Angel in the Congo
By AmandaK
Summary: Injured and on the run in the Congo, Lois finds help from an unexpected source.
Author’s note: Despite all appearances, this is not an alt-Clark universe story. Rather, it is an alternate beginning which pulls some things from the source material of the alt-Clark universe but takes our favorite characters on a slightly different journey. Warning for character injury and wound description.
A huge thank you goes out to my beta, Idon'tknowwhatthatmeans5678, for spending so much time helping me with this. I really learned a lot.
--- LOIS ---
“Stupid, stupid, stupid.” As I push through the underbrush of the Congolian rainforest, I stumble over yet another root, but catch myself and keep running. Branches catch on my clothes, tearing the fabric, leaving scratches on my arms, my face. Don’t stop. Keep going. If I stop, they’ll find me.
I clutch my right side as it throbs. How much of the moisture coating my shirt is mud and rain? How much is blood? Did the bullet go clean through or is it still in there? Did it hit anything vital? Don’t think about that. I have to get as far away as I can. If they find me, I’m dead.
That might already be a foregone conclusion. I’m lost. Adrenaline is running out. Blood is seeping through my torn shirt. The wound could get infected. I could die from exposure. I have no idea what direction I am headed.
Away.
Away from the gunrunners.
What was I thinking? How could I have been so stupid? To think that I, Lois Lane, Junior Reporter at the Daily Planet, have what it takes to take down gunrunners on my own. I should have passed the story to a more seasoned reporter—to Claude maybe. But no. I just had to get out there, make a name for myself, bring in the big story. I kept my notes and theories to myself, convinced Perry to send me to the Congo on some story about the destruction of the rainforest—not my usual kind of story and I’m not sure he bought it completely. He sent me anyway.
I had no idea what I was getting into.
The gangs were easy enough to find and follow. From Brazzaville, I tracked them to a warehouse hidden in the jungle. After dark, I broke in. There was plenty of incriminating evidence in the main office. Who could ever believe that Metropolis’ greatest philanthropist is secretly running guns out of the Congo?
No one.
And no one ever will. Even if I somehow manage to get out of this forsaken rainforest and back to Metropolis, I have no proof. They caught me, searched me. Thank goodness I thought to leave my purse and identification in a lockbox at the U.S. embassy in Brazzaville. They don’t know who I am. If I can get to the embassy, I’ll be safe. I’ll just have to find some other way to prove that Luthor is dirty.
Of course, that requires me to get out of this forest alive.
I stumble again. My boots squelch through the mud. My legs feel heavy. I’m not going to make it much farther.
I can’t hear the men behind me anymore. Maybe they’ve given up. Maybe they know I’m going the wrong way and will never make it out alive.
Thunder rumbles overhead. Another storm is coming; they don’t call it a rainforest for nothing. I need to find shelter.
Fat chance of that happening. Like I’m just going to stumble upon a nicely furnished house out here in the middle of nowhere. I’ll be lucky to find a cave or a big hollow tree.
Staggering, I push a huge leaf out of my way and freeze. I must be hallucinating. Do mirages happen in the rainforest? Maybe I’ve just lost so much blood that I’m starting to see things which aren’t there.
A house.
More accurately, it’s a cabin or a… hut, maybe? Log walls and a thatched roof. But it has a door and it looks in good repair. A dirt road leads from the hut off to the right, deeper into the jungle. Or maybe it leads out of the jungle, to a road. Roads mean civilization. Roads mean survival.
Roads also mean danger. The men will be looking for me: they’ll search along the roads if they think there’s a chance I could make it there; they’ll check medical centers if they suspect I’m injured. Nowhere is safe—not till I get to the embassy. Not till I get home.
But I can’t go any further now. My side feels like it’s burning. My head aches. I’m soaked. I’m freezing. I’m tired. I just want to lie down. Just for a little bit. Then I’ll go on. I’ll find the road but keep to the side, maybe hitchhike. I’ll have to be careful. I can’t trust anyone.
I creep closer to the hut. The only sounds are bird calls and buzzing insects. There is no light coming from under the door or the cracks around the window. That doesn’t mean anything, there probably isn’t electricity out here. Still, I’m pretty sure the place is empty.
The door isn’t locked. Would anyone bother with locks way out here? Slowly, I open the door. My guess is good. There is no one here—just a small card table and folding chair. And a bed.
Okay, so it’s more of a cot, but it’s still a bed. The door shuts behind me as I limp towards the bed. I’ll just lie down for a minute, then I’ll check my wound. Surely there is something I can use to bandage it. This pillow is so soft. Some antiseptic would be nice, an infection would be bad. I’m so cold.
