First Mentor

CHAPTER ONE-1

CHAPTER ONE

If there was one word that would sum up West Texas perfectly, it would be ‘nothing.’ Lots and lots of nothing for miles in every direction.

When most people who haven’t been to Texas think of the state, they usually think the whole state is like those old Western movies: Barren land everywhere, cacti and tumbleweed dotting the landscape, and everyone’s riding a horse and wearing cowboy hats and jeans. There’s some truth to all of that, but Texas is actually a pretty diverse state, ecologically-speaking. Sure, it’s usually pretty hot no matter what part of the state you’re in, but in Texas, you can find forests, fields, mountains, rivers, lakes, beaches, and all sorts of different places. You can even find snow sometimes during the winter, though calling it ‘snow’ is a bit of a stretch sometimes given how light it is.

The point is that Texas is much more than just tumbleweeds and cattle, like a lot of people think it is.

Except, of course, for West Texas. I’d never been out to West Texas before. My Mom grew up out here, but she never talked much about it. Even then, we still didn’t visit there because Mom’s parents had moved to a small town on the coast of Texas after my grandfather retired from working in the oil fields; as a result, I had never asked Mom about what it was like. It just seemed irrelevant to me if we were never going to go there.

So when my boss, the superhero Rubberman, told me that I was going out west to train with his old mentor, Nightbolt, I was curious. I didn’t know exactly what to expect. I vaguely recalled a few stories Mom used to tell me about growing up near the oil fields when she was a girl, but that had been years ago, back when I was like ten-years-old, and I hadn’t thought about them in such a long time that I could only remember a few minor, unhelpful details, like how her mom, my Grandma, always had a hard time washing the oil stains out of Grandpa’s clothes.

Still, I like visiting new places, so I didn’t object when Rubberman told me to head out west. I packed my bags (well, just one bag, really, because I didn’t need much), hopped into the Rubbermobile with Adams, and we went out to West Texas. More specifically, to a small town called Los Congrejos, which was close to the Texas/New Mexico border. It had taken close to four hours to reach the town, even with the Rubbermobile’s enhanced speed, but the drive itself didn’t bother me too much.

What did bother me was the discovery that West Texas was literally the most boring place on the planet. Well, okay, I guess that’s an exaggeration, but seriously, there’s virtually nothing out here.

I sat at an old, abandoned bus station on the outskirts of Los Congrejos, where Adams had dropped me off after informing me that Nightbolt would come by to pick me up soon. I had been sitting here for half an hour already, but still had not seen Nightbolt. Or any other human being, for that matter. I did, however, find a rattlesnake under the bus station bench, which thankfully was more scared of me than I was of it, because it slithered away as soon as I saw it.

From what I could see of Los Congrejos, it was a much smaller town than Golden City. There was a small post office, an old gas station, and a few small buildings that looked abandoned. The sign outside of the town had claimed that Los Congrejos had 356 people, but I wondered if that number was outdated, because I hadn’t seen even one human being moving among the buildings which formed the core of the town.

I looked up and down the main road. The cracked asphalt seemed to stretch on for eternity in every direction. There were no cars or trucks or even hitch-hikers on this road. As a matter of fact, it seemed like the road hadn’t been used in quite some time, aside from the Rubbermobile, which of course was probably already halfway back to Golden City by now.

I found it hard to believe that Los Congrejos was home to one of the oldest superheroes in the world. Small towns like these generally did not have superheroes, generally because they couldn’t afford to hire one or crime rates were so low that the average police officer was usually capable of taking care of the town by themselves. I half-wondered if Rubberman had been mistaken about Nightbolt’s location, because this town looked like the last place any superhero, retired or otherwise, would live.

Not to mention it was a lot hotter than I expected it to be. Granted, Texas winters usually weren’t that cold, but it felt hotter out here than it did back home in the city. Maybe it was because I sat directly under the sun; the bus station didn’t provide much shade. My costume helped regulate my body temperature, but even so, I still felt uncomfortable sitting here in the heat. Adams had said something about nights being much colder out here than in the city due to the lack of plants and buildings to retain heat, but right now I’d say it had the opposite problem of being too hot.

I hadn’t had time to do a lot of research on Nightbolt before I left the city, but according to the few Internet searches I did do, Nightbolt was one of the first ever legalized superheroes from fifty years ago, when superheroes were first recognized by the government as legitimate businesses. He retired thirty years ago and had moved out to West Texas. Unlike Iron Angel, however, Nightbolt occasionally trained superheroes or sidekicks who showed particular promise, although the numbers he trained went down each year until his last trainee, from what I could tell, had been Rubberman five years ago. It seemed like he hadn’t taken a trainee since then, with the exception of me, of course.

Then again, maybe he wasn’t going to break that streak, if I stayed out here in this old bus stop for much longer. According to my phone, it was half an hour past the time that Nightbolt was supposed to pick me up, which made me wonder if he had decided at the last moment that he did not want to train me. If so, I’d need to call Adams and have him pick me up again. I wish I had Nightbolt’s phone number, because then I could call him myself and let him know I was here.

