Previously on Specimen S:
Around midnight, S stopped in the shade of a large oak tree to rest. His energy reserves were dipping. He was ravenously hungry too, but he had so little in the way of provisions. He sighed, acknowledging that he'd have to eat sparingly, until he could find a new source of food, and something to carry it in. He fished out an apple from one of his jacket pockets and ate it in silence. It tasted sweet to his tongue, more so than ever before. Perhaps it was his freedom that made it taste so delectable. He took a thoughtful sip from the plastic water bottle he'd taken with him, careful not to drink much. He turned his thoughts to the road ahead again, drawing his knees to his chest and wrapping his arms around his body against the cold. The temperature didn't bother him, but the uncertainties before him sent a very real chill down his spine nonetheless.
He'd need a place to hide out in during the daylight hours. He had to keep unseen. He couldn't risk being found - not by Trask, not by anyone. He wanted to travel as far as he possibly could before holing up for the day. But he also knew that if he saw someplace that offered a good place to hide, he'd be forced to stop early if it came to it. Sighing, he stood and brushed the grass from his pants. Then he took off again, running at top speed across the cold, silent, dark landscape.
Three hours later, he had passed through a few more state borders, though he was unaware of this fact. He came across a flat swath of land dotted with farmsteads. He wanted to keep going, but found the rest of his energy reserve flagging. He was quickly running out of steam. His pace slowed until he was moving at a very human jog.
He found himself on one of the farms. He was close by a barn. He could smell the fresh straw and the scent of cows. It would be warm inside, he knew, and probably had a place where he could rest. It was tempting, to say the least. But as he thought about it, he shook his head to himself. Too dangerous. He might be seen.
He moved on to the next farm.
The house was completely dark and quiet at that small hour of the morning. Next to the tidy farmhouse was a work shed. That would make a better hiding place, he decided. The door wasn't locked when he tried it, and he cautiously pushed it open. It groaned slightly on its hinges, but it was a soft sound. S stopped and listened nonetheless, but he didn't hear anyone in the house stirring. Emboldened, he pushed the door open wider, then slipped inside. He shut the door behind him.
Even in the dark, S could see the orderliness of the shed. Everything had a place. And almost everything was in its designated place. A few tools lay scattered on a work bench, perhaps dropped in haste to get to dinner, perhaps left out for quick access in finishing the project they'd been employed for in the morning. S had never seen such a variety of items, and couldn't even begin to imagine what they might be used for.
But the tidiness of the place was somewhat comforting. He'd lived his whole life in a place where military neatness had been strictly adhered to. It made the new setting feel almost familiar. And yet, that worried S. Were the people in the house military personnel? Did they know Trask? But, S also took comfort from the fact that despite the orderliness of the place, some things were somewhat out of place, broken, or disordered. Trask had never allowed for that, not even in Jenson's private office. If these people could tolerate things being out of place, surely they couldn't be military - could they?
There was a faint trace of paint fumes in the air. S could tell that, even without the help of his burgeoning super sense of smell. It wasn't hard to see where it was coming from. An easel stood in one corner of the shed, a canvas still on it. S wandered over to it and inspected the painting. A crude landscape was splashed across the canvas, still unfinished, and still lacking a sense of depth. S wasn't a good judge of art, but he could see the places where it still needed more paint. He thought that whoever's skilled hand had been working on it would probably succeed in making it a very nice picture indeed. Already, unfinished though it still was, it exuded a kind of peace that seemed to leap from the rough canvas and straight into his body.
S turned away from the painting reluctantly, giving thought now to where he might sleep. He saw a pile of loose straw in one corner of the room. It smelled dry and fresh. It was both welcoming and inviting. S quickly shed his jacket and went to the straw. As much as he could, he buried himself down into his pauper's bed, throwing the jacket on top of his body as a sort of makeshift blanket. Soon, only his head peeked out from the straw. He was almost instantly wrapped in a deep, dreamless, restful sleep.
***
December 24, 1978
S slept deeply as night faded into morning. He did not see the sunrise. He did not hear the few winter birds calling to one another. And he certainly did not hear the carefree whistling as the man entered into his work shed, "Joy To The World" spilling out of his pursed lips. At least, S didn't hear these things at first. But as the man moved about the shed, S slowly floated up out of the deep sleep he'd fallen into.
