husband. Help my husband.”

Clark took a shuddery breath, peering down into the cab, at Jonathan Kent - - bleeding from a cut at his cheek, struggling to unfasten the seatbelt that trapped him behind the wheel. Very much alive.

“Dad.” Clark whispered.

“Damned belt’s stuck, Martha - -“ Jonathan growled, and looked up expecting to see his wife and found Clark staring down instead. “Who the hell - -?”

“Help him, please.” Martha pleaded, from the road where Clark had lowered her, her bleeding hand on the front tire.

Clark lowered himself into the cab, bracing one foot on the steering column and reached down to force the seat belt loose. He levered himself back out, and reached down a hand to his father, who grasped it after a moment’s hesitation and let Clark help him out. They both slid down the roof, to the grassy side of the ditch, and Martha rushed around to embrace her husband, half laughing, half sobbing in relief.

“That damned cow. Ought to fill the freezer with steaks.”

“That’s what you always say.” Clark whispered, feeling the odd intruder, because they weren’t looking at him. Because there had been nothing of recognition in their eyes. And he couldn’t stop staring at his father, at familiar rugged features, and work worn hands, peppered strands of grey in blonde hair.

But she must have heard him, for his mother looked back at him, smiling gratefully and said. “Thank God you were here. We swerved to miss the cow and - - ohh, we’re so lucky.”

Then she frowned, brows wrinkling and took a step towards him. “Are you hurt? Did you hurt yourself on the truck?”

He didn’t know what she meant, until she grasped his wrists and turned his palms over. They were black with oil, but of course, that was the extent of the damage done.

“No,” he said. “No.”

“You don’t look well,” she said and he almost laughed. He didn’t feel well. But it had nothing to do with physical trauma.

“Martha, let the boy alone. Jonathan Kent. My wife, Martha. Don’t know what you’re doing out here, but we owe you a debt.” Jonathan said, then held out his hand and Clark reflexively took it in his grease smeared one. He didn’t want to let go, But he did, reluctantly as they both stared at him, expecting him to return the favor of names.

“Clark,” he said, and choked on the last name. They ought to know. It wasn’t right they didn’t know.

“Clark?” His mom - - Martha dipped her head a little to try and catch his eyes. “I think you ought to come up to the house with us. You’re shaking.”

He was. He couldn’t stop.

They walked up the dirt driveway, past two sets of pasturage, Jonathan muttering about the south fence and the single-mindedness of cows and Clark stared at the sunflowers and the garden, and the small tractor out in front of the barn, with its back axel up on cinder blocks in the midst of some repair and listened to the sound of his parent’s voices.

They invited him into the house, and there were subtle differences here and there, but mostly it was the same. He washed off the grease at the kitchen sink while Martha put water on to boil for coffee and Jonathan considered how he was going get the truck out of the ditch.

“I could help with that,” Clark offered, wanting to keep within their good graces. Wanting to linger here more than the time it would take to drink a cup of gratitude coffee and be sent on his way.

“If you’ve got a big jack - -?” he explained awkwardly. “Between the two of us, we could probably flip it.”

Jonathan nodded, considering. “Might work, if you’re willing to get your hands dirty again.”

Clark was willing.

“Clark, do you live around here?” Martha asked. She had a bottle of peroxide out and was dabbing at her husband’s cut cheek with a cotton ball saturated in the stuff. Jonathan winced, trying to avoid her tending, with muttered, ‘its just a scratch, honey.’ while she pursed her lips and ignored him.

Clark missed this so much, it was like a fist squeezing his guts.

“No,” he murmmered. “Not around here.”

“Not one of the Residents?” Jonathan narrowed his eyes a little, distaste for something crossing his features.

“Resident?”

“Pretentious bunch of bastards.”

“Jonathan.” Martha chided, but there was a touch of worry in her eyes, then she looked at Clark and asked. “Are you here in town on a Work Visa? Or are you kin to a local?”

“Work Visa?”

She missed the question in his voice and nodded.

“It’s a little early for harvest.” Jonathan said. “But I can’t complain about you being here.”

They drank strong brewed coffee, and homemade shortbread while Martha talked about the latest batch of preserves she was planning of putting up, and taking to town to sell, because the Residents were all for homemade goods and paid top dollar.

“Who are Residents?” Clark ventured, almost hating to ask and have them think him too odd and too ignorant to have in their kitchen. They both did look at him a little strangely, before exchanging glances with each other.

“Just how far outside of Smallville are you from?” Jonathan asked. “Not from the City?”

Clark shook his head, because the way his father asked that was like somebody asking if he happened to be carrying the plague. “I’ve come a pretty long way,” he said, smiling weakly. “Some of this is a little - - new to me.”

