Jerry Ess clattered away on his typewriter in the smoky haze of the Daily Star’s manic newsroom finishing up an editorial for print. A stack of features fresh off the wire were spread across his desk with titles like “From the Flames, a Hero” and “The Angel of the Wastes” standing out in bold print. The articles had originated from such disparate locations as El Reno, Cross Plains, Bridgeport, Geary, and Amarillo; small, anonymous towns seeded throughout the American Southwest that few hardly knew existed, yet were the sites of astounding tales. Each article shared the exploits of a mysterious figure that had begun appearing in parts of Oklahoma and Texas within the past month. Little Joey Shuster was the first to discover these incredible stories which others shrugged off because of their dubious content; the kid collecting them for his own personal enjoyment. Before long Joey had excitedly begun sharing them with Jerry who couldn’t help but be fascinated despite his skepticism. Many of these articles read like action serials colorfully recounting how this “super hero,” as Joey called him, saved workers from a collapsed mine, confronted a lynch mob, and defeated violent outlaws. Others followed a much more sober, dramatic bent with the figure cleansing sanitariums of disease, visiting people in times of despair to strengthen their spirits, and aiding Okies on their harsh trek westward.

Ess would have written most of the stories off if not for the interviews. What the witnesses had to say likened their encounters to a religious experience; so emphatic, life-changing, and similar were their testimonies that Jerry found it difficult to doubt them. He was scanning over one of those articles when Julius Schwartz appeared.

“Chief wants to see you.”

Jerry glanced up, pencil grit in his teeth, agitated at the interruption. “Wha fuh?” he mumbled.

“What?” Julius asked over the chattering din of copyboys and teletypes.

Jerry removed the pencil and put it behind his ear. “What for?”

“Not sure.” Julius shrugged. “But he didn’t look happy.”

Jerry rolled his eyes. “He never looks happy.”

“Yeah, well, I wouldn’t keep him waiting. And watch that bazoo of yours.”

“If Vin can’t handle criticism, he never shoulda’ joined the newspaper business,” Jerry grumbled before rising from his desk.

Ess made his way through the hubbub, dodging staff and drawing the occasional eye on his way to the editor-in-chief’s office. Vincent Sullivan looked up as Ess entered.

“You wanted to see me.”

Vin chewed viciously on a cigar, puffing smoke from his jowls as his bloodshot eyes bored into Jerry. The vein in his neck was visibly throbbing.

“I take it I’m not here for congratulations on getting the Pulitzer.”

The editor stabbed at the seat in front of his desk with his finger.

“You know,” Jerry began, taking a seat, “you should really loosen that collar of yours. Maybe take a breath or two. A little air does wonders.”

Vin grabbed several sheets of paper off his desk and flashed them at Jerry. “What is this?”

“Judging by the stern look on your mug, I’m assuming that’s my article.”

“No, it’s garbage,” Vin snarled, shifting the cigar to the other side of his mouth. “You should be ashamed of yourself after the discussion we had. To think you went from Hauptman to this pulp.”

“What’s the problem?”

“The problem is I’m not publishing this claptrap,” Vin stated vehemently as he threw the papers down on his desk.

Jerry nearly came out of his chair. “Why not?”

Vin stubbed out his cigar, his gray tongue licking the acrid taste off his gums. “What is the Daily Star, Jerry?”

Ess cast his eyes to the ceiling, exasperated. “Are we going to go through this again?”

“Just answer the question.”

Jerry sighed. “A newspaper.”

“And what does a newspaper publish?”

“News,” Jerry curtly replied in unison with his chief. “I know what my job is, Vin.”

“So why are you writing me folk tales when there are genuine events happening out there, especially after you complained of sensationalism?”

“These aren’t folk tales-”

“Oh, they most certainly are. These articles of yours are nothing more than veiled comments on social injustice at best and amateur fiction at worst.”

“It’s more than that, Vin.”