Near panic seized his heart as he realized that he'd slept longer than he'd anticipated. He'd meant to slip out early enough to escape detection by anyone. But he'd been so exhausted the night before, when he'd finally crashed in his makeshift bed. Now he was caught. Now he would pay the price for his carelessness.
The happy whistling stopped, fully jolting S into complete wakefulness. Every muscle in his body immediately tensed, ready to run. He opened his eyes and found himself staring into the frowning, yet not unkind, face of the farmer who owned the shed. S swallowed hard, looking for a way to flee, without knocking over the man standing before him.
"Hi there, son," the man said in a soft voice. "Don't be afraid. I won't hurt you."
S reflexively grabbed his jacket to him as he sat up fully. He backed away from the man, not trusting the words he was saying. Trask was a good liar. What made this man any different?
"Hey now, please don't leave," the man said, trying again to gain his trust, and seeing S' intention to flee.
He was still standing right in S' way. The boy was trying to make up his mind if he should simply swerve around the farmer or not. He felt much stronger than he had the night before, as he lay in a warm pool of sunlight, drifting in through an old, but clean, window. He was certain he could hit even higher speeds than he'd managed the night before. He could be gone, miles away, before the man even knew what had happened.
And yet...
He dared not exhibit his special abilities.
Not in front of this stranger. Not even though S was certain he could flee where the man could not hope to follow. And not in broad daylight. There was no telling who else might bear witness to his special speed. There was no telling if Trask and his team had discovered his absence yet, or if this man wasn't somehow one of Trask's spies. And there was no telling how close a search party might be.
"You must be freezing out here," the man said, looking around for a spare coat or some blankets. There were none. He started to slip out of his own thick coat. "Here," he said as he shrugged out of one sleeve.
S shook his head emphatically. No.
"Nonsense," the man scoffed in a gentle tone. "You need it more than I do."
"No, thanks," S said quietly. "I'm okay."
The farmer shook his head and took off his coat anyway. He cautiously approached S, trying not to frighten the child. When he was close enough, he draped the tan garment over the boy's shoulders. The coat was very heavy - perfectly suited for the freezing temperatures. It smelled nice too, in its own way - like wind and rain, grass and coffee. S felt oddly comforted by the smell. It was so different than the stuffy, sterile environment of Bureau Thirty-Nine's compound.
"You'll be cold," the boy pointed out, his eyes downcast.
The man chuckled. "I'll be all right. I've got my thickest sweatshirt on."
S' eyes flickered briefly to the man and saw that he was telling the truth. Then his eyes darted back down to the straw he was still partly buried beneath. The man pulled over a stool to sit on, giving S some space. Again, S had to fight down the desire, the almost overwhelming urge, to run as fast as he could.
"So, what's your name, son?" the man asked.
S couldn't tell if he was trying to ferret out information or just genuinely curious. He shook his head. That made the man frown. Was he angry with S? Would he want to hurt S, the same as Trask?
"Well," the farmer said after a moment, filling the gap of silence that had fallen. "I'm Jonathan. Jonathan Kent. Want to tell me who you are? Where you come from? If you're lost or in trouble, maybe I can help you."
"Can't," S said, shrugging.
"Can't?"
"Don't have a name," he said after a moment, mumbling mostly to himself.
"Everyone has a name," Jonathan said, troubled. "Someone had to have called you something."
S bit his lip in thought. Could he trust this man? Did he dare? He could lie and use a false name. He could always say Steve Jenson, for example. But that didn't seem right to S, to lie like that. Cameron had always punished him with the green rock if he found out that S had told an untruth. And, he admitted to himself, it wasn't particularly smart to use any name in conjunction with Bureau Thirty-Nine. But nothing else came to mind.
"No name," he insisted after a long pause. Then, without even realizing it, he added, "Just S."
"S?" the man - Jonathan - asked, confusion on his tongue. "That's not a name for a young boy like you."
S shrugged. "That's all anyone's ever called me."
"Okay then. S. Where do you come from?"
S shrugged. "Not sure."
Jonathan frowned again. "Where's your family? Are you lost?"
S shook his head. "No family."
