Man of Steel: The Official Movie Novelization

by Greg Cox

  * * *

  How do you find someone who’s spent a lifetime covering his tracks?

  Lois began back at Ellesmere, where she showed around a blurry surveillance photo of “Joe.” The military personnel wouldn’t speak to her, naturally, but at least she got Jed Eubanks to talk a little bit about his former employee.

  Off the record, of course.

  Returning to Metropolis, she looked for the urban legends that had sprung up in the mystery man’s wake. A wild story, posted on the internet, led her to a trucker bar in Yellowknife, where a sweet young waitress named Chrissy shared an amazing story about a scruffy young busboy—and an eighteen-wheeler that got reduced to scrap under mysterious circumstances. The rig had belonged to a trucker called Ludlow, but he hung up on Lois every time she got hold of him.

  Even so, it was a clue.

  One of many.

  The threads were tenuous, to be sure, and it was difficult to tell fact from fiction. Friends of friends of friends claimed to have seen “Joe,” or somebody who looked a lot like him. Lois followed every lead, all the way to the port of Dutch Harbor where the captain and crew of a crabbing boat—the Debbie Sue—told her about an enigmatic young greenhorn who apparently had been washed overboard.

  It had happened around the time an indestructible “burning angel” had rescued several endangered roughnecks from an exploding oil rig. Captain Heraldson, the skipper of the boat, conceded that the missing greenhorn might be the man in the photo Lois had showed him.

  His engineer, Byrne, was sure of it.

  As she worked her way back through the years, a profile began to emerge, albeit a murky one. For some, he was a guardian angel. For others, a cipher... a ghost who never quite fit in.

  Like the one who used to live in Smallville.

  Lois drove her rental car down the town’s main drag. When compared to Metropolis, the place certainly lived up to its moniker. A water tower bearing the name of the tiny rural community was the closest thing they had to a skyscraper. A large American flag was painted on the side of the local VFW. Pickup trucks were parked in front of the Sears department store. Old men sat on benches, watching the world go by. A banner advertised an upcoming church bake sale.

  A strolling couple even stopped to clean up after their bulldog.

  It seemed nice enough, as hick towns went, but all in all, it struck her as an unlikely home for the laser-eyed man of steel she had encountered in the Arctic. She would have expected him to come from Roswell, at least.

  Here’s hoping this isn’t a dead end, she thought. I’ve come a long way to leave empty handed.

  She pulled into a gas station to refill her tank and ask for directions. The friendly attendant pointed her to the pancake house down the road. Lois didn’t feel like pancakes at the moment, but she parked her car and went in search of the restaurant’s manager. He was a round-faced redhead in his early thirties.

  “Pete Ross?” she asked. “I’d like to talk to you about an accident that occurred when you were young. A school bus that went into the river.”

  No surprise, he remembered the incident vividly, as well as the quiet, reclusive classmate who had saved his life.

  A boy named Clark Kent.

  * * *

  The Kent family farm lay just outside the town, at the end of a long dirt road, and was surrounded by acres of cornfields. From the looks of things, the place had seen better days. The barns and silo needed painting. The blades of a rickety windmill rotated slowly in the breeze. A swing hung from a branch of an old maple tree. Chickens clucked in a pen.

  Lois got out of the car and approached the farmhouse. A dilapidated wooden porch creaked beneath her feet. She knocked on the front door, which rattled under her fist. A handsome older woman, wearing an apron over a floral dress, opened the door. She eyed Lois warily.

  “Mrs. Kent,” she said cheerily. “My name is Lois Lane. I’m with the Daily Planet.” Everybody knew the Planet, even out in the sticks. “I’d like to talk to you about your son.”

  Martha Kent’s face fell—try as she might, she was unable to conceal her reaction. She inhaled sharply, and her hand went to her heart. Lois got the impression that the woman had been dreading this moment—most likely for more than three decades.

  Looks like I’ve come to right place after all, she thought.