“The Residents are the damned rich sons of bitches who’ve taken over this town and think it’s their own. Drive the streets like they own them, and look down their noses at honest working people, like it wasn’t our land first. Corporation drones, most of them - - or leeches that made their fortunes when the economy tanked after the war, when the rest of the country was going to hell.”

“Its not all that bad, Jonathan,” Martha said with forced optimism. “If not for the Residents and LuthorCorp, we wouldn’t have the Perimeter and we might have gone the way of Jackson and Plainsville. We’re safe here.”

“What happened to Jackson and Plainsville?” Clark had the feeling he probably didn’t want to know.

“Overrun. Picked bare by people that - - that were less than people after the bombs hit the cities. But that was close to twenty years ago and those the Corporation didn’t take care of permanently, they herded back into the City. Like they were no better than animals.”

“Some of them weren’t,” Martha said sadly, touching her husband’s arm. “But it wasn’t their fault.”

“God,” Clark said softly and wanted to ask everything. War. Bombs. Smallville cordoned off, a protected area, the neighboring towns victims of desperation or mass hysteria. He was afraid to ask for details.

They went out to deal with the truck, Clark carrying the big jack the long way down the drive. He waited while his father - - he couldn’t think of this man as anything else - - dug out a spot to wedge the jack in under the frame and went through the motions of levering the truck up before he put his shoulder to it and got it turned over. Jonathan swore in happy surprise at the ease, having only moments before claimed they wouldn’t get it onto four tires again without the aide of the tractor. He slapped Clark on the back, like he had a thousand, thousand times before, but he had no clue how that truck had really been flipped and it left a queer, fluttery feeling in Clark’s belly, hiding the fact.

It was scuffed and dented and the driver’s side door wouldn’t open, but then, the Kent trucks had always been prone to abuse. It grumbled and sputtered but refused to start, so they pushed it back up the driveway.

Jonathan asked if he knew about trucks and though Clark’s mechanical skills were limited, he knew enough about the ills of this particular truck to claim some knowledge.

“I’d be happy to give you a hand.” He offered, and Jonathan gave him a look. An odd sort of questioning stare that any man might when faced with an overly generous stranger. And Clark held his breath waiting, meeting his father’s blue eyes earnestly, because Jonathan Kent always had said that he could gauge a man by the honesty of his stare.

“Okay,” Jonathan said. “I’ll take that offer of help. Maybe you can work on getting that door pried open, while I get some tools.”

Working alongside his dad, was like the Twilight Zone of earlier had tuned into a little bit of Oz. The shiny, colorful part, where witches and flying monkeys weren’t out to get him. Despite the ominous hints of what was going on outside the boundaries of Smallville, this place, this company was idyllic enough for Clark to shuffle the rest aside. For him to consider the possibility that maybe finding himself in another version of reality wasn’t so terrible a thing after all.

When his mother called them in for supper hours later, it was almost like he’d never left home. He had to remind himself that these were not the Jonathan and Martha Kent that he knew. She had fried Chicken and lumpy mashed young potatoes with the skins still on, the way his father liked them. String beans simmered with ham hocks and flakey biscuits and it was too good to be true. Something had to give.

He consumed the food, sitting at the kitchen table of the most important people in the world - - this or any other - - people that didn’t know him, but invited him in nonetheless, and waited for the bubble to burst.

“Do you have family?” Martha asked, smiling at him tentatively around her iced tea.

“I - - I have a mom,” he said and didn’t know how to explain more without a lie that he didn’t want to tell.

“She must miss you.”

There was real sympathy in her eyes and he couldn’t make his mouth work to reply to that. Instead he commented. “This is a big place you have. You take care of it all yourselves? No kids?”

Martha smiled a little sadly, but it was Jonathan that answered a little bitterly. “We get seasonal subsidy from the Corporation - - they import workers at harvest and sowing. A few more times during the year to keep the crops coming in. They claim half the county harvest so I guess they consider it fair trade. Course we’re one of the lucky ones. Half the farms that were here before the war were claimed by LuthorCorp, no choice given. So who am I to complain, right?”

“Honey.”

“Damned Luthor’s took a quarter of my land, too and it was either smile about it or get forclosed like half my neighbors.”

“The Luthors?” Clark murmmered, remembering something he’d conveniently forgotten. “Lex.”

Martha looked at him curiously. “No. Lionel Luthor. There was a son named Lex, I believe, but he died some years ago, in an accident off * ** Bridge. There’s just the younger son now. Lucas. The Luthor Corporation owns a good deal of the county - - well, a good deal of the country, if you want to get technical, but Lionel has had his headquarters here since before the war.”

