Lois & Clark Forums Forums Fan Fiction Lois & Clark Fanfic My Wife The Boss - part 11

As promised, the next part. I hope you enjoy. Please let me know your verdict.

Previously in My Wife The Boss:

Lois watched him leave her office, her heart heavy. She'd been in his position a number of occasions before, when her instincts were screaming that something horrible was about to happen, but the proof remained out of reach. In the past, they'd relied on each other's strengths, and when all else failed, there was always Superman as backup. Now the hero was just a shadow of his former self, or so Clark believed, and she didn't know how to convince him that he was just as capable as ever.

If only he could solve this case. It would do wonders for The Planet's circulation figures, but more importantly, it would give Clark back his belief in himself. There was a chance that tonight he and Matt might find some sort of clue ... but that was a stretch, and, unfortunately, Clark was well aware of that fact.

*****
continued ...

The days shortened and sped by, hurrying toward the Christmas holidays, while Clark and Jor-El continued their search, but without success. They'd checked a lot of all-night cafes in the city and even some further afield. After all, the tape had been mailed in New York City. Yet, for all their hard work, they'd found no sign of any bomb-making equipment, or even ancient tape recorders ... and though they'd spotted many feral cats, they'd discovered these animals like to roam around. Besides, not being experts on felines, they couldn't quite distinguish the different meows.

Another unwanted finding of their investigation was that most dirty little snack bars smelled pretty much alike, and Matt swore he wouldn't eat another burger for the rest of his life. They were getting nowhere fast.

At work and at home, Clark was wading through research on the owners, the staff and even some of the customers of these establishments, though the latter had proved impossible as most were transient. Many owners also used casual staff, workers who didn't show up on any records, so it wasn't entirely surprising that his research had yielded nothing to pin down any culprit. A few had criminal records, but mostly for minor offenses -- certainly nothing to suggest they'd embarked on a second career as a terrorist.

With each passing day, Clark became more frustrated with his lack of progress. Even Matt had grown more reluctant to accompany his father on his nighttime searches, and he really couldn't expect his son to give up all his free time for what was fast becoming an obsession. If only he could fly himself ... but that was a hopeless dream.

On the nights he was alone, Clark visited some of these places on foot, but it was like looking for a needle in a haystack ... and he couldn't even be sure what the needle looked like. Yet, with a mounting sense of dread, he couldn't ignore his fear that time was running out.

*****

Meanwhile, completely unaware that someone was on his trail, Thomas was still having problems deciding how best to carry out his next mission. Choosing to bomb Metropolis General Hospital was proving far easier than the actual deed.

The letter bombs, his preferred modus operandi, had hurt an assistant secretary and a bank teller -- so far. Though he wasn't particularly fussy about which member of staff was injured, he felt the police and the media might take him more seriously if he took out someone of importance. Chiefs of staff were unlikely to open their own mail, nor were the chief administrators. He had to think of another way, one which meant he had somehow to infiltrate the hospital and plant a bomb which wouldn't be found before it had a chance to go off. And, considering what was coming up, that would be no mean feat.

The late, great Superman was about to spoil his plot; he and that son of his. While Thomas had no real quarrel with Superman or Jor-El, he was angered by the fact that a new Cancer Treatment Unit was being opened in just over a week, courtesy of The Superman Foundation; a center where anyone, regardless of financial status, would be treated and hopefully cured.

Once again, Mary had missed out. The Man of Steel had been too busy getting himself killed when Mary had first been diagnosed. This new wing had been a co-operation of the Superman Foundation, the U.S. government and Metropolis City Council; a tribute to the hero, and planning for it had begun shortly after the first anniversary of his death. Many charitable projects had been initiated around the world, but Metropolis had been more generous than elsewhere, since Superman claimed the city as his home.

Thomas was certain there would be crowds of people at the opening ceremony, especially as Jor-El was going to perform the ribbon-cutting in front of the Chief of Staff and his team. The Mayor was giving a speech, and local entrepreneurs and the district congressman were also to be present. Though Thomas doubted he'd get close enough to the dignitaries, he did believe he could do a good deal of damage.

The superhero might manage to rescue some of the victims, but hopefully he wouldn't be able to stop the explosion, if Thomas' idea worked well. He didn't have much time to prepare, but he did have a plan.

*****

The air was sharp and cold, an icy chill which pierced even the thickest of winter attire. Heavy rime coated the square in front of Metropolis General Hospital, edging the potted shrubbery with white and making the ground underfoot, which had been missed by the scattered salt, dangerously slippery. The glass front of the new wing twinkled with jagged patterns of frost, despite the warm interior of the hospital.