  C H A P T E R F I F T E E N

  The Smallville cemetery was located on a gentle hillside overlooking the town. A spiked iron fence enclosed the peaceful graveyard. Weathered headstones of varying age jutted from a well-tended lawn. Fading flowers rested atop the more recent graves, and many of the older ones as well.

  Twilight was falling as Lois contemplated the inscription on a modest granite marker.

  JONATHAN NATHANIEL KENT

  1951-1997

  Beloved Husband and Father

  A sudden wind rustled the branches of an old oak tree. Fallen leaves blew past her ankles. Footsteps sounded behind her, then stopped.

  She turned around to find Clark Kent, a.k.a. “Joe,” standing there. Although he had shaved off his beard, she instantly recognized the enigmatic baggage handler who had saved her life up north.

  I’d know those x-ray eyes anywhere.

  She wasn’t surprised to see him. In fact, she’d been expecting this.

  “I figured if I turned over enough stones, you’d eventually find me,” she said. “Once I knew what to look for, I started seeing a pattern. There’d be some kind of disaster. An earthquake, an oil rig failing... And a Good Samaritan would show up, doing things no human could possibly do.”

  He didn’t deny it. He just watched her silently, as if waiting for the inevitable questions, which she was eager to supply.

  “Where did you come from?” she said, and then the words just seemed to tumble out. “Why are you here? Let me tell your story.”

  But he remained wary.

  “What if I don’t want my story told?”

  “It’s going to get out eventually,” she argued. “Someone’s going to photograph you. Or figure out where you live.”

  Like I did, she thought.

  “Then I’ll just disappear again,” he said.

  “The only way you could disappear for good is if you stopped helping people altogether.” She looked him over, remembering how he’d saved her from that killer robot, and tended to her injuries afterward. “And I sense that’s not an option for you.”

  He frowned. Clearly, she had touched a nerve.

  “How’d you know that ship was there?” she asked.

  “I’m not sure,” he admitted. “I just had a feeling. Something always drawing me north.” He gazed down at the tombstone before them. “My dad used to keep these clippings of UFO sightings...”

  She could guess which ones. She had been researching the topic pretty thoroughly since her experiences on Ellesmere Island. She kept quiet, though, letting him talk as he finally started to open up.

  “I was born on another world. I think you know that. But the Kents found me and raised me as their own. They taught me how to be human. How to do right by people.” He looked at her, his eyes piercing. “If you keep going down this road, you’ll make it harder for me to do that.”

  He leaned over and brushed a fallen leaf off the tombstone.

  “My father believed that if the world found out who I really was, they’d reject me out of fear. And then I’d never be able to fulfill my purpose. He died because of that belief...”

  APRIL, 1997

  “I need to be somewhere I can do some good, Dad.”

  The Kent’s sturdy Jeep Wagoneer cruised down the highway. Clark, all of seventeen years and aching to get on with his life, rode shotgun beside his father. His mom was in the back seat with Shelby, their terrier pup, resting his furry head in her lap. They were taking I-35 to Wichita to visit relatives. Afternoon sunlight warmed the flat green terrain along the interstate.

  “The Army’s not the right place for you, Clark,” Martha said from th
e back. “I don’t know what you’re thinking, anyway. You’d never even pass the physical.”

  “She’s right,” Jonathan agreed, keeping his eye on the road. “There’s too much scrutiny.”

  “And there’s not here?” Clark sulked in his seat. “Half the town’s already suspicious of me.”

  It had been years, yet Lana had barely spoken to him since the bridge incident. People still walked on eggshells around him, when they weren’t giving him a hard time for being different.

  “Fine,” Martha said. “Then go to college. We talked about that. Kansas State’s a safer bet, anyway—”

  “I’m tired of ‘safe’.” He felt like he had been hiding forever. “I want do something useful with my life.”

  His father bristled behind the wheel.

  “So farming, feeding people, that’s not useful?”

  Clark groaned and looked out the window. Not this old argument again...

  “I didn’t say that,” he muttered. But it was too late. His dad launched into an all-too-familiar lecture.

  “Our family’s been farming for five generations, Clark.”