I just need to rest a little longer.
--- CLARK ---
The sun was just beginning to set when Clark turned his motorbike off the main road, onto the dirt trail which led to his cabin. It wasn’t much—just a hut for sleeping and taking some time to himself—but it was far enough away from civilization that he could use his abilities without being seen.
His bike puttered and bumped as he navigated between roots and potholes. He didn’t need the bike of course. In fact, he could get to and from Brazzaville a lot faster without it. But then, he needed some form of “normal” transportation in public. If left in Brazzaville overnight, the bike might get stolen so he commuted every day. Besides, there was something to be said about riding along a deserted dirt road, surrounded by dense forest, nothing but the wind and the rain and the sound of the engine. It had a way of helping him decompress—although a flight through the clouds would probably be better.
It wasn’t a fancy model or even a new one. It was barely working when he bought it cheap from the same man he was renting the cabin from. But old motorcycles were similar enough to tractors that he could figure out how to fix it. It wasn’t perfect, but it did the job.
He’d been in the Congo for about a month and thought it might soon be time to move on. Maybe another week or so. Since he graduated college just over a year ago, he’d been traveling all over the world. He’d written a few freelance articles for local papers along the way—keeping his skills sharp for whenever he decided to settle down somewhere.
His stay in Africa had been eye-opening. Poverty and violence pervaded the Congo. The people faced threats every day from armed groups. They fought amongst themselves, destroyed villages, homes and families, whatever was in their way, They took whatever and whomever they wanted. It was becoming increasingly difficult for Clark to do nothing.
He’d made friends in some of the small towns around Brazzaville. There were so many good people there, just trying to live their lives. He did what he could to help them—digging wells for fresh water, planting crops, building huts, but he knew that a raid could destroy it all in an instant.
But what could he do? Even if he exposed himself, used his abilities to stop the raiders, it wouldn’t fix things. The scourge of poverty and violence in the country was too big for any one man to fix—even a man with powers like his.
So far, he’d managed to stop small things—breaking up small gang fights, rescuing women from assault, guarding local schools from thugs—without revealing his abilities. But there was bound to come a time when he’d have to do more. And then he’d have no choice but to move on.
Someday he hoped to find a way to help openly without putting his identity at risk. But even if he did, he was quickly learning that certain areas of the world need a lot more than someone to rescue them in moments of crisis. They need systemic change, which would take a long time.
The knowledge that he couldn’t really fix things here weighed heavily on his heart. He needed to step back and gain perspective. Maybe he’d go back to Smallville for a while before resuming his travels. A little time at home with his folks would do him a lot of good.
He pulled to a stop outside his hut. He pushed his wet hair back from his face then leaned his bike up against the wall. He froze. He could hear a heartbeat inside the cabin.
He reached up to lower his glasses before remembering that he wasn’t wearing them due to the rain. He looked through the wall to locate the intruder. His eyebrows rose to his hairline.
There was a young woman lying on his cot. Her clothes were muddy and torn in places, her hair wet and tangled with a few leaves and twigs. She was asleep, or perhaps unconscious. Her breathing sounded a bit shallow. She’d clearly been through an ordeal.
Pushing open the door to the hut, he quickly located then lit his oil lamp. The woman didn’t stir. He was about to wake her when he noticed blood soaking her shirt, dripping onto the floor. She was hurt.
Quickly, he assessed his options. The nearby medical center would be closed by now but there were hospitals in Brazzaville. He could fly her to one in just a few minutes, but what if she woke up along the way? It wasn’t worth the risk to his secret when he could probably find another way to help her.
Making his decision, he stepped outside before flying straight up until he was high above the clouds. He made a quick trip and was soon back at the hut with a large first aid kit under his arm. He would assess her injuries, and tend her wounds the best he could. If he couldn’t wake her, he would fly her to Brazzaville.
Setting the kit on his card table, he pulled his chair up next to the cot. Sitting down, so as to appear less threatening, he carefully reached out to shake her shoulder.
--- LOIS ---
There’s a pressure on my shoulder. My head is pounding. Have I fallen asleep at my desk? Another all-nighter?
The pain hits me: ache in my muscles, burning in my side.
How long have I been asleep?
I’m so tired.
I want to go back to sleep. The pain. Please, let me slip back into oblivion.
Something is shaking me.
There’s a voice.
“Miss? Miss, are you okay? You need to wake up.”
The light hurts my eyes.
Squinting, I make out the shape of a man framed by log walls and a thatched roof.
Where am I?
What was I doing?