“Did you see Julius’ article on the strike in Terre Haute? Or Bill’s article on the Schechter Poultry case? That is news, important news.”

“It’s also gloomy as hell.”

“Blame the times, not the reporters.” Vin leaned back in his chair. “Our job is to report the news, good and bad.”

“Seems there’s a bit too much of the latter these days.”

“Suffering sells. That’s the irony.”

“People don’t want to read depressing stuff, Vin. They want something inspirational especially now.”

“If these people want inspiration, they can read about Braddock. If they want fairy tales, they can fork over two bits to watch Mickey Mouse.”

“You know what I mean, Vin.”

“Of course I know what you mean but writing about some…Okie angel. It’s simply ridiculous. It’s beyond ridiculous. It’s incredulous,” Vin stated with his arms flailing. “A man who walks through fire and appears out of thin air. Stuff like that is fit for Joey’s comics, not for this paper.”

“This is a real story,” Jerry challenged, leaning forward. “Other papers are printing stories about him.”

“We’re not other papers. We’re the Daily Star!” Vin exclaimed, pounding his desk. “We have a higher standard than some small town, bumpkin run rag whose front page is shared by crop reports and town gossip and works better as a Hoover blanket rather than a source of news. This isn’t The Torch. We are a paper of the world. We set the standard. I’m not going to let you ruin this old girl with some rinky-dink, sensationalist garbage. People need to hear the truth, no matter how grim it is. What you want to print is yellow journalism at its worst. It’s shameful. It’s more than that. It’s career suicide.”

“I have sources-”

“To hell with your sources, Jerry!” Vin yelled before he regained control of himself. “You’re going to move on. I want you off this.”

Jerry sat silently for a moment contemplating Vin’s order. He finally said, “I’m afraid I just can’t do that.”

“Did you just get out of a nuttery? Are you even listening to me? I tell you this farce of yours is unprintable and you keep plugging away. I should just throw you out that window right now and do us both a favor,” Vin said, his thumb jutting over his shoulder at the Cleveland skyline.

“I have a nose for news and I’m tellin’ ya there is something here.”

“You’re hunting a wampus, Jerry.”

“Don’t you trust my instincts?”

“Instincts are one thing. Common sense,” Vin tapped his temple, “that is something else.”

“Come on. Have a little faith in me.”

“I’m an editor. I don’t have faith in anything without reputable sources,” Vin deadpanned.

“Let me convince you.”

“It’s not you. It’s the material.”

“This is good stuff, Vin. It’s got drama. It’s got action. It’s got spectacle. A hero in every sense of the word which people desperately want. This man is news.”

“Christ,” Vin muttered.

“This guy is another Braddock, another Seabiscuit. Only bigger, much bigger and untapped.”

“And you wonder why that is.”

“I want to investigate this. Follow this story to its core. See what the truth behind it is. The angle. Find out who he is.”

“What if there is no ‘he’? Could be some local legend that has grown out of hand.”

“Give me a chance to find out. That’s all I’m asking.”

Vin puckered his lips and sized up the reporter. Jerry squirmed under that intense gaze. “Fine,” Vin spat. “You’ve got one month to prove yourself. But if this isn’t Pulitzer material, I’ll have you on obituaries.”

“The way the world is going, that’s the fastest growing section.”

“Get the hell out of my office.”

“Thanks chief. I won’t let you down.” Jerry sprung from his chair and hurried out the door.

“Okie angel,” Vin Sullivan muttered to himself, shaking his head while reaching for another cigar.

***

Otis, an aged and weathered hobo dubbed “Blinky” by passing comrades for his failing eyesight, sat on the edge of the bouncing boxcar with both feet dangling out the open door watching the fuzzy world rush by as the train chugged down the line, bottle of rotgut clenched firmly in his hands. His wisp of greasy gray hair was ruffled by the summer gale as he partially leaned out for a better look at the distant hills, squinting myopic eyes wrapped in mounds of wrinkled flesh.