"No family," Jonathan echoed, shaking his head.
S' reluctance to say much gave Jonathan a very bad feeling. Was the boy hurt? Was he the victim of abuse? Was he a drifting, homeless boy? Had he run away from home? Jonathan thought hard. He knew a great deal of people living in the immediate area. He knew everyone in Smallville, in fact, and much of their extended families. But this child, S, he did not recognize at all. How far had the boy traveled? And to do so in the middle of winter with a thin jacket made almost of parachute material! It bothered him immensely.
S studied Jonathan's face. A word came to him, one he'd heard once, that summed up his situation, and might take away some of the concern on the farmer's face. It meant a child with no parents. It meant no mother to love him. It meant no father to have pride in him.
"I'm an orphan," he said quietly.
"Oh, I'm so sorry, son," Jonathan said.
S had noticed the ease in which the word "son" came from the farmer's lips. He knew the man didn't mean it - S was not his child after all. But it sent a little thrill through S to hear someone speak with such affection towards him. Jenson had always been as gentle with S as possible, but there had been no true love there. But this man was different. Somehow, S could feel a genuine feeling of compassion coming from him. It made S' heart ache, knowing that he'd likely never experience it again, once darkness fell and he was free to move on.
"I should contact the Sheriff," Jonathan said. "He might be able to locate some extended family who are missing you."
"NO!" S yelled, pure terror engulfing him.
It was the first time he'd made eye contact with Jonathan. S' eyes widened and the color drained from his face. He stood in a flash, clutching his jacket to his chest. He made a move for the door, but Jonathan caught him.
"What's wrong?" Jonathan asked, now extremely concerned. "Take it easy."
"Let me go!" S demanded.
He knew he was stronger than this kindly farmer. But he'd use his strength only if it was necessary. He didn't want to hurt the man in any way. He wasn't a monster, the way Trask wanted him to be.
"Take it easy," Jonathan repeated. "Please, don't run. I just want to help you."
He relaxed his grip on S, trusting the boy not to run. S stood in place a moment, slightly dumbstruck. This man trusted him not to flee. He'd almost embraced S while preventing his flight out the door. He hadn't been afraid of S. True, he had no reason to suspect the things that set S apart from normal people. But it had felt kind of good, to be held by someone. Everyone in Bureau Thirty-Nine kept their distance from him. Even Jenson rarely ever touched him, the once familiar pats on his shoulder now a thing of the distant past.
"Okay then," Jonathan said, sitting back down. "You want to come in the house so we can talk?"
S shook his head.
Jonathan nodded, playing along. "That's fine. We can talk here. Now, what was that all about, hmm?"
"Can't," S said, shooting a nervous glance at the door. There was no obstacle this time, if he needed to flee. "Can't tell anyone."
"Why not?" Jonathan prodded.
"They'll tell him." S shuddered involuntarily, wondering inwardly why he was telling this farmer anything. "I can't go back. I'm afraid."
"Him? Who?"
"Can't say," S insisted.
"I can't help unless I know the problem. Is this person a family member?"
S shook his head. "No family at all."
"A caretaker then?"
S nodded. It was close enough to the truth. Although, S thought, master was more like it.
"Does he hurt you?"
"Sometimes," S said, feeling somewhat ashamed of the admission.
"What does he do?"
"I can't say."
How was he supposed to describe the torment Trask doled out with the Kryptonite he had? It would raise too many unwelcome questions. And though S felt Jonathan was a good man, he still couldn't be sure if he trusted him yet.
"Please," S pleaded. "I can't go back."
"All right," Jonathan said. "I'll do what I can to help. Starting with...when was the last time you ate something?"
"I had an apple last night," S replied.
"You must be starving," Jonathan said. "Why don't you come inside the house? Martha will fix you up with all the pancakes and buttermilk you can stomach. And I'm sure she'll be glad of the company."
"No, but thanks," S said, though it was only through sheer willpower that he refused. But his traitorous stomach grumbled loudly. "I should leave. I don't want to bother you," he weakly tried to cover for his stomach.
Jonathan wasn't buying it. "It's no trouble."
"No," S said again, shaking his head.
