Superman: Dawnbreaker (DC Icons #4)(70)

“You sent your men to my farm,” Clark growled.

“Waste of time,” Dr. Wesley scoffed. “However, many of the other craters we’ve mined have produced a precious radioactive ore that seemed useless at first—but after years of experimentation, I’ve found that it works as the perfect binding agent to better activate the other elements of my Project Dawn compound.” Grinning, he held up a small vial of liquid. It was a brighter green than the substance Clark had seen in the lab. Or in the syringe Bryan had injected. “The formula I hold in my hand will change the face of mankind.” Looking around, he said, “Now, where’s Corey? He said he had a loose end to tie up, but we need to get out of here. Now.”

It was the grin that made Clark snap. He lunged and shoved Dr. Wesley against the wall. The man’s head cracked against the concrete, and he dropped the vial to the ground, where it shattered, the bright green liquid pooling around his shoes.

Clark was suddenly overcome by an intense wave of nausea.

He went to his knees, struggling to breathe.

The guards were moving toward Clark, and he was utterly helpless. He could feel his strength draining from his body. There was only one thing that could be causing him to feel so sick.

The mysterious green substance.

Dr. Wesley righted himself, rubbing the back of his head. “Luckily, there is more where that came from. But what’s fascinating is your reaction to the increase in binding agent. Why is that?”

Clark couldn’t stand as the dark shapes moved toward him. One man kicked him onto his stomach. Another brandished his gun at Clark.

Dr. Wesley pushed the barrel down with his hand, saying, “Don’t be stupid. They’ve just armed a bomb down here.”

The man put away his gun and kicked Clark instead.

And then came a barrage of kicks and punches from the others.

Clark felt each blow on his back, his neck, his shoulders and legs. The shocking pain seared through his entire body, and he let out a bloodcurdling scream. He felt like he was going to die.

By the time the beating had let up, Clark lay facedown against the cold concrete floor, hands over the back of his head. He was able to work up enough strength to turn slightly, and he saw two blurry figures approaching Lana.

“Don’t touch her!” he managed to shout, but they paid him no mind.

Clark had never felt so weak or defenseless as he watched Dr. Wesley turn to the soldiers and say, “Finish him quickly.” The doctor didn’t spare him another look as he hurried toward the exit.

With a sinking feeling, Clark watched two of the men carry Lana back down the hallway, toward the room with the bomb. The pair who remained began to beat him with renewed energy. Blow after blow rained down on his skull as he curled into a protective ball. He took fists and boots to his ribs, his back, the side of his face.

They were going to kill him.

The punishment was relentless, and soon his mind slipped to another place. He saw the people of Smallville out in the streets, eating and drinking and laughing, oblivious to the bomb beneath their feet. One that was steadily ticking down. He saw Gloria’s warm smile as he led her toward the frozen pond. His parents walking across the farm, holding hands.

And now an impossible memory…

His biological mother holding him in a black rocking chair. Their bodies swaying back and forth, back and forth. Tears streaming down her face. Falling onto his tiny cheeks as she bends down to kiss him over and over. And now his father lifting him out of his mother’s arms, carrying Clark toward the open spaceship, strapping him into the blanketed seat.

Both of his parents’ faces etched with the pain of letting him go.

They sacrificed everything so you could live.

I understand that now.

So how can you let it end here? Like this?

I can’t. I won’t.

Just as Clark was steeling himself for one last battle, three new figures crashed into view. They attacked Clark’s assailants with bats as his mental haze finally began to dissipate.

Clark summoned enough strength to turn over, then to sit up.

It was Tommy Jones.

And Paul Molina.

And Kyle Turner.

They’d followed him into the basement.

Paul had one of the men in black fatigues in a headlock, and he was shouting, “Don’t you ever touch him again! Understand me?” He slammed the man’s head against the wall.

Clark rose to his feet.

The farther he got from the green substance, the better he felt.

Paul took the second man to the ground, delivering two speedy rights to the side of his head. Clark met Paul’s eyes, and Paul gave a subtle nod before shifting his focus back to the fight.

Clark was still weak and vulnerable, but he had to go after Lana. He moved swiftly past his former teammates, who appeared to have the upper hand.

When he caught up to the guards, they dropped Lana and turned to face Clark. They circled each other for a few seconds, Clark trying to size up his slowly returning strength. He crouched slightly, the way he once had on the football field, then exploded toward the center of the first man, slamming his shoulder into the guy’s sternum. For the first time in his life, Clark felt the impact of his blow. The force of the collision reverberated all the way into his spine and knocked the wind out of him.

But it was the man in black fatigues who got the worst of it. He crumpled to the ground, holding his chest and fighting to catch his breath. The other man abandoned Lana and sprinted past Clark, toward the exit.