The gunrunners!
I’m in the Congo. They caught me. I ran.
My side throbs as I recall the gunshot, the forest, the hut, and then… nothing.
But there is someone here now—a stranger. Friend or foe? In a place like this, most likely the latter.
I push myself up and scramble backwards, but I don’t get far. There is a wall at my back, and my side screams in protest at the movement. Whatever adrenaline kept me moving before is long gone. Now the slightest motion feels like lightning shooting through my abdomen.
But fear and self-preservation keep me from giving in to the pain.
I focus on the man in front of me. He’s broad-chested and probably tall, but it’s hard to tell while he’s sitting. His skin is slightly olive-toned; his hair is dark and damp. Is it raining? Probably. His brown eyes seem gentle. There’s an open, honest look about him but that means nothing. Wolves often hide in sheep’s clothing.
“Easy now. It’s okay.” His gentle voice matches his expression; he reaches towards me again.
I lean away, pressing myself firmly into the wall, glancing about for an escape route. He’s too close. I couldn’t slip past him even if I wasn’t injured.
“Don’t touch me!” The words slip out before I’ve realized I’m going to say them. Panic grips my chest. “Leave me alone! Who are you?” Frantically, I try to think of a way to get out of here. In the meantime, maybe I can stall by getting him to talk.
The man holds up both his hands in deference to my order, and sits back in his chair. “It’s alright. I’m not going to hurt you.”
I shake my head. “Why should I believe you?”
He opens and closes his mouth, then shrugs obviously at a loss for how to prove his honesty.
“You tracked me here,” I point out. “You’re with them.”
“With whom?”
His use of the word ‘whom’ gives me pause. What sort of gunrunner thug makes a point of being grammatically correct? For that matter, he doesn’t look or sound anything like the other men. Most of them weren’t even speaking English, and those that did had thick accents. This guy is clearly American—possibly from the Midwest. But they could have easily sent in their nicest looking, most well-spoken thug to set me at ease, to try to find out what I know. I can’t let my guard down.
“No,” I answer, shaking my head again. “I’m not telling you anything.” I shift towards the other end of the cot. Maybe there’s more room to escape on that side. I can’t hide my wince as the fabric of my shirt pulls on my wound.
“Okay, okay,” he says, offering another placating gesture. “You don’t trust me. I get it. But if you keep moving around, that wound is going to open up and you’ve already lost a lot of blood. Please, let me help you.”
Scanning the cabin, I consider my options. Do I really have a choice? I could try to fight my way out, but I wouldn’t get far. Or I could trust this guy enough to at least tend my wound. If he was going to kill me, he probably would have done so already. He wouldn’t have woken me. It would have been easy to kill me in my sleep.
There’s a large box on the table with a red cross on the front. A first aid kit! That wasn’t there before. Maybe he really is trying to help me.
I take a few slow breaths to calm my panic. He’s waiting patiently, making sure to keep his movements slow and intentional. He’s trying not to startle me; given my current state of mind, I appreciate his efforts.
“How did you find me?” I ask, stalling for time while I make up my mind.
“This is my hut,” he replies.
I raise an eyebrow at that. It seems unlikely.
He seems to notice my skepticism because he continues, “I mean, it’s not really mine. I’m just renting it. I’m sort of a world traveler right now—just looking for a place to call my own.”
“In the Congo?”
He shrugs sheepishly. “It seemed like a place to go.”
There is an almost boyish innocence about him—something which says, you get what you see. And while I’m still very hesitant, I feel like I can believe him.
“Alright, fine,” I concede. “I’ll trust you… for now. But I’m still not telling you anything. Even if you really are a good guy, the bad guys will be looking for me. The less you know, the better.”
He accepts my terms with a nod. “Okay. Well, at least let me introduce myself. I’m—”
“No! It goes both ways. If they catch me, they’ll want to know who helped me. No names. No personal information.”
“Fair enough. Perhaps an alias then? Just so we’re not stuck calling each other ‘hey, you.’” He offers me a smile; it’s rather pleasant.
I consider his suggestion for a moment, then shrug. “Fine. I guess you can call me Lola.”
His smile blooms into a full grin which lights up his face. “Nice to meet you, Lola. You can call me… um… Charlie.”
“Charlie, right.” Is there a Mrs. Charlie back home? I shake my head to clear the wandering thought. What is wrong with me? I’m alone in the jungle with a bullet wound and a little chance of ever getting home, but all I can think about is how good looking a complete stranger is? I’ve clearly lost too much blood.
