The Death and Life of Superman (27 page)

Clark—!
Tears began to stream down Lana’s cheeks. She was one of the few people on Earth who knew that the boy from her hometown, the boy that she’d loved so very much, had gone out into the world to become Superman.

Lana had met both Clark Kent and Peter Ross at old Eisenhower Elementary School in Smallville, she remembered. She was infatuated with Clark from the day she started first grade, much to the young boy’s dismay.

Like many other six-year-old boys, Clark thought that all girls were cooties. He gradually came to revise his opinion—of girls in general and Lana in particular. By the time they entered their teens, Clark had come to regard Lana as one of his closest friends.

By the time they reached high school, Lana’s infatuation with Clark had grown into something much stronger. She was perceptive enough to realize that her feelings for him were deeper than his for her, but she lived in hope that he would come around. As for Peter . . . well, she was always fond of Peter, and she knew that he liked her. He was always there for her if she needed him. But there was no one quite like Clark for Lana. She always thought he was someone very special.

It wasn’t until their senior year that she discovered just how special he truly was.

Clark had shown up on her doorstep one moonlit evening and asked Lana to come for a walk. As they strolled along an old country road, part of her was hoping that he’d come to propose. But instead, Clark started to talk about world events, about war and crime and so many other things.

“One man
can
make a difference, Lana, if he’s the right man. And I think, maybe, I was meant to be that man.”

“You, Clark?” She smiled up at him. If any other boy had said such a thing, she would have giggled. “Well, you’re a terrific athlete—and smart as a whip! But what can you do that a thousand other people can’t?”

“Lots of things, Lana. Things maybe nobody else on Earth can do. I’ve been learning things about myself. Let me show you.”

And with that, Clark scooped Lana up in his arms and flew off into the night sky.

Lana was astonished to see the land zooming by beneath them. The rush of the wind nearly took her breath away. Oddly, she was not afraid, and certainly not repulsed, to be borne along in Clark’s strong embrace. Even so, when they finally touched down on the outskirts of San Diego, the first thing she asked was whether Clark had considered that this stunt might scare her out of her wits.

Clark seemed genuinely surprised. “Gosh, no, Lana. I . . . I guess I was just so sure that you’d understand.”

And so she had.

They flew around the world that night. In Hong Kong, Clark bought several small packets of firecrackers and lit them for Lana from yards away with his heat vision. Atop the cliffs of Dover, he used his thumbnail to carve her initials on a flat white stone. Her initials only, she noticed, not theirs. Clark asked her to throw the stone out into the English Channel. Then he dove in and recovered it for her, all within seconds.

Throughout that magical night, Lana came to realize that Clark wasn’t showing off. He wasn’t even really trying to impress her; rather he was sharing a secret, showing her why he felt a responsibility to help as many people as he could. With every incredible power and ability he displayed, Lana became more and more certain that Clark wasn’t going to propose to her. Not then, and not ever. He was looking for a confidant, not a mate, and he’d chosen her.

When they finally landed back in Kansas, Clark escorted Lana home and kissed her good-bye. The kiss was short and sweet . . . and on her forehead. It was the sort of kiss a brother would give his sister.

And then he’d flown away—away from Lana, away from Smallville, away from any life they might have shared—as she knew he must.

Years after graduation, when Lana read about the mysterious flying man who had saved the space plane, she knew immediately that it had to be Clark. And when an in-depth article on Superman saw print days later under Clark Kent’s byline, she’d laughed out loud.
Talk about hiding in plain sight!

Her laughter was a reassurance that she’d finally gotten over the pain of Clark’s leaving. She and Clark had kept in touch, and with every year, she felt more honored that he’d taken her into his confidence. She had been the first person outside of his parents who’d known about his powers, the first he himself had told. That had to count for something. Lana Lang knew that she would never be Mrs. Clark Kent, but in a way she had become Superman’s sister. That, she told herself, ought to be enough for anyone. And eventually it was.

She’d faithfully kept his secret all those years, even from Peter.

Dear, sweet Peter. I could never tell him. Not even now.

Lana’s hands shook as she shoved quarters into the slot of the pay phone and punched in the area code and number. There was a buzz and a click, and then an old familiar voice answered. It was all Lana could do to keep her voice from breaking.

“H-hello, Jonathan? It’s Lana. Pete and I were on the road when the news came over the radio. I told him I wanted to call . . . to see if you’d heard from . . . from Clark—!” She lost control and sank against the side of the booth, sobbing. “Oh, Jonathan, I still can’t believe it! He
can’t
be gone . . . he just can’t be! It has to be some horrible mistake!”

“I wish it were, Lana, but Martha and I—we saw the whole thing on the television.” Jonathan Kent paused to listen and dabbed at his eyes with a corner of his bandanna. “Martha? She’s holding up as well as could be expected. Neither of us . . . ever really expected we’d have to mourn a child. Guess we were just foolin’ ourselves. There’s not a one of us who isn’t mortal. Not even Superman. I expect that this’s made just about everybody stop and think a little.”