She went on, about Luthor family history, and the importation of the castle, but all Clark could focus on was the image of that car veering towards the rail, twice the speed limit at the least, crashing through concrete and steel and plummeting into a rain swelled river. And no one there to fish a half dead Lex out of that muddy water and breathe life back into him. This world’s Lex had died in that car, taken by the river, pale white thing drifting in dark water, maybe down there for hours before somebody came by and noticed the gap in the railing.

He tightened his fingers on the edge of the table and heard a faint crack under the tablecloth. He loosened his grip, and sat there, the home cooked meal sitting cold and heavy in his gut.

Jonathan was talking about how the driver of the truck that had lost the roll of wire that had caused the accident, had been deported across the perimeter along with his family, on the order of a grief stricken Lionel Luthor. A decent man as good as destroyed because some reckless kid couldn’t drive the speed limit.

And Clark heard every third word, snared by clammy, morbid images that he couldn’t shake. Like Lex dead was such a terrible thing. Like this world wasn’t better off - - like maybe his own would have been if Clark had never been there to make a difference.

He shivered a little, a sharp stab of nausia rising, stinging the back of his throat, while something dark settled in his chest that might have been guilt, but certainly - - absolutely, not grief for a carbon copy version of somebody he wasn’t particularly fond of in his own reality. It wasn’t like this world hadn’t just gotten another version of Lex Luthor to throw a cog in the works.

Clark wondered how that was going. Felt a little niggling worry and tried to push it away. Not only did Lex generally tend to land on his feet, but he’d made it perfectly clear that he didn’t want Clark’s interference or company.

“Mo - - Mrs. Kent?” Clark asked, needing confirmation of a sudden. “Was there ever a meteor shower in Smallville?”

“Meteor shower?” She traded looks with Jonathan. “Not that I ever heard of. Why do you ask?”

“I - - ah, just wondering. I’m sort of interested in that sort of thing.”

They thought he was nuts, he could see it in their eyes. He knew them well enough to see they were trying to overcome a dilemma he’d brought to them. He didn’t want to cause them grief, he shouldn’t have lingered as long as he had, but they were just so similar to the parents he had known. Right down to his dad’s favorite mug.

“I really appreciate the dinner - - the food was great. But, I’ve imposed enough. I ought to be going.”

“Imposed?” Martha exclaimed. “It was - -“

“Son,” Jonathan cut her off, and Clark started at the familiarity. “If you’re here on a Work Visa, don’t you have a job you ought to be at?”

“I was sort of free for the day.” It was hard to come up with a good lie if he didn’t know the rules of the game. Harder still to look Jonathan Kent in the eye while he was telling it.

And with the same keen sense his father had always had, Jonathan saw through it. He shook his head, sighing. “Are you here on an expired Visa? Or God help, did you jump the Fence?”

Clark stared helplessly, not certain if either of those answers were the right one - - having the creeping feeling that neither was.

And what was the worst that could happen to him if he tried a little bit of truth? Or as much of it as he thought they could deal with. He already must have seemed a right idiot, ignorant of this world. If this Jonathan and Martha Kent were as much like his as he suspected, they might be willing to give him the benefit of the doubt.

“I never had a work visa,” he blurted. “I’m from a place a lot like this, but not and I’m honestly sort of lost now. I’m not even sure how to get back home, but I swear I don’t mean you any harm. And I certainly don’t want to bring you any trouble - - its just you reminded me of my own - -“

He couldn’t finish that. They were both gaping at him like he’d grown horns and he didn’t think he could stand their fear. He stood up, half knocking over his chair in his need to retreat. He mumbled his thanks again for their food and their hospitality, and took himself out the back door and they let him. He refused to listen to their whispers after the door closed behind him, instead tromping down the steps out into the yard, trying hard to control uneven breathing.

He needed to figure out where to go. Back to town was no good. Lana was as unfamiliar with him as the Kents. And she had a fiancée and a mother. And absolutely no reason to give him the time of day. He wondered if Chloe was here? Where would she be if she were? In Smallville or Metropolis? Was there even a Daily Planet? But, no, they’d said the cities were less than hospitable places now, not havens for commerce and news. He ought to go and see for himself - - get a better overview of this world he found himself in - - because, God, what if he was stuck here? What he really needed to do was find Lex - - his Lex - - and wring every bit of information out of him, about how they’d gotten here and the possibility of getting back.

“Clark?”

He started, too wrapped up in his own uncertainties to notice them on the porch. They stood there, Jonathan’s arm around his wife’s shoulders, halfway protective stance even though her expression bordered on fierce.

She nudged him a little with her elbow and Jonathan said. “If you need a place to stay, we’ve got work aplenty on the farm. Honest work in exchange for food and board same as I’d offer any man that came to me with a company sponsored work visa.”

The lump in Clark’s throat seemed to double. It took a second before he could attempt speech. “Yeah. I’d like that.”