I focus instead on the first aid kit. “Is that full?” I ask with a nod towards the box. Given the state of things out here in the Congo, it probably has just a few dirty bandages and a bottle of rubbing alcohol. I need a hospital but at this point I’ll take what I can get.
“Oh. Yeah.” Charlie turns to the box and, to my surprise, begins to pull out sealed packages of gauze and bandages, sterile gloves, iodine, tweezers, a tourniquet, even an emergency blanket. He opens the blanket first, shaking it out before handing it to me. Gratefully, I take it and lay it across my legs. I’d like to wrap it around my shoulders but that much movement would likely hurt a lot.
Next, he hands me a canteen of water and a wrapped granola bar of some sort. “Eat,” he orders gently. “You need to get your blood sugar up after all that blood loss.” I nod and take a swig of water before opening the bar and taking a bite. It’s dry and not as sweet as the things which pass for nutrition bars in the States—more like hardtack really—but it’s probably better for me than any of that junk.
“So how did you get hurt?” Charlie asks casually. I clamp my mouth shut. He can fish for information all he wants, I’m not giving him anything.
He looks at me when I don’t respond and sighs. “I need to know what kind of injury I’m dealing with if I’m going to help you.”
“Are you a doctor?”
He raises one eyebrow. “I thought you said no personal information.”
Caught by my own rules, I can only shrug.
He smiles softly and shakes his head. “I’m not a doctor. But I do know first aid and I always like to be prepared.”
“A regular Boy Scout, huh?”
“Eagle Scout, actually.” He shifts the table closer to the cot before sitting down again. He gestures to my side. “May I see?”
My shirt is soaked with blood and plastered to my skin. The wound is low on my abdomen, a few inches above my hip, but I can’t see how bad it is. Did the bullet go straight through? Did it get stuck inside of me? Or did it just graze past me and tear a gash in my side? Do I have any internal injuries? The entire area feels hot and swollen. Without looking at it, I don’t know what it needs.
I’m terrified lying here, vulnerable, while a complete stranger tries to stop the bleeding long enough to get me to a hospital. But I have to take care of this. So, gingerly, I grasp the hem of my shirt and try to pull it upwards.
“Ah!” I bite my lip and squeeze my eyes shut to hold back the threatening tears. My shirt seems to have glued itself to my skin. I can’t lift it away without tearing open the wound.
“Is it stuck?”
I nod with my teeth clenched.
“Alright, I have some saline we can use to loosen it. Can you lie down?”
This is the part I’m afraid of. Lying down, I’ll have no way to defend myself. But what choice do I have? I peer up at Charlie as he waits patiently for me to make the next move. This is it. I can put my life in his hands or try to make it on my own. For some reason, I think I’m safer with Mr. Eagle Scout than out there in the jungle alone. I’ve always trusted my gut before.
Then again, trusting my gut is how I ended up here in the first place.
I shift carefully, trying to scoot down into a lying position. It’s slow. Every movement feels like a stab in my side. Halfway down, I freeze.
Breathe. Push past the pain. This is worse than the time I sprained my ankle during tennis.
“Let me help you,” Charlie says softly. Then, I feel a hand between my shoulder blades. My eyes fly open; I hadn’t realized they were closed. Charlie is a lot closer—too close. But his eyes are filled with compassion as he braces my back. After a moment, I lean back against him as he lowers me onto the cot.
--- CLARK ---
Clark moved slowly, trying not to do anything which might frighten the woman —Lola, she said. The pseudonym was cute but it didn’t quite fit her. She seemed as jumpy as a rabbit and had clearly been through something awful, but her eyes spoke of the fierceness of a tiger. She was clearly strong, if her resistance to pain was any indication. And brave enough to defy him when she thought he might hurt her. She wasn’t the sort to cower and wait for death. No. If he scared her, she would fight with everything she had.
Clark wasn’t concerned for himself, of course. But if she opened her wound and bled out… He shook the thought away, focusing instead on helping her get somewhat comfortable.
“Can you roll onto your side a bit?” he asked. He felt her tense, and knew that he was asking a lot. Rolling onto her left side to give him better access to her wound would leave her back exposed to him. She was already vulnerable, and he was asking her to give up even more control.
Still, she seemed to recognize that it was the best way for him to treat her injury. After a moment, she nodded and let him help her onto her side. Once she was settled, she released the breath she’d been holding against the pain, and began breathing normally again. Well, close to normal anyway. Her breathing was faster and shallower than it should be.
Frowning, he set to work gathering what he would need to clean and dress her wound. He cleaned his hands, then put on some sterile gloves.
