Runaway

Runaway
by Paige Jackson

Although it was almost midnight, the bus station was still packed. It was Friday night and students from the local college were heading home for the weekend. A few military men were still milling around, waiting for the Midnight Express, or the “Dark & Dirty” as it as affectionately (and sometimes not so) known. The bus arrived on schedule and the controlled mayhem of passengers trying to exit while others tried to push their way on to get the best seat took almost 20 minutes. Finally the station calmed down as the bus left and all but a few stragglers filed out. About a dozen people were left, and they settled into the uncomfortable plastic seats as best they could. The next bus wasn’t due until 3 am.

The ticket clerk pulled out his books to study for a test he had on Monday. Most of the customers had settled into a sleepy pile, with one hand clutching their belongings in a death grip. The lights dimmed and the only movement left was from a wizened old man reading a book by flashlight, a boy who looked to be about 15 and was bobbing his head in beat with the music coming from his headphones, and the janitor, who was beginning the process of cleaning up from the day’s traffic. His actual title was, “Aesthetic Engineer” but he couldn’t keep a straight face when trying to say it. He preferred janitor.

He was known as Lange, and other than the fact that he was a 5’11” slender white male in his late 50’s with curly blonde hair that reached his shoulders and sky-blue eyes, not much else was known about him. He had been working the night shift since he started six months ago, was always on time, and had not missed a day of work which was all his employer cared about. Lange kept his head down and, humming, he swept the floor. Every now and then his glance would fall upon the boy with the headphones, who was trying to look tough and nonchalant. The effect was ruined by the nervous glances the teenager kept shooting around the room from red-rimmed eyes, the obvious result of recent tears.

When the old man finally shut his book and curled up to sleep, Lange began making his way towards the boy. The teen was dressed plainly in jeans and a jersey from some obscure minor league baseball team. Lange stepped in front of the boy, who had his head down but was watching Lange closely through the shaggy black hair that hung down in front of his face. Lange smiled winningly at the youth and motioned him to take the headphones off. With a shrug and a scowl, the boy pulled off the headset.

“Whaddaya want Old-Timer,” he growled, with false bravado and just a hint of a Southern accent.

Lange looked down at the boy, his rough leathery face set in such a stern mask that the boy involuntarily shrank back. Lange’s eyes twinkled merrily as he broke into such a sweet smile that it was instantly transformed by warmth.

“Just wanted to compliment you on your jersey. That’s the Tornados from down in Texas, ain’t it? I went to as many games as I could when I lived down South. Heckuva team! Anyways, I won’t keep ya, if’n you’re busy. My name’s Lange, it’s like Lance but with a ‘g’. Ya need anything, just holler at me.”

A brief visible struggle played out on the boy’s face, as his fear and anger warred with his need to talk to someone. Finally the need for conversation won and the boy looked up at Lange. “My name is Jake. So how long has it been since ya seen the Tornados play?”

“Ah,” Lange stretched and sat down across from Jake, “it’s been years. How ‘bout you? Go to many games?”

The two talked baseball for the next 20 minutes, arguing good-naturedly about who was the best, and worst, player. When the chatter slowed down, Lange leaned back and crossed his arms.

“You’re a runaway, ain’tcha?”

Jake went rigid and his eyes grew wary. “No sir, I’m 18. Headed to the city to find work.”

Lange laughed so hard he snorted. “Son, if you’re 18 I’ll eat my boot. My guess is you had some family or school trouble and decided to head out on your own. You’re headed for the city alright, but you ain’t lookin’ for work, you’re hoping to disappear. Yup, I figger you’re a runaway, shore ‘nuf. Now, before you go gettin' mad, walkin’ off, or tunin’ me out, listen to what I have to say Jake.”

Lange leaned forward, keeping his voice low and steady, his blue eyes locked onto Jake’s brown ones. “I don’t know what happened to you Jake, m’man, but I do know this – the city is a dangerous place for a nice boy like you to be lost in. There’s a place, not too far from here, that takes in runaways no questions asked. Now if your problem is a temporary one, and your parents are goin’ crazy right now lookin’ for ya, they’ll keep you safe and bring your parents to you. If your problem is serious, and what’s waiting for ya at home is as bad as or worse than what these streets have to offer, it’s a place that will take you in and take care of you. They are a family, and they support each other, as well as their surrogate children. If you truly are in trouble, they can help you. Jake will disappear. You might become a Tim or a Chris. You’ll finish school, your clothes will be paid for, and you will be loved. As long as you follow the rules and keep your nose clean, you’ll be fine.”

“Sounds too good to be true,” Jake muttered. “How do I know what you’re tellin’ me is true? How do I know you ain’t the guy I need to be afraid of?”

Lange sighed, “You don’t. It’s one of many choices you’re gonna have to make. You just got to go on gut instinct sometimes. I wanna show you something though, before you make up your mind.” Lange bent down and grabbed the CD case lying next to Jake. The picture on the front was a grinning black man on a motorcycle in front of an alley covered in graffiti. Lange pulled out the front cover and pointed to the area where the artist normally puts his personal message. “Before you read that, here’s the card of the place I want to take you.”