Just then, I heard a low, rumbling engine coming down the road. Sitting up straighter, I looked down the road, but did not see anything at first until a small black dot appeared on the horizon. As the black dot came closer and closer to the bus stop, I saw that it was an old, beat-up truck. I don’t know what its original color may have been; all I could tell was that it was now a very rusted red color. Its engine was noisy and whiny, yet somehow the truck still worked, driving steadily down the road toward the bus stop without stopping or slowing, though it wasn’t going very fast, either.

Impatiently, I rose from my seat and waved at it. I figured that the truck probably belonged to somebody who lived around here, so they might be able to tell me where Nightbolt lived. Because it was clear that Nightbolt wasn’t going to show up, I’d just hike to his house, wherever it was. It probably wasn’t very far from here. Besides, it would be better than just sitting here in this old bus stop waiting for him to arrive, anyway.

To my relief, the truck was slowing down the closer it got, until it finally stopped right in front of the bus stop. Its engine still whined and made popping sounds, but I didn’t care. I was just happy to see another human being. Even though I wasn’t much of an extrovert, I didn’t like sitting alone out here in this bus stop for very long.

The passenger’s side window—which was crusted with dust—rolled down, allowing me to see the driver of the truck for the first time. I was stunned by what I saw.

The truck’s driver was a positively ancient old man, his skin as rough and gray as stone. He wore a faded old red hat, a white T-shirt, and old coveralls. He was extremely skinny, even skinnier than me. He looked only slightly better than the Necromantress’ zombie. Indeed, I almost thought he was a zombie at first.

But no zombie had eyes like that. They were hard, rough eyes, the eyes of a man who has stared death in the face again and again. They were the same eyes that my grandfather, who had been in the military, had had before his death a few years back. The old man looked at me with eyes that were much stronger than the body they resided in.

As a result, I felt awkward, standing there with my suitcase in hand and staring at the tough old man. The two of us stared at each other for what felt like an eternity, as if we were waiting for the other to make the first move.

But then, all of a sudden, the man said, “Are you Beams?”

His voice was soft and old, just as ancient as his body, but somehow I sensed that it was not the voice of a man you disrespected.

“Uh, yes,” I said, nodding. “I’m here because I’m supposed to be training with Nightbolt. I don’t know if you can point me to his house, but—”

The man chuckled softly. “Boy, I am Nightbolt, the one and only. I thought I recognized your picture, but I wasn’t sure until I got close enough to see for myself. These old eyes ain’t what they used to be.” He gestured at me. “Come on in and take a seat. That bus stop isn’t a place for a sidekick who needs training.”

Though I was briefly startled by this man’s admission that he was Nightbolt, I nonetheless opened the door and entered the truck. The interior was small and cramped, forcing me to pull my legs up to my chest. It didn’t help that the floor was covered in garbage; old fast food restaurant bags, empty water bottles, various discarded bills, and so on. The seats of the truck were torn slightly, allowing their yellow stuffing to peek out.

I paid little attention to that, however, because I was too busy staring at the man who called himself Nightbolt, who had now turned the truck around and was driving back the way he came. I was too busy contrasting the old, decrepit man sitting in the driver’s seat with the images of Nightbolt I’d seen online. The most common picture of Nightbolt online was of a strapping, handsome young man wearing a body suit with lightning bolt designs. He certainly looked nothing like the skinny old man who was taking me to his house today, which made me wonder if this man actually was Nightbolt.

“So, you’re Dennis’ sidekick, right?” said Nightbolt, glancing at me. “He’s told me all about you. Said you can shoot lasers from your eyes.”

“Uh, yeah,” I said, nodding. I gestured at my visor. “My visor lets me regulate the strength of my lasers easier. It was specially designed by Super Apparel.”

“Superhero equipment has gotten real fancy since my days,” said Nightbolt. “Back in my day, you usually had to make your costume and equipment yourself. And it always got torn or broken, so you spent just as much time fixin’ it up as you did fighting crime. Those were the days.”

“Uh, yeah,” I said, mostly because I didn’t know what else to say to that. “So, er, are we going to your house?”

“Yep,” said Nightbolt, nodding. “Sorry for not coming to pick you up sooner. This old piece of junk just doesn’t want to start sometimes, and sometimes even when it does start it stops in the middle of the road and refuses to go any further.”

“Are you sure that isn’t going to happen here?” I said.

“It might,” said Nightbolt casually. “Don’t worry. I’ve got a lot of experience getting this old piece of junk working again. But it ought to make it back to the house without too much trouble, so just sit back and relax.”

Easier said than done. The truck was so bumpy and rough that I couldn’t have relaxed even if I wanted to. Not to mention I was still taken aback by Nightbolt’s, uh, ‘strange’ appearance, to put it lightly. Even though he had been one of the very first legalized superheroes, he looked like any old Texas man you’d see in West Texas. I wondered why he was apparently so poor. Surely he had a lot of money saved up from his days in the business, didn’t he?