“I’m going to cut away the cloth around your wound,” he explained gently, showing her the medical shears. “Then I’ll use the saline to loosen what is stuck to the wound itself. Okay?”
She nodded but was clearly gritting her teeth.
Clark used his x-ray vision to make sure he wasn’t cutting too close to the wound. Fortunately, the injury was far enough down that he didn’t have to worry about her modesty. He’d give her a spare shirt when he was finished.
There was so much blood caked in with the cloth that it was difficult to make out the exact shape of the wound, even with his enhanced vision. He’d have a better idea once the cloth was out of the way.
Once the main part of the shirt was cut and folded to the side, he poured some saline into a small bowl, warmed it with his heat vision so it wouldn’t sting as much, and prepared a few gauze pads for cleaning.
“Alright. Here comes the saline,” he warned her. She nodded again silently but her entire body tensed in anticipation of pain.
Clark worked slowly, brushing the gauze around the area first, then moving along the edges of the cloth, applying more saline as needed. She winced a few times as he worked but was otherwise silent.
Bit by bit, the cloth began to pull away from the wound. When it came off completely, Lola whimpered.
“I’m sorry,” Clark offered, although the words felt lame on his tongue. He wished he didn’t have to cause her any more pain, that he wasn’t restricted by his secret, that he could simply fly her to the nearest hospital where she could get some anesthetic and proper medical treatment.
“It’s fine,” Lola replied.
Clark nodded, although she wasn’t looking at him, and returned to his work. Looking at the wound properly for the first time, he gasped. It was a deep gash, about four inches long. At its deepest point, he could see both fat and muscle, although it didn’t seem to have reached any organs.
“What did this?” He voiced his thought out loud.
“A bullet,” Lola answered bluntly.
Clark blinked in shock. “You were shot!?” He didn’t know why he was surprised, gun violence was rampant in the Congo. He supposed it was simply that Lola seemed so out of place here. He couldn’t imagine her being caught up in something like that, but he should have expected it.
“Bad guys, remember? Bad guys with guns. Is it still in there?”
“What?”
“The bullet. Is it still inside of me? Is there an exit wound?” Lola’s breathing became more rapid as she waited for his answer.
A quick scan didn’t reveal any bullets or fragments. There wasn’t a clearly defined entry and exit wound either, just the gash.
“No, it looks like it just grazed you,” he answered. “But it’s pretty deep and long. You need stitches.”
Lola sighed in apparent relief that she didn’t have a bullet stuck in her body. She looked at him skeptically, asking, “I don’t suppose you can do that?”
Clark shook his head. “I don’t think I should try. There might be a suture kit in here, but it’s not something I’ve had practice in, and I don’t have any anesthesia to numb the area. I’ve got butterfly bandages though, and plenty of gauze. Best I can do is clean it and try to keep you from bleeding much more. It’s already clotting pretty well. Then we’ll have to figure out how to get you to a hospital.”
“Is there one nearby?”
“There’s a small clinic, but it’ll be closed by now. The nearest hospital is in Brazzaville.”
“That’s what I figured. Do you have a car?”
Clark winced and shook his head again. “I’ve got a motorbike.”
She sighed in response, her hopes clearly dashed.
“We’ll figure something out.” He would. He’d drive out to Brazzaville and borrow a car or something. There had to be a way to get her proper care without risking his secret.
He changed his gloves and opened a fresh pack of gauze. Then he examined the wound, debating his next course of action. “I need to clean this out. I’ll have to flush it with saline. It’ll probably sting. I don’t want to cause you any more pain but…”
Lola’s jaw tightened slightly. “Do what you have to do.”
Clark couldn’t help but admire her determination. She reminded him of his mom—so much strength in such a small frame. Though she be but little, she is fierce, he thought but didn’t dare to say out loud.
He set about flushing the wound as quickly and efficiently as possible, using his enhanced sight to make sure there wasn’t any dirt or mud left behind. Carefully, he wiped around the area, making it as clean and dry as he could. Then he applied some antibiotic ointment before covering the wound with a non-stick pad.
Through it all, Lola didn’t make a sound.
He paused to change his gloves again and figure out how best to fix the bandage. Medical tape would keep the bandage in place but a wrap around her waist would add pressure to restrict bleeding. Despite clotting some, it was still seeping slowly. He imagined the bandage would need changing several times.
“Are you sure you’re not a doctor?”
Lola’s voice startled him out of his pondering. He shook his head. “I’m not. Why?”
“You’re gentler than most doctors I’ve dealt with. My father’s a doctor and he doesn’t have such a nice bedside manner as yours—not even with his daughters.”