The Mother Road, Route 66, ran parallel to the tracks snaking through the baking wastes of north Texas. Every now and again the train would pass a checker board crew of sewer hogs carving uselessly into the dust with their spades or groups of Okies straggling west in whatever doddering mechanical heaps, laden with pitiful burdens, could totter on under the blazing sun toward hopelessness. They all ignored his waves and greetings as well as one another in passing, this bleak parade of souls. Otherwise, it was just a barren expanse of deserted nothingness stretching as far as the eye could see which in Otis’ case was not far at all.

Leaning against the doorframe, his leathery face partly downcast, a sense of gloom overtook Otis as the miles passed away and the shadows lengthened. He wasn’t sure if it was blindness or age with its creeping cynicism, but the vibrancy of the world was fading. Rich sapphire skies were now meager and cinereal. Formerly lush landscapes of past voyages had withered and were crumbling to dust. Cities were damn near empty. Hell, the air had gone sour. A mournful sigh passed Otis’ lips and was lost to the arid wind. Maybe his existence on the rails had led to his disenchantment. Maybe his old, dying eyes just weren’t capable of discerning life anymore. Everything just tended to bleed into one another these days to his bleary eyes. Faces. Places. There was no more adventure to be had. No more possibility. Nothing of value left. Just yard dicks wanting to crack his head open because he was a nuisance, towns on the verge of dissolution with no jobs or food to offer, and too many fellas whose sole possessions were sad stories and memories of better times that gradually slipped through their fingers.

The worst part of it all was how much younger Otis’ rail partners were getting. It spoke of a generation being lost to this damn Depression. The rails were no place for kids. In prior years, he had been able to talk a fair number of punks into returning home to their families. Not these days. No one had a home to go to. So they stuck around in the jungle and became lambs for the jockers to take advantage of. Otis still cringed at the squeals of innocence lost to a pack of bastards enjoying their fresh meat. Jibbering hyenas. People feeding on one another. Otis shook his head. Civilization was unraveling.

Closing his eyes, Otis tried to recollect better times. There were many memories to pick over. Ever since he was a teen he had been a boomer infected with the traveling itch and always on the go riding rails from Hoboken to Santa Monica taking in America on every pass of Hobohemia, trying his luck across the frontier. The experiences he’d had made his rootless existence worth it. Otis had been to the Chicago World’s Fair of 1893, worked as a logger in Missouri, survived the Ohioan snowstorm of 1910, minus a toe of course, as well as found and lost love countless times. And all the strange characters he had encountered, hoo boy, were they ever a class of their own. Jack Black, a professional burglar and outlaw who told Otis stories about the Wild West. Utah Phelps, a Mormon anarchist who never shut up about the importance of unions and had the scars to prove his convictions. And then there was A No. 1 himself, Leon Ray Livingston, the greatest hobo who ever lived who helped to show Otis the ropes and survive in the jungle. It had been a rich life, but it was all past him.

This latest jaunt originating out of Tulsa had been a lonely one. While trying to flip a rattler, Otis had been separated from Paul, his companion for the past several months. It wasn’t like it was a total loss. Paul was a gummy, no good for anything save listening and the occasional reply. But fill that bastard with hooch and he became a regular spittoon philosopher. Ol’ Paul would become so riled up the two would come to blows over the slightest disagreement. Otis smirked with the memories of their infamous rows. Paul could be a real nuisance sometimes. But then again so could he.

“Why couldn’t you keep up?” Otis asked the empty spot next to him. Paul should have been there. It was the bastard’s fault he wasn’t. Paul was a limpy who usually slowed Otis down and cost them jaunts leading to padding the hoof until the next accommodation rolled by. With Paul and his lame leg, catching red balls was impossible forcing them to snag short trips on slower trains at greater risk of getting caught by yard dicks. Exactly that happened in Tulsa when Paul got sloughed, snatched by a bull as he was lumbering into the boxcar after Otis and thrown to the grit. Otis felt a twinge of guilt leaving the man to his brutal fate rather than sticking around to help him, but the rotgut he sloshed down his gullet helped to drown his conscience.