"All right, suit yourself. I'm going to pop into the house really quick to get myself a cup of coffee. You can leave if you'd like. I won't stop you. But if you want to stay, I'll be right back."
Without giving S the time to respond, the farmer was out of his chair and heading for the door. S used his special vision to watch as the door closed behind Jonathan. The man crossed the yard, hunched a little against the chill wind that was blowing. He quickly reached the door to the house and went inside. S watched as the man moved through the neat, well-kept farmhouse, until he was in the kitchen.
A woman was there, standing at the stove, checking on various pans and the contents of each. Jonathan went over to her, hugged her tightly, and planted a kiss on her lips. The woman - Martha, Jonathan had called her - kissed him back, then pulled away, smiling. She said something to Jonathan, and S realized with a sudden start that he should probably employ his sensitive hearing as well.
"Need an extra helping," Jonathan was saying.
"Jonathan," the woman said in a warning tone. "The doctor said..."
"It's not for me," he gently cut in.
"Oh? Do we have company? Wayne? No, wait, he's out picking up his daughter from the airport this morning. Well, whoever it is, have them come in for goodness' sake! It's freezing out."
"It's not anyone we know," Jonathan said, trying to explain. S thought the man's voice seemed to take a delicate tone. "And he won't come in. Martha, I don't want to upset you, but...well...there's a child out in our shed."
"A child?" Martha said, her voice catching a little. "What's a child doing here?"
Jonathan shook his head. "I don't know. He doesn't seem to trust me enough to talk much. But I think he's in a bad situation."
"Oh my. We've got to help then."
"I agree. But he won't open up to me. He seems half-starved though, the poor kid. And really ill-equipped for being out in this cold weather. Say...where'd we put that space heater?"
"Basement, back left corner, next to the box of Christmas lights we no longer use."
S continued to watch as the man left the kitchen. He let the farmer go out of his sight, and focused instead on Martha. She turned back to her cooking, removing the bacon from where it was crisping, cracking open some eggs to fry, and flipping pancakes. S' mouth was watering. And his stomach was practically throwing a tantrum.
He should leave now, he reasoned. Before these people learned anything further about him. Before he brought trouble to them if Cameron located him. Before he could allow himself to feel any connection to these people. He'd been foolish so far, in divulging the small amount of information he had.
Yet he stayed rooted to the spot. There was something about this place. Something comforting. Something that spoke to him on some deep, primal level. Something he couldn't quite put his finger on. He wanted to explore that nagging sensation further, to see what it was. But the more he tried to grapple with it, the more it slipped away from him.
Had he known any better, he would have called it a sense of home and family.
He snapped out of his thoughts as Jonathan reemerged from the basement, hauling a space heater with him. Martha piled a tray high with plates of food, steaming mugs of coffee, and utensils. Then she grabbed her coat, put it on, and threw her husband's spare coat over her arm. She followed him out of the house, back to the shed.
S allowed his special senses to fade back into the range of a normal human. He waited patiently as the two farmers entered the shed. Jonathan set down the space heater, plugged it in, and turned it on, ensuring that it was mostly focused on S. Then he dragged over a battered wooden table that wobbled slightly, and a couple of chairs that had seen much better days.
"Hello there," Martha said, as she seated herself in a chair. "I'm Martha."
"I'm S," the boy offered, hesitantly.
"Well, S, it seems I made far too much food. I'd love it if you helped us with it."
S knew exactly what the woman was trying to do. But he was so very hungry that he allowed himself to nod. Yes, he would stay and eat with them. Martha gave him a warm smile, and quickly fixed him a heaping plate of food. S ate with gusto. It was the best food he'd ever had. Usually, his meals consisted of sandwiches. When he was given a hot meal, it was always closer to lukewarm and completely unseasoned. He'd overheard Trask tell the man who cooked the meals not to waste any effort on S' meals. But this food was incredible. It was piping hot and so flavorful as to be almost overwhelming for S and his keen senses of smell and taste.
He ate two large helpings, even though he was getting quite full after the first one. It was just too delicious to stop. As promised, there was a glass of buttermilk to go with his breakfast. S downed the glass in six large gulps, pleasantly surprised by the taste.
"Feeling a little better now?" Martha asked in a kind voice.
S nodded. "Yes, thank you. It was very good."