Clark smiled softly. “Thank you.” Then he chuckled. “You can probably thank a steer for my bedside manner though.”
“A steer?”
“I grew up on a farm. Our neighbors had cattle. One time a steer got tangled in some barbed wire and I helped get him free. Keeping a thousand-pound, injured animal calm is no easy task. You’re a much better patient. Prettier too.”
The last part slipped out before he could bite it back; he almost apologized for being so bold. But then she blushed and smiled, and he forgot all about it.
Lola cleared her throat and tried to brush off his compliment. “Well, I should hope I’m prettier than a cow.”
“Steer,” he corrected absently. At her confused look he added, “Cows are female.”
Her eyebrows rose nearly to her hairline, and her smile twisted into a bemused grin. “Whatever.”
Clark caught himself staring at her again and cleared his own throat before gathering up the bandage wrap, if only to keep his hands busy. “Anyway, if you can lift yourself up a bit, I’ll wrap this around your waist.”
Lola nodded and carefully eased herself up onto one elbow. A few minutes later, Clark was finished and he helped her find a more comfortable position on the cot.
“Rest,” he ordered kindly. “I’ll clean all this up and then put together something for dinner.”
--- LOIS ---
I have never met anyone quite like Charlie. He’s kind and gentle, clearly intelligent and here he is helping a total stranger who happened to wander into his hut. He’s offering to feed me too.
No one in Metropolis is like this. Most people would just look the other way or, at best, dial 911 on the nearest payphone. I feel like the person in that Bible story—the one about the guy who got mugged whose own neighbors wouldn’t help him, but the foreigner did and even came back to check on him.
I didn’t get much Sunday school as a kid—just whenever my mom went on a random religious kick, dragging me and Lucy to whatever church tickled her fancy—but I’m pretty sure that’s how the story went.
Is that what Charlie is? A good Samaritan? Or maybe he’s an angel in human form or something. Good people like this don’t really exist, do they?
I watch silently as he busies himself with throwing out the used gauze and cleaning up the rest of the first aid stuff. Then he pulls a few MRE–looking packs out of a duffle bag and starts opening them up.
“I hope you don’t mind camp food,” Charlie says with an apologetic smile. He holds up two packs. “I’ve got chicken á la king or meatballs in tomato sauce.”
I grimace slightly, knowing that neither option will be particularly appetizing. Chicken sounds like the milder option though. A few minutes later we are both tucking into our meals.
It’s quiet. Too quiet. Several times, Charlie opens his mouth to say something but then reconsiders.
“What?” I ask after the third time, desperate for something to fill the silence.
He shrugs. “I was just going to ask about what you were doing out here in the Congo but… you said no personal information so…”
I consider his question for a moment. We could continue sitting in awkward silence or I could tell him a little bit—just nothing too detailed.
“I was investigating gunrunners from the States.”
“Investigating? So, you’re a cop or something?”
I shrug. “Something like that.” Really, not something like that at all. My similarities to the police begin and end with investigation. Well, that and trying to help people—just in very different ways. And the cops don’t really like journalists much although I think Inspector Henderson may be taking a liking to me, not that he’d ever admit it.
“Were you able to find anything?”
I shrug again. This is getting into dangerous territory; I can’t say too much. “Yes and no. I found something. But I got caught before I could get any proof. I’ve got a lot of work to do when I get back home—” My wound twinges sharply. “If I get back home.”
A gentle hand rests on mine, and I look up into Charlie’s tender brown eyes. “You will get home,” he states confidently. My own hope is buoyed by his words. With his quiet promise, I feel quite certain, too, that I will see Metropolis again soon.
I nod slightly and pull my hand away so that I can resume eating—anything to distract me from the sudden butterflies that are fluttering in my stomach. I am not falling for Charlie. It’s just transference. He’s nice, good looking, and he’s taking care of me. Of course, I feel a connection to him but it’s not real. I don’t even know his real name, let alone anything else about him.
“What about you?” I ask, suddenly eager to learn more about this mysterious angel in the Congo. “What are you doing out here in the middle of the rainforest? You said you’re a world traveler?”
Charlie nods. “Yeah, I started traveling after I graduated college. I’ve been to several places in Europe and Asia. Figured I’d work my way through Africa next.”
“Why the—” A wide yawn catches me by surprise. “Excuse me. Why the Congo?”
“I like to go to places where I can do some good. I just like helping people, I guess.” Charlie turns away and starts cleaning up the food. He takes my empty pouch and plastic fork to the trash bag in the corner.