The small man, standing on the edge of the square, watched his breath cloud hazily upward as he sighed hugely in satisfaction. Despite the weather, a large crowd had postponed Christmas shopping in the downtown malls on this Saturday morning to attend the celebrations, hoping to see the mayor and local officials, but more eagerly anticipating the arrival of their superhero.

He'd watched as the policemen, many with their bomb-sniffing dogs, swept the square and surrounding buildings one final time, the mass of people making it difficult to carry out further checks. They did, however, continue to stand sentinel at various points around the area, the dogs still snuffling at passersby who were jostling for positions nearer the stage. Thomas would have liked to target the stage, but that had proved impossible. Guards had lined the edge of the dais since it had been searched thoroughly earlier in the morning.

Another sigh, more anxious than the last, broke from Thomas' mouth. Would any of these policemen and their dogs foil his plot? If they did, it would probably be their last action on Earth. His bomb was set and he needed only to press a button on his cellphone for it to explode instantly, and surely he could slink away in the panicked confusion which followed, his phone dropped into the drain close by his feet. What frustrated him most was the thought that the bomb wouldn't get sufficiently close to the crowd.

It only took one diligent cop to check that the mobile concession stand by the edge of the crowd, selling soup and hot drinks, actually had a license. It shouldn't matter to Thomas that only a cop, the seller and a few members of the public should be killed or injured, but it did. He was tired of playing softball, of being the bomber who never quite succeeded. He wanted others to suffer as he had done at the loss of a loved one.

Fortunately, his cause was aided by the times. Ten years ago, he doubted explosives would have gotten anywhere near this assembly. But Superman had made the world a safer place, and his sad -- though it depended on your point of view -- demise had prompted governments around the world to face up to the problem of ethnic and religious divides, and to build bridges between the different cultures. The world wasn't yet a Utopia, but it was less violent. Jor-El's subsequent appearance had cemented the building of these bridges; peace treaties had been signed and many countries had slowly felt able to downsize their anti-terrorist forces.

Thomas' letter-bomb campaign had been investigated only by the MPD simply because the authorities no longer expected imminent terrorist attacks. It had been quite a few years since a disaffected group had taken such extreme action and armed forces all over the world had been lured into a sense of security. Thomas was about to prove that such optimism was misplaced, at least, here in Metropolis. If only everything went according to plan.

The bomb had been easy enough to make, since many of the ingredients were household items and others easily obtained. Of course, he'd had to increase the measurements, as this was his biggest explosive to date, but the principles were the same. Only he'd had to shop around for those ingredients, not wanting to alert the authorities by buying in bulk in one place, so it had taken more time to assemble all that he needed. Yet his biggest problem had been how to place the bomb in the position which would cause the optimal carnage.

The obvious way would be to stick the explosives container into a backpack, strap it on his back and wire the detonator to himself. The trouble was, he wasn't a suicide bomber. Not yet, anyway. Not until he had completed his mission.

He could've hired a patsy to carry the backpack, yet he couldn't think of a plausible reason to give said employee which wouldn't alert suspicion. The people he came in contact with weren't exactly reliable, either. What if the person looked inside the bag? The jig would be up. They could go to the cops, or, at least, refuse to die for his cause. They might even try blackmail and Thomas didn't have the wherewithal to pay. He'd have to kill the blackmailer, but he doubted he had the stomach or the strength for face-to-face murder.

A sly grin broke across his face, as he congratulated himself on his stroke of genius. His patsy hadn't the slightest idea what was about to happen, and Thomas hadn't had to pay him much either, just promised him a percentage of the takings. The guy was even more of a loser than Thomas. A down and out who came into the cafe where Thomas worked, looking for something hot to eat whenever he'd scraped together a few dollars. Thomas had needed to clean him up for the job almost as much as the apparatus.

He'd found the old mobile coffee stand lying, dusty and forgotten, under a pile of cardboard boxes and trash in the back room of the cafe. It had taken him over a week, working like a demon every night, to get the thing presentable for use, while fretting about discovery by his boss. But Kinski never ventured past the kitchen into the dingy, once-upon-a-time, stock room. The amount of rubbish piled high bore testament to that. Thomas doubted his boss even remembered what was actually in the room, and, since the lazy pig hadn't worked a night shift in years, he'd remained totally unaware of Thomas' undertaking.

Every night at nine, Kinksi would hand the running of the joint over to Thomas, and, as long as there was a reasonable amount of money in the till when Kinski's similarly slothful daughter took over in the morning, Thomas worked without interference. One day, Thomas was sure, Kinksi's All Night Eatery would be shut down by the Health Department, but for now, his unsupervised status suited him just fine.

Thomas' shoulders tightened and he drew himself up to his full height, pulling his hood over his head against the chill wind. A flurry of activity was taking place in front of the hospital's entrance as the mayor, his entourage, and the hospital executives filed out onto the platform.