"I'm glad you enjoyed it. Would you like to come in the house now?"
"No thanks. I can't."
"Of course you can," Jonathan said.
S just shook his head.
"All right," the man said after a moment. "Martha? Let me help you bring this stuff back in the house."
Martha nodded and rose to her feet. In a matter of minutes, the dirty dishes, utensils, cups, and other items were packed back up on the tray. Jonathan lifted it and ushered Martha back to the farmhouse. As before, S listened in with his special hearing, and watched with his unique vision.
"I don't know, Martha," Jonathan was saying. "He's terrified. Poor kid."
"He's such a beautiful little boy," Martha said, dabbing at her eyes with her apron. "I just want to take him into my arms and make his world better."
"I know," Jonathan said gently. "But whatever he's been through, it's clearly left some deep scars. If we're going to help him, we have to be patient with him. We have to let him learn to trust at his own pace."
"I know," Martha said, her voice a sigh. "Oh, Jonathan. I always wondered what it would be like to have a child here on Christmas Eve. I just never thought it would be like this."
S heard the woman attempt to stifle a sob. She didn't quite succeed. Jonathan heard the sob too, and quickly stepped to her side and embraced her. For a long time, neither of them spoke. Martha's shoulders shook as she wept. That confused S. Why was Martha crying? Did she not want him there? Perhaps it would be best to move on, before he hurt anyone else. Perhaps he should brave the road once more, even though the sun was still up. It had been reckless to stay in this place for as long as he had.
He was so lost to his thoughts that he really didn't pay much attention to the things he could see happening within the house. He didn't really register the words that passed between the farmer and his wife. And so, he was a little startled when Jonathan reentered the shed. S snapped out of his altered senses, back to normal once again.
"Look, S, I have to go into town for a little while," Jonathan said, a kind smile on his face. "You can stay here if you like, for as long as you like. You can go on into the house if you change your mind. Or you can leave. It's completely up to you. You can come with me in my truck if you'd like a ride into town."
"No, thank you," S said. The last place he wanted to be was in a town full of other people.
"All right then. If you do leave, please just turn off the heater. This is the switch right here." Jonathan pointed it out to S. "I'm glad to have met you, S."
"Do you..." S started, clearing his throat before trying again. "Do you want me to leave?"
Jonathan shook his head. "No, of course not. But I realize that I can't make you stay if you want to leave. Personally, I'd love if you stayed for a while. So would Martha. But...it's your choice."
S merely nodded his understanding. A small wave of relief flooded his body. These people weren't looking to get rid of him. They wanted him around. He only wondered why that was the case. Did they suspect that he was more than he seemed? Were they like Trask, looking to find a way to control him? He didn't think that was the case though.
Jonathan didn't wait for an answer. He merely turned and exited the shed, twirling his keys around one finger. His whistling started up again, this time a cheerful rendition of "Hark The Herald Angels" coming out from between his lips. S was unfamiliar with the tune, but it seemed somehow uplifting as he listened. Then Jonathan got into his truck, slammed the door shut, and started the vehicle. The engine roared into life and soon faded as the truck took off down the road.
For several hours, S remained in the quiet solitude of the shed. He wasn't sure what to do now. These simple farmers were so kind to him. He almost felt he could trust them. But his life thus far had taught him that trust wasn't something he should give. And besides, if these were truly good people - and S thought they probably were - he didn't want to get them in trouble if Trask tracked him here. Yet, he didn't want to leave either. He liked these people. And he was afraid of the road ahead, if he chose to leave.
He felt trapped, no matter what choice he made.
The day wore on, and soon, the short winter day grew gray as the light waned and heavy clouds rolled in. Before long, it began to snow, lightly at first but steadily becoming heavier. S peeked out of the shed's window, watching as the white flakes pelted the ground and stuck there. It would be a perfect opportunity to slip away, he knew. No one would brave the storm that night, not if they could help it. But he would leave footprints behind. Although, he reasoned, for as long as the storm lasted, it would fill in the impressions made by his battered sneakers.