“You really are an angel,” I mutter under my breath. He freezes, and for half a moment I wonder if he heard me, but then he continues cleaning up without comment. In a normal voice, I ask, “Can you do any good here?”
Charlie sighs. “I don’t know. The problems here seem so big that one man can’t really make a difference, not even…” He stops, and I tilt my head in silent inquiry. He shakes his head before continuing. “Even those with more power than an average man can’t do much to change things here. Sometimes I wonder why I even bother.”
He sits back in his chair and stares at the ceiling as though he could see right through it to find answers to his problems in the stars. His sudden hopelessness takes me by surprise. I reach out and touch his hand.
“You bother because you care. Even if all you do is help a few people for just a few days, you give them more than help—you give them hope. Whatever you can do… it’s enough.”
He seems to have stopped breathing as he looks at me. His mouth opens and closes, apparently lost for words.
I offer him an encouraging smile. “You cared enough to help me. You gave me hope that I’ll get home. Thank you, Charlie.”
He smiles, and the butterflies come back. “Thank you, Lola.”
For a long moment, we stare at each other, and I start to wonder if he is feeling half of what I am feeling. I try to force those feelings back. I know, logically, that I can’t fall in love with a stranger I met in the rainforest, who just happens to be the nicest, best-looking guy I’ve ever met. So why do I feel the sudden urge to kiss him?
Well, he’d have to kiss me actually; I can’t really move much right now.
The moment is broken as I yawn again. I’m tired—exhausted really. Not enough sleep. Lost too much blood. Still in a lot of pain.
“You should sleep,” Charlie says. He reaches over to dim the light on the oil lamp.
“What about you?” I ask, even as I fight to keep my eyes open.
“Don’t worry about me. I’ll keep watch. We’ll figure out how to get you to a hospital in the morning.”
My head feels heavy as I nod and shift down onto the pillow. Outside, the rain beats a steady rhythm on the roof and, every now and then, I hear the call of some bird or animal which I probably wouldn’t be able to name. The sounds are so foreign to me and yet, somehow, soothing.
As I drift off, I hear Charlie’s voice again, soft and low. “I’ll get you home. I promise.”
---CLARK---
Clark kept silent vigil through the long hours of the night, pondering the words of the young woman. Somehow, she had managed to expel all of his doubts about his purpose here and in the wider world.
Hope. Could it really be that simple?
He’d seen hope do incredible things, even during his childhood back in Smallville. Hope had brought the community together after a tornado destroyed several homes and businesses; they had rebuilt their town better than ever. Hope had kept his best friend, Pete, from giving up after the car accident that left him hospitalized for half of their sophomore year; by the time they were seniors, he was the quarterback of their football team.
Hope had even given his own parents the courage to adopt a strange child found in a field, in a spaceship, and to tolerate his bizarre abilities emerging over the years.
Lola was right. Even though he couldn’t fix everything here in the Congo, or anywhere else in the world, he could still give people hope, one-by-one, in little ways. He could do that without any powers (although he still wished to find a way to use them openly and do even greater good).
For now, he could give hope to this lovely young woman who had stumbled into his life so unexpectedly. He could help her get home—or at least to Brazzaville. The U.S. Embassy would help her the rest of the way.
And then she’d be gone.
Out of his life as suddenly as she’d appeared.
Clark’s chest tightened at the thought. Why did he feel such sorrow at the idea of never seeing her again? He’d met countless people all over the world. He’d made many friends only to leave them whenever he moved on, knowing he was unlikely to ever encounter them again. This should be no different.
And yet it was.
She was beautiful, to be sure. Even in her current state—muddy, disheveled, injured, and asleep on his cot—she was naturally beautiful. He’d met other attractive women. He’d even dated a few in high school and college. But none of them held a candle to Lola.
He didn’t understand it—this whatever-it-was that he was feeling. It was something like the feeling he got when he was flying, like this was somehow where he belonged.
That was ridiculous of course. He didn’t even know her real name. He couldn’t possibly belong with her. He couldn’t love her…
Could he?
He considered the Florence Nightingale Syndrome, when nurses fall in love with their patients. But this was different. This… attraction, for lack of a better word, had started before he’d begun to treat her wound, perhaps even before he’d woken her.
He didn’t know if he believed in love at first sight but current events were certainly weighing in its favor.
It didn’t matter though. In the morning, he was going to take her to the hospital in Brazzaville, and help her contact the embassy. Then she would go home, and he would go wherever he felt like going next.
He tried to think about his options—where his next stop might be, what he might accomplish there—but his thoughts kept drifting back to Lola and how hard it was going to be to say goodbye to someone he’d only just met. He wished they had more time, that he could really get to know her.
