Well, here's what happens when kind FoLCs give nice feedback - it just encourages more posts and storytelling! I've been working on this story for about 5 months, and it will have either 4 or 5 parts when finished. Here is the first of them. Feedback is gratefully appreciated.
Night Fell pt. 1 of 5
by Kermtzu (Kevin)
Note to readers: this story is not the happiest. There are few WAFFs, and the story may seem like an extended WHAM. (Don't worry; Lois & Clark end up together - that's meant to be) This darn story is one I didn't want to write, but the idea forced itself upon me and wouldn't go away. I like WAFFy stuff much better, so I'm going to exorcise this from my mind, and back to the happier stuff!
To my knowledge, from heavy reading of other fanfic, this idea has not been explored. My apologies if it has and I missed your story; I have no desire to step on anyone's toes!
Words in ** denote emphasis
*****
He woke from a anguished sleep, troubled by nightmares. He remembered little of his dreams; he never did. The only image that ever lingered was the face of a beautiful woman. A woman with deep brown eyes and wonderfully soft brown hair. Oddly for a dream, he could even smell her scent and hear her breathing and heartbeat. A pleasant image, but made terrible by the certain knowledge that she was in trouble, she needed him, and he was not able to help. He knew that for a fact, dream or not. He loved her, she had needed him, and he failed her. Those impressions were the sum total he could garner from his dreams.
The dreams he had experienced in fitful rests ever since the day the world had ended.
He looked out from his makeshift shelter of lumber, tree limbs and various pieces of thin plastic he had wrapped carefully through and around the supporting wood to keep out the worst of the wind and elements. He'd woken before dawn. There was no pink on the horizon, so it would be some time before daybreak. He could see the pack of dogs in the nearby clearing, several hundred yards away. His sturdy shack, nestled in a grove of trees, would protect him from much danger should they attack - there was only one direction in which they could approach through the trees. The pack had not, however, done anything but avoid him since their one and only attack months earlier. He had heard them coming and grabbed his heavy staff, weighted with a flattened fieldstone tied to one end. Swinging it at the attacking feral animals, he’d hit several and driven the rest off. His weapon was a good one, and he had good aim. The seven he’d hit had all been killed, and not a one had gotten within biting distance. Apparently the pack had since found easier and less dangerous prey elsewhere.
He hoped that the upcoming day would provide a good deal of sunlight. His moods were always better on a sunny day and the bad dreams disappeared more rapidly. Sunshine, however, was not guaranteed. He could remember an older man (a relative, perhaps? a neighbor?) saying, “If you don’t like the weather, wait five minutes.” The saying, he knew, came from a time long ago in his life. The homily carried with it a sense of humor, an minor irritation at the vagaries of the weather, but now it no longer carried any hint of amusement. The weather could, and did, change drastically. A rainstorm could easily change to snow, and the gray days, often alternating greatly between cold and warm, made it difficult to even guess the season. The temperature could rise or fall dozens of degrees in a single day, although luckily he suffered little from the extremes.
If he knew just where he was, he’d have a better idea of what was normal weather for the area.
If he could remember who he was, he’d have a better idea of what to do.
*****
Not knowing who he was, or where, shifted his moods often from mild curiosity to intense despair. He knew nothing of himself or others. Gaining knowledge was difficult, as he encountered very few people, all of whom stayed a safe distance away, ran, or made threats with weapons. For the most part, he simply stayed away from everyone. He didn’t really feel afraid of any of the occasional people he saw, but he was concerned that someone, or a group of people, scavenging and foraging might come across his shelter. He had no desire to strike and injure a person with his staff, and truly had no idea what he would do if threatened. He supposed he would simply hand over any food he’d found and not seek trouble. He needed very little food and was seldom hungry.
The worst encounter he’d had since the day that changed everything had been when he was exploring. There was a small river near the grove of trees, and he remembered that people usually settled near bodies of water. He doubted that any large city still existed as a fully-functioning entity, but a small town or village could provide security and might welcome a useful worker into the community. He was lonely, and tired of solitude. With an innate urge to move on, he’d started following the river downstream. The trees thinned out and the area became less wooded, replaced gradually by fields.
He supposed it was the lack of tree cover which made him visible from a distance. He’d heard the vehicle coming up behind him, but didn’t associate the once-familiar sound with anything until it actually pulled up alongside him. A open military-style Jeep containing four men stopped to his left, and all but the driver pointed weapons at him. He felt amazement at the fact that they had fuel enough to operate the Jeep, rather than any fear from facing drawn weapons.