Jake took the card and glanced at the name on it:

Joldy Wallace, Director
The Highlight House

Then he read the message Juju Day had put on his CD. A special thank you to Joldy and Highlight House, I wouldn’t be here without you guys and I love you – Peace Always.” Jake’s eyes widened in surprise as he looked back and forth between the two pieces of paper. Within seconds he looked up at Lange, his eyes lit up with excitement, “I’ll go, Lange, I’ll go to Highlight House.”

Lange beamed down at him, “Thank God. You’ve made the right choice son. If you’ll give me a few minutes, I’ll clock out for lunch and take you on over.” Jake nodded, then settled back to wait. A few minutes later Lange returned and the two started out the door chatting happily. Neither of them noticed the wizened old man roll off the chair, knocking his book to the ground, and slipping out after them.

They had only gone a few blocks when they began to feel uneasy. The city was never a safe place, but it was particularly nasty at 2am. Lange felt someone was following them, but every time he snuck a look back the street was empty and silent. By the next block Jake’s hair was standing on end, and his arms had broken out in goose bumps. About the time he turned to ask Lange what was going on, the streetlight above them exploded in a rush of falling glass. Lange pushed Jake towards the brick wall and put his finger over his lips to ensure Jake’s silence.

Lange turned back to face the shadowy figure that was slowly approaching. The old man from the station stopped a few feet away from Lange. He was dressed in a black turtleneck and slacks, with shoes that made no sound as he walked. The stranger surveyed the scene in front of him, nodding to Jake and then focusing his attention on Lange. “Sorry about the glass, I didn’t mean to harm you I just wanted to get your attention.”

Lange crossed his arms. “Well, it certainly worked. Is there something I can do for you stranger?”

“Well, actually there is. You’re messing in business that doesn’t concern you, and this is a friendly warning for you to go find work elsewhere.” The stranger’s voice was friendly enough, but raspy, as if he wasn’t used to talking.

“I’m not sure I understand what you’re talking ‘bout, mister. Can you be a little more specific?”

The stranger chuckled, a sound that sent a nervous shiver through Jake although Lange seemed unaffected. “My business involves runaways. You’ve cut my recruits down by half, and I need those boys. I’ll give you another chance, walk away now and I’ll let you live.”

Lange glanced at Jake, who was staring at him with a mute plea, then turned his attention back to the stranger. “I’m afraid I can’t do that, sir. This boy is with me, and he’s going to stay with me until I’ve delivered him safely to his new home. Us southerner’s are a little particular ‘bout keeping the promises we make, some folks call us downright stubborn.”

The stranger cackled delight at this answer, which he seemed to be expecting. “As you will noble janitor,” he mocked and started toward Lange. As he walked his form seemed to melt and fold, features on his face retracting and tightening. The man who stopped in front of Lange was younger, with a face that bordered on beautiful with no flaws or imperfections to be seen.

“What are you,” breathed Lange as he stepped back a pace.

“I’m a warlock you silly man. You should have taken my offer to flee. Although you still would have died, it would’ve been much less painful.” Without warning the man lifted his hands and pointed them at Lange, chanting strange words in a low monotone. Red and black sparks started spreading across his fingers, building in strength, until the man suddenly made a chopping motion and sent the streams of fire directly at Lange.

Lange held up his hand, uttered one word, and the flames died in mid-air.

“What are you,” breathed the man, as he backed up a pace.

“I’m a child of light, you silly man. You should have left well enough alone. You still had half the runaways, but now you’ve gotten greedy. Jake is a child of light, with a bright future ahead of him, you never should have messed with him.”

With that Lange lazily flicked a finger at the man, who let out a scream of terror before being surrounded by a cloud of light. When the light had finally dissipated there was nothing left but the clothing lying on the ground in a smoldering pile. Lange turned his attention to Jake. “Are you okay, son?”

Jake was shaking so badly he couldn’t even begin to answer that question. With a moan the boy collapsed against the wall, losing consciousness. Lange walked over and knelt beside him, placing his hand on Jake’s head. A pulsing glow flowed through Lange’s hand and into Jake, who groaned and then lapsed into silence with a smile on his face. Lange reached down and picked Jake up, then carried him off down the street.

Jake woke up the next morning with a small headache, but minus the ever-present knot in his stomach. For the first time in years he felt secure, and ready to explore what this day would bring. It seemed as though he had always been in The Highlight House, but he had a vague memory of some other place. Starving and excited, he leapt out of bed and headed downstairs for breakfast before the bus came to take him to school.

About 500 hundred miles away, a man stepped off the bus and squinted up at the morning sun. He walked into the bus station and approached the notice board, which was filled with pictures of missing children. Hidden away in the corner was a notice listing open positions at the bus station. He grabbed the notice and took it up to the counter where a bleary-eyed clerk was finishing up a ticket sale. He smiled at her as he handed her the paper. “Good morning, my name is Lange and I’d like to apply for the night shift janitor position.”

END