It was almost three o’clock in the morning when Lola stirred.
She’d been sleeping soundly for the most part. Clark had used his x-ray vision a few times to check on her wound. Her bandage would need changing soon, but she needed sleep as well. He’d figured another hour wouldn’t hurt.
Then she started tossing lightly and whimpering. At first Clark thought maybe she was dreaming, but her heart rate was too fast. She was in pain.
“Lola,” he called out to her gently, not wanting to startle her. She didn’t respond. “Lola, wake up,” he tried again, touching her shoulder.
He pulled his hand back in surprise as he felt the heat radiating off her body. How had a fever set in so quickly? He held his hand over her wound, not touching but close enough to feel the heat. The whole area was hotter than the rest; red streaks of infection were spreading past the edges of the bandage.
“Shoot,” he muttered. He’d tried so hard to clean the area well but had no idea how long it had been since she was shot. How long had she run through the jungle? How much bacteria had worked its way into her system?
He couldn’t treat this.
She needed antibiotics and fever reducers and proper sutures; he needed to get her to the hospital as soon as possible.
Lola tossed her head from side to side, moaning, but her eyes stayed shut.
With a sharp nod, Clark made up his mind. He would fly her to Brazzaville, it would take him less than a minute. It was worth the risk; if she woke up and saw him…
She’d never see him again.
Grief gripped his heart at the thought. He pushed it away. That didn’t matter right now. All that mattered was getting her help.
Gingerly, he lifted her into his arms, making sure not to put any pressure on her wounded side. She tensed and cried out but didn’t wake up.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered and stayed still until she relaxed and leaned her head against his shoulder. Then he flew her to the hospital in Brazzaville.
---LOIS---
I hurt.
My side is throbbing.
My head aches.
It’s so cold.
I just want to sleep but it hurts too much.
Someone calls out but it’s not my name. Should I answer? Someone whimpers. Me?
The voice speaks again, but I can’t understand. It’s like I’m in a fog.
Something moves me. The pain spikes. Sharp, white pain. Nothing more.
Slowly, it fades back to throbbing.
Something’s changed. Someone is holding me—someone strong and warm. I lean into the warmth.
We’re moving. Not walking. Faster. Not running either. It’s too smooth. A car? No. That would be bumpy. What is this?
My curiosity wars with my desire to sleep. Pushing through the pain, I pry open my eyes.
There’s a chin covered in light stubble. Charlie, I remember. I’m safe with him but I still don’t know where we’re going. I look around to see how we’re moving so quickly.
I must be hallucinating. I’m obviously sick. Infections cause hallucinations, right? It feels real, but it can’t possibly be. Can it?
We’re flying.
Like actually flying. Zooming above treetops towards the bright lights of a city up ahead. My mouth is agape, but I make no effort to close it. I look back at Charlie’s face. Could he be doing this? Flying? Under his own power? That doesn’t make sense. Men don’t fly.
He looks down at me. His eyebrows pinch together and he sighs. For some reason he looks very sad before he focuses his gaze, once again, on the city lights.
“Don’t worry,” he says softly. “You’ll be at the hospital soon. You’ll be just fine.”
In spite of everything, in spite of flying, I trust him. I’m still so tired. Looking about, trying to understand how we’re doing the impossible only makes my head hurt; I’m in enough pain already.
I lean my head on Charlie’s shoulder and close my eyes.
***
Three days later, I’m stepping off the plane onto American soil, convinced that it was all a dream.
I woke up in the hospital. The doctors didn’t speak much English, and my French is limited. The few Lingala words I’d picked up were pretty useless unless I needed to find a bathroom, so communication was difficult. They brought my fever down, and properly cleaned and stitched my side. Eventually, someone helped me to contact the U.S. Embassy, and then I was able to access my personal belongings.
After that everything passed in a blur.
I never saw Charlie again. I’m starting to doubt if he was even real. Certainly, the flying was something concocted by my fever-deluded mind. Maybe the rest was all imagined as well. No one could tell me how I’d gotten to the hospital—only that a man brought me in then left.
At first, I felt sad—sorry that I’d been unable to thank him or say goodbye. I wish I’d had the chance to get to know him better and see if that spark I’d felt could grow.
It doesn’t matter. He wasn’t real. And even if he was, I am never going to see him again. I don’t even know his real name. It’s time to push aside thoughts about mystery men in the Congo and focus on my next story.
I pick up my suitcase from the carousel, careful not to pull anything on my right side, and march towards the taxi stand, already planning my next move. Lex Luthor isn’t going to know what hit him.