It was show time! Taking a large plaid handkerchief from his pocket, Thomas loudly blew his nose and watched in satisfaction as the coffee stand was wheeled nearer the audience, just as planned. He held his breath for a moment, waiting to see if his partner-in-crime would be apprehended by the police, but no officials approached the little stand, though a few members of the public quickly lined up to buy a hot drink on this freezing cold day. Good! As far as Thomas was concerned the higher the body count the better.

Now all it needed was Jor-El to appear, and true to form, always in the nick of time, the black-clad hero alighted on the stage to rapturous applause and cheers. Thomas clasped the phone in his gloved hand and pressed the key.

*****

The cellphone, hidden in the bottom of the concession stand and wired to the evil contents of Thomas' chicken-soup container, detonated. In a blinding flash and a thunderclap that reverberated across the city, the little coffee stand, its vendor and a large number of Metropolitans disappeared from this plane of existence forever.

Jor-El had barely touched down when he was off again, flying into the searing heart of the fireball, his ears hurting with a cacophony of sounds, his body bombarded by red-hot metal shards, disintegrating concrete and something else ... something soft and sickening which his young mind refused to process. He had work to do.

The world receded as he concentrated all his senses on finding the tiniest trace of life. Yet surely no one could live through this blast ... this heat ... this nauseous cloud of gas and dirt. Here, at ground zero, there was utter silence.

Then, slowly, the moans rose up to him, the frightened, pain-filled groans of people with no strength to cry aloud. And further off in his consciousness, the screams of a terrified stampeding crowd.

Perhaps he should concentrate on helping the authorities gain some sort of order outside this cloying haze. There would be injured people out there too. People who would benefit from his help. Yet, Jor-El hadn't donned his father's mantle just to do the easy rescues.

If only Dad were here now. He would know what to do. But Mom had decided to send Uncle Jimmy instead, not wanting to encourage an association with Clark Kent and the new superhero in this era.

A single faint cry reached his ears ... then was repeated. Someone was calling for help. Matt focused his vision on the source of the sound, and he retched. Oh God, was every survivor in this condition. He'd never seen so much blood. So much ...

<Matt?> Another voice erupted in his head. An assured voice, but with a hint of empathy. <Son, I know it's bad, but these people need you. You're the only one who can help them stay alive.>

<Dad? You're here?>

<Not yet. But I am on my way ... probably your mother too, though right now she's trying to contact Jimmy.>

Matt latched on to the latter information. <I think I saw him with the press core at the other side of the stage, but I'm not sure. I'm not sure of anything, Dad. How can I help these people ... I'm just a kid.> Yet, despite his insecurities, Matt was drifting toward the sound of the voice.

<No, Matt.> His father sounded stern, but not unfeeling. <Your mother tried to protect you from this. But when you decided to don the cape, you made a choice to grow up. You made that choice, Matt, despite Mom's advice. You won't give up now.>

A wretched, almost hysterical laugh burst from Matt's tight lips. <How can you be so sure? I'm not you, Dad.>

<No, but you are Lois Lane's son, and she never gives up on anything. She doesn't know how, and you have her determination ... even when you were a little boy. You can do this, Matt, and I'll be with you every step of the way. Remember Jilin. People are alive today who wouldn't be if it weren't for your intervention.>

<This isn't Jilin, Dad. This is hell!>

The telepathic link weighed heavy with silence. Clark wasn't quite certain what to say. Would he have been able to cope with such a nightmare scenario when he was a kid? It's easy to be a hero when you don't have to confront the degradation and cruelty that man visits upon man. Yet, he recognized a vibration coming from Matt. His son was weeping, but there was steel, too, beneath the humanity.

<Dad, I've reached a survivor. I think it's a woman, but it's hard. There's so much blood.>

<Matt, use your X-ray vision. See how badly she's injured before you try to get her out.>

But Matt was already at work, scanning the survivor's body. <It's amazing. She's got a bad gash on her head, and her legs are trapped beneath some rubble, but she doesn't seem to have any internal injuries. I think I can rescue her.> Excitement was bubbling through the link.

<Matt, wait. Check again. She may have injuries to her legs which would be made worse if you removed the debris.>

Clark had reached the street and was searching for a taxi, but with little success. It seemed they'd been swept away by a giant tidal wave. He began to stride down the street leading to the hospital, fighting the crowds who were either going in his direction to rubber-neck, or hurrying in the other direction to safety. Surely no one could be unaware of the mountainous noise which had emanated from Metropolis General Hospital.