“Give us any food you have. Any tools or knives, too. Now!”
He turned his attention to the guns as the driver now pulled out a weapon from where it had been stored beneath the seat, and wondered why they hadn’t fired first and then simply stripped his body. Perhaps they worried about damaging any possible useful items he carried.
“I have nothing on me,” he replied. “My pocketknife is back at my camp.” He gestured in a direction well away from where his shelter was actually located.
Their apparent leader sneered. “Then you’re of no use. Kill him.”
With no change of expression, something he’d have thought impossible of anyone about to kill another person, three of the four men opened fire. Shots rang out, and he grasped at his chest. He was prepared to stagger and fall, but failed to do so after feeling only slight stings. He felt small bits of metal slide down from where he’d been hit in the chest, but nothing else. No blood.
Why were they shooting him with bb guns? He looked up incredulously, thinking this some sort of macabre joke. He was surprised to see all four staring at him in wonder. One of the four fired again, with the pellet hitting him on his bare right arm. It had no more effect than before; it stung, but did no real damage.
“It ain’t no bulletproof vest, Doug! I hit him square in the beef on his arm!” exclaimed the shooter. All four men in the Jeep stared at him with expressions of awe, surprise and terror, as he remained puzzled at their bizarre actions. Trying to kill someone with a child’s toy?
“He’s some kinda mutant! A freakin’ mutant!” the leader exclaimed. “Get us the hell out of here!”
The Jeep spun its wheels, kicking up sods of soil from the prairie. The driver accelerated away quickly, while the other three held their weapons pointed at him. He could see a variety of emotions on their faces as they dwindled in size. The Jeep followed the course of the river downstream, and he grimaced. If this was indicative of the reception he’d receive at town, for surely a settlement of some sort lay ahead, then it was not for him. Shaking his head at the extremely odd behavior of his foolish assailants, he turned back upstream. Solitude was preferable to the company of that sort. Perhaps they’d been driven mad by Impact.
*****
Impact.
It had happened so quickly, and right after he’d found himself surrounded by strangers and bereft of memories. As unpleasant and horrifying as those events had been, he forced his mind to replay the memories he did have, and often. For a man with no memories of himself or his past, those few hours before everything changed were the only ties to his past. They might hold some sorts of answers. Answers that could present him with a name, a home, family and friends.
He banked the fire in his makeshift hut for ease of restarting it later, as he sat back to once again think. Perhaps this time he could flush out something new. Perhaps even something that would connect those frantic few hours to the woman who haunted his dreams. As terrible as his dreams were, he welcomed those portions. Trapped in a hell on earth, the vision of the dark-haired woman and her glorious eyes was a glass of cold clear water.
His first memory was waking in a hospital. He wasn’t comfortable being there, he supposed no one really ever was happy to be in a hospital, but it was puzzling. He ached, but didn’t really hurt in any specific area. He examined his arms and legs, and pulled off his hospital gown after padding into the bathroom. No bandages, wounds, bruises, scars or other signs of trauma. He glanced up at the mirror. His unfamiliar face was as unmarked and undamaged as the rest of him.
His unfamiliar face? That thought brought with it a true feeling of fear. He was looking at a stranger.
He opened the door of the bathroom and almost ran into a petite nurse entering the room. Blushing, he was glad to have put back on the gown. He was horrified at the thought of exposing himself.
“I am so sorry, miss!” he apologized. “I didn’t see you there.”
She smiled. “Not a problem. I get run over by interns, ER staff, and expectant fathers all the time. It’s right in the job description, and they’ve even got coursework class for dodging. I’m glad to see you awake. We’ve been wondering when you’d be up and around. I’m Sheila, your shift nurse. Nice to meet you, Mr…?”
He sighed, and turned to sit on the bed, carefully holding the back end of his hospital gown closed.
“I’m afraid I don’t know what my name is. It sounds like a bad television drama, but I don’t know who I am! I didn’t even recognize my face in the mirror,” he mumbled. “Do you have my wallet and driver’s license?”
She frowned slightly. “No, I’m afraid we don’t. The hospital has no information on you at all.”
“None? Was I in an accident? Who brought me in?”
Her frown let up somewhat. “You were brought in by the police. You don’t appear to have anything wrong with you at all, other than you were found completely naked in someone’s back yard, in their swimming pool. We all figured that you were drunk and sleeping it off. No one would dump out most of the water from a swimming pool and crawl inside to sleep except a drunk or a college fraternity hazing new pledges.”
He felt his eyebrows climb upward. “I was sleeping in a swimming pool?”
She was smiling now. “Yep. And naked.”
