Chapter Twelve: I Do Whatever I Want

After escorting Lana back to the ranch, Peter paid a visit to the Kent family.

"I heard about the Lewis family, Peter," Jonathan said, pouring Peter a cup of coffee. "That’s an accident no one ever wants to see."

Martha sat beside her husband, listening quietly to their conversation, occasionally casting a glance at Peter. Six years had passed, and Peter hadn't changed a bit! It was as if time had truly stopped for him. As a woman, she couldn't help but feel a twinge of envy at his ability to retain such youth. She resolved to ask him about his skincare secrets one day.

Unaware of his wife’s envy, Jonathan asked, "Any leads on the grave robber?"

"No, not yet," Peter replied, deliberately omitting the fact that Mrs. Lewis was a suspect. "Those vault-style graves are simple; after the funeral, the casket is lowered, and the sexton places two concrete slabs on top, securing them with wire. It’s very easy to pry open."

He took a slow sip of his coffee, set the cup down, and asked, "Jonathan, have you ever heard of the walking dead?"

"The walking dead?" Jonathan paused, stunned. "You mean like the ones in George Romero’s movies?"

"Yes."

"I've seen plenty of those in films."

Peter shook his head. "No, I mean in reality."

He suspected that the land contaminated by kryptonite had the power to resurrect the dead. Otherwise, he couldn't explain why Vanessa would secretly bury her son there. Yet, resurrection was bizarre and impossible by any standard. Even if kryptonite possessed miraculous properties, it shouldn't be able to bring a dead person back to life—at most, it might force a corpse to stand up as a mindless, walking shell. He wanted to see if there were any such legends in Smallville. If there were, it would prove similar events had occurred before—that someone had buried a body there, the deceased had risen, and Vanessa, having witnessed it, had become convinced of it. Of course, it was also possible that Vanessa was simply mentally ill, which would render the whole theory moot.

"I’ve never seen anything like that," Jonathan said, thinking Peter was joking. "Unless it’s the zombie apocalypse."

Martha chimed in, "I have seen strange animals that acted like 'walking dead,' though they weren't human."

Hearing this, Jonathan turned to his wife in surprise.

"Are you sure you aren't joking, Martha?"

"Of course not," Martha recalled. "Remember the Plott Hound the Bills had?"

"Sure, that dog was vicious."

"Well, a month ago, I saw that dog get hit by a car. It was dead, but strangely, I saw it again half a month later."

"Maybe it was nursed back to health," Jonathan said noncommittally.

"But the dog became even more aggressive, and it gave off a strange, foul odor."

"So you think it became a 'walking corpse'?" Jonathan asked.

"I don't know. Peter’s mention of the walking dead just made me connect the two, but it’s possible Old Man Bill just got another dog that looked exactly like it. Who knows?"

Peter listened, nodding thoughtfully.

***

"That's the Bill place!" Clark pointed at a house. "He has a Plott Hound. Maybe..." Being somewhat afraid of dogs, he hesitated. "Maybe we could ask my godfather to help us get the kite back."

Clark’s eagle kite had landed in Old Man Bill’s yard. Though he wanted to retrieve it, the thought of the neighbor's guard dog made him lose his nerve.

"We can't have my dad help us with everything. I'm Homelander! Nothing can hurt me, and I do whatever I want!" The boy, nicknamed "Homey," said with his hands on his hips, full of confidence. He didn't understand why his father had given him such a nickname, but it sounded cool, and he liked it.

Casting a look of contempt at Clark, Homey marched toward the Bill residence. As he bent down to pick up the kite, he noticed the door to the shed suddenly creak open. A sense of foreboding washed over him, and he squinted, taking a step back.

"Bang!"

A second later, the shed door was burst open, and a massive hound charged at him.

"Shit!" Homey cursed, mimicking Peter, and took off running.

Clark, waiting outside, heard a low growl. To his horror, the hound burst out, chasing after Homey.

Seeing his friend being pursued, Clark bolted at top speed. In the face of danger, he forgot all about brotherhood.

"Help!" Homey cried out, but there was no one around, only the heavy, huffing sound of the vicious dog in pursuit.

Clark, having already gained distance, felt a pang of guilt and summoned the courage to turn back. Clutching a stick, he shouted, "Over here! Run this way, John!"

Homey sprinted toward him. Clark swung the stick, but the beast was unnaturally agile; it dodged, and Clark tumbled to the ground. The dog ignored him, lunging straight for Homey.

With a thud, the off-balance Homey hit the dirt. As the hound lunged, Homey grabbed the dog’s neck in a desperate attempt to keep its jaws away. The foul, rotting stench from the dog's mouth nearly made him pass out. Gritting his teeth, he squeezed the hound's throat as the red glow in his eyes intensified.

"Ah!"

Just as the dog was about to bite, laser beams erupted from Homey's eyes. The intense heat cut straight through the hound’s neck like a hot knife through butter. The creature’s movements suddenly stilled.

"Splat!"

The dog's head dropped onto Homey’s chest. Thick, viscous, foul-smelling black blood poured out like a waterfall, instantly covering the boy's face.

Clark stood up, frozen in shock at the scene before him. Homey stood a few feet away, clutching a dog's head, his face and body splattered with gore. The boy looked at Clark, his blood-drenched face twisted into a smile that looked worse than crying.