  “Your family, not mine,” Clark said sullenly. “I don’t even know why I’m listening to you. You’re not my dad. You’re just some guy who found me in a field.”

  “Clark!” his mom protested.

  “No, he’s right,” Jonathan said stiffly. He looked away from the road long enough to give Clark a stern look. “We’re not your parents. You don’t have to listen to us. We’re doing the best we can. And we’re making this up as we go along. So maybe our best isn’t good enough anymore.”

  Clark already regretted his harsh words. The last thing he wanted was to hurt his parents’ feelings, no matter how confused—and frustrated—he felt sometimes. He knew his folks were just trying to protect him.

  “Look, I’m sorry. I just—”

  “Hold on!” Jonathan said sharply as he hit the brakes. Traffic had slowed to stop all along the highway. Dozens of cars and truck were backed up across multiple lanes. Hail fell from the sky, bouncing off pavement and windshields.

  Uh-oh, Clark thought. This doesn’t look good.

  His parents shared a worried look. Tornado season had just begun, and they were smack dab in the middle of “Tornado Alley.” Anybody who grew up in Kansas knew what a sudden change in the weather could mean. A storm, and a twister, could arrive from out of the blue.

  A car was no place to be during a tornado. Worst came to worst, you were better off in a ditch than an exposed vehicle. Clark and his folks scrambled out of the SUV, joining hundreds of other travelers on the highway, which was now nothing but an endless parking lot.

  The air was muggy and still, full of warm, moist air. Everyone was staring to the southwest, where ominous black storm clouds were racing toward them. The low-hanging clouds flattened along the tops, so that they resembled a blacksmith’s anvil. A wall of gray hung beneath the billowing, black thunderheads.

  Then a funnel cloud dropped toward the vulnerable terrain below, snaking above the ground in a classic “stovepipe” shape. Tornado sirens sounded, warning everyone in the vicinity to seek cover.

  Easier said than done, Clark noted. Terrified drivers and passengers alike dashed back to their cars, but they weren’t going anywhere. The traffic was hopelessly snarled. Clark looked around for shelter. A solid building or structure was the best place to be during a tornado.

  “Go for the overpass!” his father shouted, pointing at a concrete structure several yards up the road. “Take cover!”

  Most people had the same idea. A tide of panicked humanity swept the Kents toward the overpass, even as hailstones continued to rain down on them. Chunks of ice, some as large as fists, crashed into the parked vehicles, denting hoods, cracking windshields, and setting off car alarms. A hailstone bounced harmlessly off Clark’s scalp, but others weren’t so lucky.

  He saw people stumbling as the hail assailed them. A little girl, who had somehow gotten separated from her family in the crush, cried forlornly. Jonathan scooped her up before she could be trampled.

  The funnel cloud touched down, turning into a full-fledged tornado. A vortex of spinning air churned up a thick cloud of dirt and debris, and was bearing down on the highway at terrifying speed. Trees and highway signs whipped back and forth. Sparks erupted as power lines were ripped loose. The twister looked like it was an F-4, maybe even an F-5.

  Clark knew that a tornado could travel thirty miles an hour or faster, which meant it was going to hit them in a matter of moments. Could they reach the overpass in time? And would it be enough to protect them? He wasn’t worried about himself, but the danger to everyone else was all too real.

  His mother froze and looked back at their Wagoneer. A look of dismay came over her face.

  “We forgot Shelby!”

  Clark remembered the puppy sleeping the back of the SUV. He heard the terrier barking frantically.

  “I’ll get him!” he shouted, turning back.

  “No!” Jonathan thrust the scared little girl into his arms. “Get your mom to the overpass. You have to protect her.”

  Clark watched as his father raced toward their truck. He wanted to chase after him, but he had to protect the girl, and his mother, too.

  The tornado was almost upon them; he could hear it roaring like a runaway train. Flying grit bounced off his face. The wind whipped his hair. He had to get the others to safety

  Hurry, Dad, he thought anxiously. It’s coming!