The ride rattled on monotonously. Otis’ eyelids became heavier and he struggled to keep them open. What he wouldn’t give for company. A road kid. A jocker and his lamb. Hell, even a burr head. Someone to talk to and make the time fly by. What was the point of life if there wasn’t someone there to complain about it to? Too much damn quiet. He might as well be dead.

Taking another biting swig from the bottle, Otis vacantly watched the bleached horizon from his back while scratching absently at his lice ridden hair. Out of the corner of his eye he caught a blur of movement. Sitting up and squinting, he witnessed a man sprinting effortlessly alongside the train. The bastard was zooming so fast he was overtaking the steel beast! Otis stole a gander at his shaking bottle. What the hell was in this stuff? He looked back up and saw a pale man, face shining, dashing past his door.

Chris felt the hobo’s wide eyes on him and turned to wave at the wizened figure. Otis gawked at Donner as he darted past, the hobo dropping his bottle which rolled out the door to shatter on the tracks below. Chris allowed himself a laugh, something he hadn’t done in a long time.

Over the past month through extensive use of his abilities, Donner had started to become comfortable with his powers. He was no longer unnerved by the gifts at his command but intrigued and that fascination allowed him to investigate his powers further. He had realized his capacity to telekinetically manipulate objects early. Such mental action was instinctive, much like a person swatting defensively at an object thrown at them. Over time he had developed better control over such efforts, able to act rather than react as his control shifted from subconscious to conscious control. He discovered it was not simply willing something to occur but the gathering and focus of energy to power his will that was required. As his control over external forces grew, he began to wonder about what he could do internally. If he could focus energy outward, could he also do so inward? Turning within and gathering energy into his form, Chris discovered he could heighten his senses and alter his physiognomy. He could amplify his strength, acquire near invulnerability, and even push himself to run faster than a locomotive.

As Chris raced parallel to the rails his stride lengthened into hurdles until he was barely touching the ground. Giddy at how free he felt, an audacious idea took root. Bracing himself, he leapt and bounded hundreds of feet into the air in a wide arc, flourishing his hat over his head, and dropped several dozen yards ahead of the locomotive before lunging once more, this time even further into the sky. Donner whooped as he streaked through the air before landing on his feet and skidding to a halt kicking up dust. The second leap had stretched for well over a mile, the train he had been rushing alongside now nothing more than a distant speck on the horizon. “Great…Scott,” Chris whispered. Then it occurred to him. If he could bound through the air…

Donner shot triumphantly into the heavens, whooshing into the sky at an alarming speed. His acceleration increased with his panic, the momentum so great that the wind was lashing his face raw and threatening to tear the clothes right off his body. Entering the clouds, the air thinned. A pounding developed in his skull. Spots blotted out his vision and he became disoriented, partially blacking out. His ascendance quickly reversed and he fell back toward the earth; the wind roaring loudly all around him. Flailing through the sky, the ground rushing towards him, Chris dizzily tried to regain his bearings. Closing his eyes tight and struggling to focus despite the frenzy beating through his veins, he felt a sudden jolt as his body slammed to a halt.

Opening his eyes, he gazed down upon the land miles below as he hovered in the firmament. Swallowing a held breath, Chris beheld the expanse. The Rockies jaggedly rose to the west and beyond that was the Mojave Desert and then California, his goal. The western coastline shined with a dawn-like beauty, the light of millions blazing brightly beside the calm sea like scattered diamonds.

“This will all take some getting used to,” Donner sheepishly admitted to himself.

Chris’ wonder was gradually replaced by concern. Beyond the glow of the California coast, on the fringe of his sight, darkness was swelling. A sense of foreboding emanated from that shadow lurking past the great Pacific Ocean.

Next Chapter: Chapter 15