At that moment, Jonathan's truck rumbled up the driveway and came to a halt. S heard the engine cut off. Jonathan got out of the cab and swiftly began to unload bags from the back. S watched as the man whisked the bags into the house. When everything was safely inside, S watched as the brightly colored boxes appeared from each shopping bag. Jonathan handed each wrapped box to Martha, who arranged them beneath a tree that stood in their living room, for what reason, S couldn't begin to guess. He supposed it had something to do with the holiday. He'd overheard a couple of the Bureau Thirty-Nine men discussing picking out trees with their families, but he'd never quite figured out why they did it. Jonathan was talking to Martha, and S realized too late that he'd once again neglected to employ his hearing. He tuned into the two farmers.
"There's one other thing," Jonathan was saying. "I stopped by the Sheriff's office before I went shopping."
"Oh?" Martha's voice sounded hesitant, tremulous.
"I had to. You know that."
"I know. Wh...what did he say?" Martha wouldn't - or couldn't - meet his gaze, and instead, shifted the boxes on the floor.
"I gave Frank a description of S."
S was stunned. His legs turned to jelly beneath him. Jonathan had told someone about him! Someone with authority. He was certain that Trask would be showing up any minute to come collect him. And when he arrived, he would hurt S. Maybe kill him. S refused to put that possibility past the man. And to think! He'd almost trusted these people! How could they betray him like that?
"And...?" Martha prodded.
Jonathan shook his head. "There's no missing persons report filed for any child matching S' description."
That caught S' attention, and he stopped short as he approached the door, making ready to leave. He wanted to hear the rest. Apparently, Trask hadn't reported his disappearance to the authorities. S wasn't world savvy, but he knew that Trask had to know of his disappearance by now. But what did that mean?
"What does that mean?" Martha asked, her words echoing S' thoughts.
"Now, Martha, please, don't get your hopes too high," Jonathan said, sitting on the couch with her. "But...Frank says that S can stay here for a while, at least until the adoption agency opens back up after the New Year. If he truly has no living relatives, that is."
"Adoption...?"
Jonathan sighed. "Well, probably the foster care system. Frank says the odds of a child S' age getting placed in a permanent, adoptive home are pretty low."
"Everyone wants babies," Martha sighed in turn. "Maybe..."
"I've thought of that," Jonathan said, nodding to her unspoken thought. "We'd have to wait and see, of course. I just don't want to get our hopes too high. We've been turned down before."
"But that was years ago. Surely by now...?"
"I don't know. We can try though...if we can."
S frowned. What did Jonathan mean, "turned down before?" What did he mean by "try?"
"I would do anything..." Martha said softly, closing her eyes for a brief moment. "Anything."
"You know I would too."
"I know." She paused for a the span of two heartbeats. "So...now what?"
"Is he still here, do you know?" Jonathan asked, nodding vaguely toward where the shed lay beyond the farmhouse walls.
Martha shook her head. "I'm not completely sure. I haven't seen him leave the shed. But I haven't been perched at the window in a stakeout either. I wanted to go back into the shed...but I forced myself not to. You're right about one thing. We can't force ourselves onto him. If he wants to trust us, he will. I just wish I could figure out a way to help him."
"You're a strong lady," Jonathan complimented her.
"Not as strong as you think," Martha said, sighing. "I spent part of the afternoon in tears. I've...we've...been praying for so long. I just...I wish..."
"That maybe he's the answer to those prayers," Jonathan finished for her. "I've been wondering the same thing myself, all day."
Martha could only nod.
S' grip on the doorknob tightened a bit as he tried to puzzle out what Martha had meant. Why would he be an answer to anyone's prayers? Did they want to use him? He'd overheard Trask calling S the answer to his prayers too. And Cameron had wanted S as a weapon, as a means to commit mass murder, as a conduit to bring suffering and pain to others.
Martha choked back another tear. "I already love that boy," she whispered, as Jonathan took her in his strong arms.
"Me too," he whispered back. "Me too."
Love?
S' hand slipped from the doorknob. He understood what the word meant. But he'd never known anyone to love him. These simple farmers had only just met him, and yet, they claimed to love him. It was impossible, wasn't it? But then again...they didn't know he was listening in on them. They didn't know that S could hear their every word. It wasn't as if they were trying to appeal to him, to entice him to stay.
Maybe, just for this night, he would remain. In the morning, he could decide what to do.
To Be Continued...