  Along with dozens of others, they reached the overpass and crowded beneath it. Clark looked back, hoping his father was right behind them. He saw his dad reach the truck and reach inside for the panicked terrier. Jonathan tucked Shelby under his arm and started to back out of the truck.

  Hurry! Clark thought, still holding onto the lost toddler. You have to get out of there!

  A compact car, caught up by the swirling vortex, fell from the sky onto the Wagoneer, crushing its cab. Shelby escaped from the crash, running for the overpass as fast as his four little legs could carry him, but Jonathan was trapped inside the smashed SUV.

  He struggled to free himself.

  “DAD!”

  Jonathan managed to wriggle free from the wreck. He made it onto the shoulder of the highway—just as the tornado touched down on top of him. A spinning cloud of uprooted dirt and debris whirled around him at hundreds of miles an hour, while the sky-high funnel cloud stretched overhead, all the way to a looming black thunderhead. Lighting flashed across the funnel, from one side to another.

  The air was gassy and hard to breathe.

  Clark spotted his father inside the twister. Handing the crying girl over to his mom, he shoved his way through the packed crowd, determined to rescue his father before it was too late. If he could save an entire school bus of kids from drowning, surely he could he snatch his dad from a tornado.

  But Jonathan must have guessed his son’s intentions. He locked eyes with his son, and shook his head grimly. The message was clear.

  No. Don’t expose yourself.

  Not for me.

  In that moment Clark hesitated, torn between his instincts and his father’s wishes. The lesson Jonathan had tried so hard to teach him—to hide his true nature from the world—slowed him a moment too long.

  The twister swept Jonathan up, carrying him away.

  “DAD!”

  * * *

  “I let my father die because I trusted him,” Clark said, standing before Jonathan Kent’s grave. “He was convinced that I had to wait, that the world wasn’t ready.” He lifted his gaze from the tombstone and looked into Lois’s eyes. “What do you think?

  She didn’t know what to say. She was no stranger to sob stories, having interviewed more than her share of refugees, political prisoners, and victims of crime, but she was deeply moved by what she had just heard. This man was carrying a lot on his broad shoulders. Maybe more than she could possible imagine.

  Then he walked away, leaving her
alone with her thoughts—and a dilemma.

  What was she going to do with his secret?

  C H A P T E R S I X T E E N

  “You better watch out, Lois.”

  Steve Lombard cornered her in the Daily Planet’s hectic bullpen. Rows of cubicles stretched all the way to the elevator banks. Framed front-page headlines, mounted on the walls, paid tribute to the paper’s illustrious history. Reporters tapped away at their computers while working the phones and internet. Deadlines and caffeine produced a constant buzz of activity.

  “Perry’s gunning for you,” Lombard said. An aging ex-jock, he had parlayed a brief, undistinguished career in the NFL into a cushy stint at the sports desk. His dark hair was thinning, while his once-toned body was losing its battle against junk food, booze, and Father Time.

  “He knows you’re Woodburn’s anonymous source and he can’t wait to rip you a new one.” He grinned at the hot water Lois had landed in. And for once, Lombard probably had his story straight.

  Lois approached Perry’s office like a condemned prisoner walking the last mile. Jenny, the chief’s new intern, was posted at a desk outside the office. She was a pretty brunette studying Journalism at Metropolis University.

  “Good luck,” Jenny said, lowering her voice. “Don’t listen to Lombard. He’s an ass-clown.”

  The girl clearly had the instincts of a born reporter.

  Lois gave her an appreciative look before heading in to face the music. She didn’t have to wait long. Perry let her have it with both barrels.

  “I told you not to run with this,” he growled. “And what did you do? You let Woodburn shotgun it all over the net.” He paced back and forth behind his desk, too worked up to sit still. Each time he stopped, he glared at her accusingly. “The publishers want to sue you!”

  Lois glanced through the glass partition at the bullpen, where a smirking Lombard drew a finger across his throat. “Ass-clown” was putting it mildly, she decided.

  Then she concentrated on calming her boss.

  “Well,” she said, “if it makes any difference, I’m dropping it. The alien, Ellesmere Island. Everything.”