Half Hero ⚡️ {Superhero Adventure Scifi}

Chapter 19: The Fringe

I spent the night in the mineshaft dozing and zoning through a crazy sugar rush. Nightmares threatened to resurface if I dared fall asleep, and it felt like feral cats were having a back-alley brawl inside my cerebellum. Peeling back my fingernails to exposed bloody stumps would have been more pleasant.

According to my borrowed gas station map (which I had no intention of returning), I had quite a trek ahead of me to Reno. There was a major western railroad system that branched out of Nevada and into northern California that I could use to get up to Washington. 

I was low on cash, so I would be traveling hobo-style, and getting up to Canada was going to be slightly complicated because I would be crossing an international border, but I had an idea for that leg of my trip. 

When the sun dipped behind the horizon, I made my way out of the mineshaft and climbed one of the craggy hillsides toward a looming cell tower. As soon as I crested the top, I could feel my cells thrumming with activity like my atoms were vibrating along to the hum of the barbican.

After a while, it became clear that I could literally absorb the power surging through the enormous conduit, which explains how I was able to fire on Hamm's troops after my strenuous casino heist. It was also a preferable option to sticking live wires in my mouth (they stung like hornets and left the taste of corroded metal on my tongue.) 

Having super fast healing and energy-absorbing powers was going to come in handy. 

It wasn't exactly a walk in the park getting to Reno, more like a jaunty excursion through a giant litter box full of snakes, mice, and creepy crawlies. Trust me, if you find yourself stranded in the desert of Nevada, be sure to check for scorpions before squatting to potty.

Reno was a sprawling municipality, which made it easy to find and a great place to hide. It struck me as a city where people come to get lost on purpose, and thankfully, I didn't need to wait for night to keep moving.

I took myself on a brief walking tour of Nevada's biggest little city until I located a rundown second-hand store. With the last of my money, I bought a pair of beat-up (but matching) high-top sneakers, a never-worn sweatshirt adorned with fluffy kittens, and a pair of skinny acid-wash jeans that actually fit.

Shopping for vintage clothes was an ironic activity for teenagers where I grew up in Seattle. We wore our grungy finds with pride and bragged about how little it cost us to look like garage band rejects. Now, I was counting the loose change I had in my pockets to splurge on a previously worn mismatched set of bra and underpants.

A kind elderly employee lent me a pair of scissors so I could remove the tags and wear the clothes out of the store. I probably looked like her long-lost grandchild or something, but she didn't pry. I must not have been the worst-case scenario she'd seen that day.

For good measure, I chopped a good seven inches off my mane using the full-length mirror in the dressing room. Short hair always made me look younger, but in this case, my face-framing shag of irregular curls added anonymity. It was a hack job, but the entirety of my outfit was just ironic enough to look like I'd done this on purpose.

I found the city's train station nestled inside the river district by following the baleful howl of a locomotive rumbling close by. Weaving around the few people loitering in front of the depot, I located a cross-street doubling as a bridge. Beneath the overpass, a protracted freight train was lumbering into view.

To kill time, I fervently studied the maps and schedules in the station to plot my route to the frosty north. At seven fifty-four, I emerged onto the ill-lit streets. There was an eight o'clock freighter headed to Sacramento that I wanted to catch.