<How did you know?> Matt asked, awed by his father's perception. <She has a metal strut from the concrete stuck in the under part of her thigh.> There was another second or two of silence as Matt searched around him. <Maybe there's someone else here I could get out easier.>

<No, you can help this woman, Matt. Use your heat vision to cut the metal, but don't remove it ... you could start a bleed. Leave that to the medical staff.>

Clark was unaware he was running now, almost a blur as he threaded through the ebb and flow of people. Thankfully, most of the horde was too numb to notice.

<Matt, how are you doing?> he asked, worried by his son's lack of response.

<Give me a second,> Matt replied, clearly concentrating on the job at hand. He'd had to reposition himself to get at the piece of metal, but still the woman clung to his hand, her fingers like claws. <I've done it.> Both Matt and Clark experienced a wave of relief. <It wasn't too difficult. I just have to remove this stuff, then I can get her out.>

Recognizing Matt was no longer panicking, Clark decided to focus all his energy on reaching the scene. <Matt, I think you've got things under control for now, so I'll close the link. But, you call me if you need me.>

<Dad?> It was the terrified call of a boy again.

<No, Matt. You're doing good. Really good. Trust your instincts. I'll be with you as soon as possible.>

Jor-El felt the link physically close, but he no longer felt alone.

“Am I going do die?” The hoarse, whispered question came from the woman beneath him.

Matt heard no urgency in her voice. It was almost as if she'd resigned herself.

“No. We're getting out.” He'd been frantically shifting the rubble from her body and with one last check of his X-ray vision to make sure he hadn't missed anything else, he lifted her gently into his arms. “Are you ready?”

The woman tried to nod, not trusting her voice, but she had no strength. She let her head fall onto Jor-El's shoulder, and felt herself drifting, though the pain in her leg informed her she wasn't unconscious.

He fought his way out of the roiling smoke. There were strangely shaped figures there. His eyes stung, though whether from smoke or tears, he couldn't tell. The shapes coalesced into huddled people ... frightened, clinging together for support. But people meant aid.

“Can I get some help over here? This woman needs medical attention.” Jor-El called out, sounding like a lost soul. Pretending to act like a superhero didn't seem important to him right at this moment.

Then there were people around him. Policemen and medics who'd spilled from the undamaged parts of the hospital. The people with the white coats tried to relieve him of his burden, but, perversely, he was loath to give the woman up. He'd saved her ... and yet, she'd saved him, too. She and Dad.

“Please, Jor-El. Let go.”

Matt turned toward the sound and almost cried out at the familiar face. Uncle Jimmy!

“You've done your part. Let the doctors do theirs.”

There was sympathy in Jimmy's eyes. Matt looked around him, seeing stunned awe on everyone's faces.

A uniformed cop spoke up. “I'm amazed you found anyone alive in that inferno.” The policeman was older and on his creased face he wore a lifetime of hard experiences, but his gaze was kind.

The medical team had placed their patient on a gurney and were wheeling her away, their eyes already assessing her injuries, treating the most obvious ones. But the woman grabbed hold of Jor's hand again. “Thank you.” Her voice was almost inaudible, but Jor heard it ... with his head and with his heart.

“No. Thank you,” he said as the cluster of triage staff hid her from view. Then he faced the group surrounding him. “There are others still alive. I heard them. I have no idea how many or how badly hurt they are.” Jor-El discovered his voice and his stature were growing in confidence. He could do this. “I need to go back.”

“Yeah, but not alone.” This from the older policeman.

Another doctor spoke up. “You'll need some medical help.”

Jor-El was tempted to refuse the help. “It could still be dangerous. The rubble is unstable, and there could be another bomb,” he explained to the volunteers who were lining up to join him. “I'm not sure I could keep you safe.”

The cop and the doctor grinned starkly, but the cop chose to be the spokesperson. “We're not asking you to, but we don't intend to let you do this on your own. Lead on.” The policeman pointed behind Jor. “Your eyesight is a whole lot better than ours. We'll do what you tell us and we won't get in the way.”

Giving in gratefully, Jor-El turned, and the little group entered the gloomy miasma that hung above the blast-center. The precarious surface grumbled and shifted beneath their feet, as if Mother Nature was displaying her disapproval on the violence humans had visited on her domain.

The air thickened, darkened. Jor chose to float above the surface, while the others tread carefully. Putting a hand to his lips, Jor signaled for silence, and once again his ears were assaulted by weak cries for succour. He pointed in the direction of the call and his helpers followed him closely. Their eyes watered and their lungs were choked by the smoke, but they did not falter. Soon the hero brought them to a man and a child, half-buried in the broken ground. It was the child who was crying. The father would never utter a sound in this life again.

With no words, but with stoic determination, the rescuers set about sustaining whatever life they could find in this nightmarish place.

*****

To be continued ...