Where The Numinous Awaits

Ch. 32: Legend's Route

September 16 | Night

The dark sky was ominous, and lightning flashed purple in the clouds. Thunder exploded in a cacophony of sound and fury overhead. I was stranded. Somewhere in Texas. I had driven nonstop from Baton Rouge, but Dex's prized spy car had been remotely disabled and couldn't go another mile. I refused to even look at it, heart too heavy with remorse.

"What did you think you would do, Legend? Sell it to some chop shop?" I kicked a clod of dirt by the roadside, cursing my bad luck. Because that was exactly what I had planned to do. Money from the stolen car would've helped me escape the reaches of both human and Supernatural authorities, but now that option wasn't on the table.

The sounds of the night pressed in, the chirping of crickets and keening of cicadas. The rustling of pine needles in the wind warned of coming rain. I stepped onto the highway and scanned both directions, unsure which way to go.

Up ahead, there were signs of commerce, maybe within walking distance. An eighteen-wheeler sped by with a blare of its horn, nearly knocking me off my feet, and I scowled after it. Then heavy raindrops began to fall, filling the air with the smell of dust and exhaust. I took off toward the distant lights.

In the lonely darkness, Abuela Maya's face flashed before my eyes. I squeezed my eyelids tight, as if I could shut off my thoughts. Everything had fallen apart so spectacularly. I desperately wanted a second chance to make things right. However, redemption wasn't coming. I had packed my broken heart and few belongings into the backpack slung now over my shoulder, had taken one last look at the two women who had made my life worth living for a while, then walked out the door, knowing I would never see Nixie or Dex again.

As I hurried deeper into the night, brutal emotions dogged my steps. I was spurred by paranoia that the cops would swoop down on me at any moment. A part of me knew that Dex hadn't alerted anyone to the fact that I had stolen her car. She had more than likely disabled it, personally. For the headstart, I was grateful. But it was Van der Woodsen and OASIS that I really worried about. I had no time to stew in my emotions. I needed to get beyond the agency's reach as quickly and covertly as possible.

At length, I arrived at a sprawling truck stop in the middle of nowhere. It was home to a restaurant, a convenience store, and a laundromat, surrounded by enough concrete to park dozens of big rigs. Neon signs advertised everything from casino slots to hot showers, and the smell of diesel fuel and fried food cloyed the air. The place rumbled like a beast that never slept.

I wove my way through a maze of trucks, grimacing at the gruff noise of their idling engines and the smoke billowing from their tailpipes. Drivers, weary from their travels, sat in their cabs staring at phones or meandered around the motley establishment. I tried to blend in.

A few elderly men hunched over their coffees in the restaurant glanced up as I walked into the store, dripping wet from the rain. I wondered if my face had been on the news again. I lowered my head. The floors were sticky and had a checkered pattern of red and white tiles. A family of late night travelers tried not to touch anything in the dingy surroundings as they flinched their way past me to the restrooms. I grabbed a stale corndog and a canned tea–all I could afford.

"I like your tattoos." The cashier ringing me up fluttered false eyelashes at me.

"Hmm?" I mumbled, preoccupied with trying to strategize my next moves. I dumped my bag into a busted leather booth in the restaurant. Parking my elbows on the crummy red formica table, I took a bite of the corndog. It was dry and flavorless, but I was hungry so I ate it anyway. I sighed and looked around the place.

There was no telling how far OASIS had disseminated word that I was back on the Wanted list. I needed to cross the border, find a way to rebuild my life, but that was impossible without the right people and resources. I dug out my phone and reluctantly called David. When he didn't answer, I muttered a frustrated expletive. Of course, he wouldn't answer.