---
After riding Tyson back to the stables and gently helping Lana down, Peter Patrick—still in his dusty boots and denim jacket—mounted up again and rode toward a familiar home on the outskirts of town.
The Kent farm.
Jonathan and Martha greeted him with warm smiles. Kansas manners never changed.
"I heard what happened with the Louis family," Jonathan said as he poured Peter a hot cup of coffee. "No one wanted something like that. Tragedy all around."
Martha sat beside her husband, hands folded. Her eyes, however, kept flicking back to Peter.
It had been six years since they met him—since the spaceship incident—and not a day had left its mark on him. His features were sharp, skin smooth, posture upright. He hadn't aged at all.
As a woman pushing her fifties, Martha couldn't help but feel a twinge of envy. She was definitely asking Peter about his skincare routine later.
Oblivious to his wife's curiosity, Jonathan took a sip and leaned forward.
"Any leads on the body snatcher?"
Peter gave a half-shrug. "Not yet."
He deliberately left out the fact that Louis's wife was the prime suspect.
"The coffin design was basic—sleeve-style," Peter added. "After the ceremony, they lower the coffin into a concrete vault, then seal the top with two cover plates. Wire loops around both ends to lock it down. Easy enough to pry open if someone's determined."
Jonathan nodded grimly.
Then Peter leaned in. His voice dropped slightly.
"Jonathan, you ever heard of anything called… Deadman?"
The farmer blinked. "You mean like Romero's zombies?"
Peter nodded. "Something like that. But I mean… in real life."
He didn't elaborate, but in truth, he was growing increasingly suspicious about the effects of Kryptonite-contaminated land. It wasn't just the body theft that troubled him—it was Vanessa's choice to bury her son in that specific location.
If she believed that land could bring her child back… she must've seen something.
But Kryptonite—even with its odd properties—shouldn't be able to resurrect the dead.
Reanimate, maybe.
But resurrection?
That crossed into something else.
So Peter was here to investigate quietly. Because if this wasn't madness… it was something far worse.
Jonathan chuckled, breaking the silence. "Well, I've seen a hundred horror movies. But in Kansas? The dead stay dead."
Martha raised her hand quietly.
"I've seen something strange," she said.
Jonathan turned to her in surprise. "You're not joking?"
She shook her head.
"Remember Bill's old Plott hound?" she asked. "The big mean one?"
"Of course," Jonathan said. "That dog nearly tore through my boots once."
"Well, a month ago, I saw that same dog get hit by a car. I mean hit hard. It wasn't breathing when I walked up."
Peter and Jonathan leaned in.
"But," she continued, "about two weeks later, I saw it again. Same dog. Same eyes."
Jonathan tried to explain it away. "Maybe it was rescued?"
"It stank. Worse than before. And it was meaner too."
Peter tapped the edge of his cup. "So it came back… but wrong."
Martha shrugged. "Maybe Bill got another one that looked the same. Who knows?"
Still, Peter filed the story away in his mind. If this wasn't just a human anomaly… if animals were being affected too…
He stood and thanked the Kents, shaking Jonathan's hand.
---
Meanwhile, elsewhere in town—
Adam and Clark stood by the side of the road, staring at a large white farmhouse.
Clark pointed. "That's Old Bill's house. His dog's in the backyard."
"I'm not going near that beast," Clark muttered. "It's a Plott hound. Big jaws. I've seen it chase raccoons like a missile."
"My kite's in there," Clark added, glaring at the tangled eagle-shaped fabric stuck on a fence post.
"I'm not asking Dad for help again," Adam said, puffing up his chest. "I'm Homelander. I do whatever I want!"
He put his hands on his hips dramatically, his voice full of confidence. Peter had once jokingly called him Homelander, and though he didn't understand the reference, Adam liked the sound of it.
Clark blinked. "But… it's a big dog."
Adam shot him a smug glance. "That's why I'm going."
Without another word, he marched toward the yard like a mini superhero.
He crouched, grabbed the kite, and dusted it off with a grin.
Then—
"Creak."
The old wooden shed door nearby opened a sliver.
Adam froze.
"Bang!!"
The door burst open violently, and a monstrous hound shot out like a cannonball.
"CRAP!" Adam yelped, spinning on his heel.
He bolted.
Clark, still standing a few feet away, saw it all—his friend being chased by a snarling, foam-mouthed dog that looked more zombie than animal.
Adam's feet hit the dirt like lightning, but the dog was right behind him.
"HELP!" Adam shouted. "ANYONE!"
But there was no one in sight. Just fields and corn and a single panicked child.
Clark's first instinct was to run—and he did.
But halfway down the road, guilt gripped him.
He turned, picked up a stick, and ran back.
"John!" he shouted, using Adam's Earth name. "This way!"
Adam saw him and swerved toward his friend.
The beast was nearly on him.
Clark swung the stick with all his might.
Whoosh!
He missed—and stumbled.
He hit the ground hard.
The hound ignored Clark, barreling straight toward Adam, who had tripped and fallen too.
"NO!"
Adam threw up his hands.
The dog leapt.
But it never landed.
Adam's hands shot up. His fingers clamped around the beast's throat mid-air.
The stink coming off its breath made him gag.
Its teeth snapped, trying to rip into him.
And then his eyes began to glow.
That burning red light built behind his pupils like a furnace.
"AHHHHH!!"
Heat Vision.
A searing beam of red energy sliced through the air.
It hit the dog's neck.
The hound let out a warped, gurgling bark as the laser cut cleanly through muscle and bone.
Splat.
The dog's head tumbled forward—landing right on Adam's chest.
Thick, dark blood spilled down over him like tar.
He lay there, stunned.
Covered in gore. Still holding the decapitated head.
Across the field, Clark stood back up—and stared in horror.
Adam turned to him slowly, his expression frozen in trauma, a smile twitching at the corners of his lips that was more horrifying than anything else.
"I… I did it," Adam whispered.
His voice was trembling.
"I didn't mean to—but I did it…"
Clark stepped forward, unsure of what to say.
This wasn't a game anymore.
They'd both seen what Adam could do.
And n
ow, so had Adam.
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