Half Hero ⚡️ {Superhero Adventure Scifi}

Chapter 13: Human Bug-Zapper

Turns out, Misha was something of a cartography nut in high school. Before her mom lost her job at the local casino, she was planning on going to UNLV to study mapping and ancient history. Of course, when the family lost their house along with their livelihood, her plans took a sharp turn to shits-ville.

Misha was able to devise (without the use of a phone or internet, mind you) that I was looking for a location somewhere in Canada. To find Christopher MaClaine, I was going to have to venture into the strange land in the north. To most Seattleites like me, Canada was a frozen place full of denim vests, implausible politeness, and lumberjack beards.

After a few rounds of Go Fish, the community was ready to douse the lights and get some sleep, and we obliged. Snuggled in Jessie's threadbare sleeping bag that only came up to my nipples, I stared up into the crease of Misha's family tent. We barely fit, but once again, my new friends were happy to make room for a fellow stranger down on their luck.

"Hey," Misha whispered over Jessie's heavy breathing.

I looked over at her freckled face and smiled.

"Who are you runin' from, really?" She asked, her eyes sparkled with curiosity.

"You don't want to know," I told her, shaking my head. "It's not good."

"Look around," Misha laughed halfheartedly. "None of us are here because of something good."

"You make a fair point," I chortled.

"Did they do that to your face?" Misha didn't let up.

"Yeah," I lied.

"Jeez," she sighed, crinkling her eyes. "You know the guy that fired my mom was also her boyfriend, and he beat her pretty bad too. The bastard put her in the hospital when she threatened to tell his wife about them. I don't blame you for running."

"Your mom was seeing the owner of the casino?"

"Bingo," Misha nodded, glancing over at her mom's sleeping body.

"Couldn't she file a police report?"

"It's a small town." Misha reminded me. "Geary Morgan is a big donor to the local police and fire departments, and laws don't apply to people with money."

The injustice of their situation flared the familiar heat that I'd been trying to hide. Misha and her siblings were the collateral damage of a powerful jerk's narcissistic rage. I'd had some experience in that department. The tingling of electricity crept out from my belly and warmed my limbs. I burrowed further beneath the flaps of the sleeping bag just in case I started to glow.  

"Don't worry Glenndora, or whatever your name really is, there are good people out there," Misha said thoughtfully. "We're just harder to find." 

"Thank you," I replied, offering her a crooked smile. "For everything."

"Don't worry about it," Misha replied, looking me straight in the eyes. "You would have done the same for me."

"How do you know?" I pried. "I could be a murderer on the run, or something worse."

Misha chuckled under her breath. "Nah, I've lived on the streets long enough to spot the difference. You looked scared and lost, maybe a little nutty on account of that lumpy diaper you're wearing, but not violent. Besides, you're small enough for me to take down if you tried anything funny."

I laughed out loud in spite of myself and nodded in agreement.

"When are you heading out to Cali?" Misha's voice was fading with lassitude.

"Tomorrow," I answered, stifling a yawn. "I've got to keep moving."

"Jessie will be bummed," Misha mumbled into her shoulder.

While considering an extended stay, my eyes drifted closed.

Twisted metal and the shrieks of terrified passengers assaulted my dreams, taunting me with the horrors I'd committed. The shrill cry of a baby warned of their impending doom and stoked the flames of my awful powers. Blood streaked seats and tortured faces melded together in the blue heat of the fiery explosion that followed.

I sat upright in shock, panting heavily and clawing at my own flesh to remind myself that it was a nightmare. A nightmare based on my devastating reality. My entire body was lit up like a glowworm, highlighting the outline of the mythical unicorn I was wrapped inside.

I threw back the covers and hopped up, exposing the blue radiance of my skin. A tiny gasp stole my attention before I could take off. Jessie's eyes doubled in size as she took in the sight of me.

I brought my pointer finger up to my lips with a pleading look. She bobbed her angelic head and pulled her fingers across her mouth to let me know that my secret was safe with her. I offered a single wave before ducking out of the tent and sprinting for the door.

The night air was frigid. Shuddering against the harsh temperature, I took in my surroundings.

It was a d-bag move to leave without saying goodbye, but I was putting all of them in danger even being there. I couldn't live with myself if something worse than homelessness or hunger befell Misha's family because of me.

Of course, out in the open, I was like a shimmery neon sign for Hamm and his goons to follow. I was going to have to get control of this, but how? 

I'd nearly made it out of town when a collection of twinkling red and gold lights gave me an irrational idea. Maybe I could repay Misha's kindness after all.

I veered away from the shadows and approached a junky wood-lined building promising to fulfill all sorts of terrible compulsions. As the only casino in this rinky-dink town, it looked as worthless as the walking skid mark that owned it, Geary Morgan (aka the man who stole Misha's future.) I didn't quite know how, and neither did 'ole Gear-bear, but we were going to help Misha's family get back on their feet.

Creeping around the dust-covered bricks, I found a set of trash bins to hide behind. The twinge of ammonia and rotting food stung my nose as I tried to gulp in a breath to hold. There was a disturbing amount of unwrapped condoms and shattered glass back there, but I didn't have to wait for long. A gangly kitchen assistant emerged to take a smoke break, and I seized my chance.

Darting from my revolting hiding spot, I slipped through the closing door while his back was turned against the wind.

Inside it reeked like an overflowing ashtray left to rot in a fusty basement. I was in a shallow hallway off the side of a shabby kitchen full of bodies. Since I looked like a human bug-zapper, I ducked into the nearest utility closet for cover.

Outside the flimsy pressboard door, calamitous activity obscured the twang of country music. My mother liked to tell me I had a potty mouth, but the kitchen staff had me beat. Even Aaron would have been in awe of their uncanny talent for flamboyant profanity.

I perused the supplies haphazardly strewn about the metal shelves, glazing over the body of (what I hope was) a dead rat. True to the dodgy aroma and appearance of this unwholesome establishment, there was also a grimy fishbowl of matchbooks right next to a rack of old spray paint cans. Safety was clearly not first on the list of priorities (or scruples) when working here.

I couldn't burn this place to the ground because that would risk lives, and Geary Morgan would get a big fat insurance payout. That flabby jizz-horn (just one of the imaginative phrases I'd learned from the kitchen staff) needed to pay for what he did to Misha's family, not get reimbursed.

Then, I spotted the sprinkler in the ceiling.