Red and blue flashed through their curtains and lit up the house. The government sectioned off the area before the news crews had the chance to gather. A small blessing, she supposed. It didn’t stop the throng of reports from gathering on their front law, though. Martha couldn’t do anything about them. Instead, she watched from her bedroom window as the agents circled around her wheatfield and swept their flashlights over the mounds of overturned dirt. Three quarters of their crops - ruined. She chewed on her bottom lip.
Jonathan squeezed her hand and kissed her cheek. “It’s okay, Mar,” he whispered in her ear, “We’ll make it through this.”
She worked her arms around her husband and pulled him close. “How?” She rest her head against his chest. Her damp eyes pressed into his flannel shirt.
Jonathan sighed. “I don’t know,” he said, “But we always do.”
Martha half-smiled at him. He was always so hopefully, always so optimistic. Nothing could ever bother Jonathan, it seemed some days.
“But Clark-”
“Is still asleep,” he said, “The boy hasn’t stirred. I think we could take a lesson from him.” Jonathan pulled their bedroom curtains closed. The lights still flashed softly across their walls. “We can face this tomorrow.”
Martha nodded. He was right. The field wouldn’t fix itself overnight. “Alright.”
Martha stepped towards the bed but never reached it.
An explosion rocked the field outside and painted red fire across the night. She recoiled; her hands flew to cover her head and neck. The glass blew inward, from the window, and coated her back shards. The noise and pressure pushed against her heart.
Her ears rang. The world became distant and caught her in a nightmare.
“Jonathan!” She screamed through her fog and reached to her side.
Glass flakes dusted his back and blood trickled out from his black hair. He waved her away, “I’m alright Mar,” he hissed and clutched at his ankle - twisted too far left.
Martha pushed herself off the floor. She brushed at the glass caught in her skin, but didn’t stanch the bleeding. Instead, she raced across the hall.
“Clark,” she cried as she entered his room . She scooped the toddler up in her arms, and shook the glass away from her boy. Martha turned him around in her arms and looked for cuts.
She gave a small breath of relief; Clark was uninjured. “How-” she whispered to herself.
Martha didn’t have time to answer her own question. Their farm house rattled again, this time, though, it came from the back entrance.
“Jonathan and Martha Kent,” a voice, heavy and deep boomed from the bottom of the staircase, “Come out with your hands up!”
“Oh lord,” Martha whispered and held Clark close. He had stopped crying, and he cocked his head towards back entrance.
“You are under arrest for treason,” the man yelled again. From the sound of it, more men were rushing out from the fields and into their house.
“How the hell are we gonna get out of this one?” She asked her son.
He babbled in response.