At her end of the line, Lana could see Peter replacing the pump handle. Now, at least, she could tell him that she’d talked to Clark’s parents. She could tell him that their old friend was among Metropolis’s missing.

Now she would have an excuse for her tears.

Word of Superman’s death spread quickly across the country and throughout the world. In years to come, all who were alive that day and old enough to realize the significance of the event would recall where they were and what they were doing when they heard the news.

The streets of Fayerville, South Carolina, were dark and quiet. Aside from three functioning streetlamps, the only real source of illumination on Main Street was the light that came from Gasper’s Diner. Other than the sheriff’s office and the little county hospital on the edge of town, Gasper’s was the only establishment in Fayerville that you could count on to be open around the clock. Tonight the diner was all but deserted. The only customer in the place was Sheriff James Frye, who’d wandered in at around half past nine for a late dinner and stayed on to keep Daisy and Clovis Gasper company.
Not a good night for anybody to be alone,
thought Frye. He drained the last few drops of coffee from his mug, and Daisy reflexively reached over to refill it.
Not a good night at all.

None of them had exchanged more than a few words for over an hour. They just sat watching the shifting images on the tiny portable TV that Daisy had plugged in at the end of the counter. The old Soder Cola clock on the far wall was grinding its way to eleven when the big stylized letter G filled the screen.

“Our continuing coverage of the death of Superman will resume in one half hour. This is the Galaxy Broadcasting System. We return you now to your local affiliates.”

The network logo abruptly disappeared, replaced by an earnest-looking gray-haired man who looked up mournfully from a stack of papers piled before him. “Good evening, this is
News-Five at Eleven.
Tonight’s top story: The city of Metropolis begins to dig out of the rubble as the world mourns the passing of a great man.”

“Lordy.” The lanky short-order cook slapped his hands down onto the counter. “Didn’t anything
else
happen in the world today?”

Sheriff Frye looked up from his coffee. “If it did, Clovis, it doesn’t matter.”

“Yeah . . . reckon yer right, Sheriff.”

“Course he is!” Tears began welling up in Daisy’s eyes, and she gave her brother that hurt expression that their mother had used so many times before to put him in his place. “We all owe our lives to Superman, an’ you know it!”

Sheriff Frye handed the waitress his napkin, motioning for her to dry her eyes. “A lotta folks’re beholden to that man, Daisy, the whole world over!”

In a rough-and-tumble pub at a settlement in the Australian outback, the usually rowdy patrons grew still, as news of Superman’s death came over the satellite dish. At one end of the bar, a station manager turned to a tall, broad-shouldered man in the uniform of the Australian Special Forces. “You met ’im once, didn’t you, Jack?”

Lieutenant Jack Higbee threw back his drink. “Yeah. It was back during the bloody alien invasion. He saved my men and me from getting blown sky-high!” The lieutenant set a wad of bills down on the bar and nodded to the bartender. In minutes, everyone’s glass was filled, and the teary eyed bartender was filling a pint for himself. Jack raised his own glass high, and the whole pub followed suit.

“To the finest bloke who ever drew air! To Superman . . . God bless ’im!”

In downtown Tokyo, people stood shoulder to shoulder, filling the streets, as giant display screens carried a worldwide address by Lex Luthor II.

“There is reason to mourn, but not to panic.” Luthor’s mouth moved slightly out of sync as translators filled in. “Superman may be gone, but Supergirl and Team Luthor are still on the job.”

In Jidda, a Saudi sheik watched Luthor’s address with interest. He knew of Luthor as a corporate leader with extensive oil holdings, and he respected the young CEO’s ability to take charge. But the sheik felt trepidation when a close-up of Supergirl appeared on his wide-screen television. If an emergency in his country should require her assistance, how would his people react to this unveiled young woman?

In a small African village, a young couple sat before a battered, old shortwave radio, listening.

“Superman, it will be remembered, personally flew tons of grain and medical supplies to remote areas during last year’s drought. Many of our people are alive today, thanks to Superman.”

The woman ran a hand down over her swollen belly. She and her husband were two of those many people. Now she was pregnant, and she again knew what it was like to be fearful. Whatever world they were bringing their child into, it would be a world without a Superman.

In Moscow, crowds gathered around sound trucks broadcasting the news in front of the Kremlin. Yes, it was true. Superman—the famous Superman, who had saved a city of half a million people in the Urals—was dead.

In Paris, pedestrians clustered around a taxi to listen to the news from its radio. Many wept openly.

In London, Rome, and Berlin . . . in Cairo, Jerusalem, and Mecca . . . in Beijing, New Delhi, and Islamabad . . . in thousands of cities, towns, and villages, people around the globe mourned in public and in private.

Superman was dead.

The world would never be the same.

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