He groaned and ran his fingers through his hair. “I’m almost grateful that I can’t remember anything. How long have I been here? Has anyone been here to see me?”
“You were brought in late last night, and I’m sorry, but no; no one has checked in looking for a missing person. I wouldn’t worry about that, though. Everyone is a bit crazy right now.”
“Crazy? Why?”
“The Nightfall asteroid, of course. People are doing strange things: non-stop parties, hasty weddings, and joining or starting cults. I’m surprised you ended up here instead of the drunk tank last night. We’ve so few beds available that I’m surprised you were admitted at all.”
He stared at her, not connecting the pieces. “An asteroid? Why is that such a problem? Is it going to hit us, or something?” he joked.
“You really *don’t* remember anything, do you? The Nightfall asteroid *is* going to hit the Earth, or at least, a part of it. Superman broke the asteroid apart, but a large portion three miles across is intact and still coming, and no one has seen or heard from Superman since he flew into space and broke Nightfall apart. We need him to finish off the rest of the asteroid. He *has* to. Many people think he's dead, but I don't believe it. He'll come through for us. He always comes through for us.”
The next few hours were frenzied. He’d seen a doctor and two interns, who’d pronounced him fit and practically pushed him out the door. Panic-stricken groups and criminals were rioting and vandalizing, and an overmatched police system was unable to prevent many crimes, which were causing hospitals and clinics to quickly fill. His needs and treatment, while important, were less threatening than the trauma victims arriving in ever-increasing numbers as caregivers followed frantic triage care decisions.
His last hour before being unceremoniously discharged was supremely frustrating. No technician had been available to draw blood when he’d been admitted the night previous, as was required when drunken criminal activity was suspected, so one of the two interns attempted to do so while taking his vital signs, just to have some blood drawn if there were a need later. The medical student fumbled with several needles before finally sending his patient on his way, muttering something about defective equipment. His queries about where to go for help went unanswered, and so he just walked out of the hospital, unable to justify to himself taking up valuable time from the caregivers.
Wandering from the hospital, wearing scrubs (he mentally thanked Sheila for rescuing him from a breezy bottom), he found a newspaper vending machine. Borrowing fifty cents from a passerby, who’d been charitable enough to provide the change while uncharitable enough to mumble something about "Overpaid doctors too cheap to buy a paper," he’d sat down to read. The San Francisco Chronicle. He was in California.
Unusually, the paper had several large headlines, challenging one another for dominance.
SUPERMAN STILL MISSING IN ACTION
NIGHTFALL TO HIT EARTH TOMORROW
WORLD DOOMED?
Reading with growing concern, he learned that the situation was not limited to the conceivable damage from the asteroid’s impact, but also from the behavior of the world’s population. Riots had broken out and continued in dozens of cities, and not just here in California. Vandalism, theft and looting were rampant. The police, national guard and armed forces were stretched to their limits, ignoring all but the most serious of crimes while trying to maintain some semblance of order. Disturbingly, there seemed to be no news coming from Washington, DC. It was thought that officials had disappeared to safe locations, wherever those might be, in anticipation of the coming disaster.
It was bad. Worse than he could have imagined. Leaving the paper behind and walking into the city, he saw firsthand the truth of the Chronicle's articles. Storefronts were either boarded up or had their windows broken out. Looters strolled freely from stores and shops. He stopped counting the number of intoxicated people after seeing five drunken people along just one city block. The smoke from fires deeper in the city rose up behind buildings, although none of the structures near him were aflame. Gunshots rang out in the distance, both in bursts and single rounds. He passed a church with one door hanging only by the lower hinges, filled with people praying and crying. He was mildly surprised to see no one with a placard stating “THE WORLD IS ENDING.”
Looking up, he saw a line of bluish smoke across the sky. Much larger than a jet contrail, he guessed it was from the asteroid entering the Earth's atmosphere and passing overhead. He began to wonder when and where exactly it was projected to hit and at that moment, as if the thought made reality, he felt a great cracking sound in both body and mind.
Those on the streets looked about or hung their heads. The sound of prayers, crying and the drunken revels all ceased with nervous expectation. The gunfire stopped. For several moments, there was no sound, save for the distinctive crackling and popping sounds of the flames from the burning buildings.
Then a drunken man in a tuxedo, of all things, started a small dance on a street corner and yelled, “It missed! It missed! Who needs a Superduperman? It missed! It missed!”
Was it possible? Had the Nightfall asteroid passed by and spared them all?
And then the shockwave hit, sweeping him, the people, the buildings and all away.
