Ragtag Runaways

Prologue Disoriented, confused, vision scattered like a kaleidoscope. I peeled my heavy face off of the rocky ground, an intense ringing in my ears painful enough to split my head right open. Looking around at the two small figures close to me, it took time to register the extreme force that had thrown me to the ground. Clutching my throbbing head, and wishing more than anything my mum were here, another explosion went off. The adrenaline in my body rushed through my bloodstream in two seconds. As if exiting from a vacuum, my hearing returned; I first registered the panicked screams of a hundred people around me. This wasn't how it was supposed to go. This wasn’t the plan. This was supposed to be my chance at freedom, finally. Hadn’t I suffered enough to deserve some peace, after everything? But no, life was a cruel master. And now, mine had become a waking nightmare. For what felt like the millionth time in my pathetically short years of living, I, Bec Taylor, was in a fight for my life. This could be the one I wouldn’t manage to win… but that didn’t mean I would take it lying down on that rough and dusty dirt road. And so, after a laboured and painful breath, I got back up. ***** Location: Outside of Juba, South Sudan Present Day The hot rays of the sun-scorched down in unforgiving pulses. I spent ten hours a day sweating through every piece of clothing that touched my skin, all while simultaneously burning me to a crisp. Becoming a legal adult a few weeks after graduation had been my greatest blessing. I finally left that godforsaken foster home. They only kept me around for the government cheques anyway. The cats in that house were enough to drive a sane person mad; I would never get the smell of sodden litter box out of my clothes. After seven months of that hell and a lifetime of being tossed around from one home to the next, I was ready to be rid of the system entirely. No doubt my social worker was pleased to see the end of me as well. One less problem for her to deal with. “Rebecca, could you pass me that shovel, please?” I turned to the voice, a man in his thirties with a t-shirt you could wring it out and bathe in the contents. “Bec,” I replied, handing over the tool. He raised an eyebrow. “Huh?” I counted to three to grasp at my small thread of patience. “I go by Bec; no one calls me Rebecca.” His head bobbed. “Okay, sure, I’ll remember that.” As I watched him saunter off, my responding scoff was only meant for myself. Yeah, like hell you would. I then stretched my back, wiped my forehead with my forearm, and got back to the task at hand. Just before I turned eighteen, I skipped class and opted for some fair-trade coffee shop instead. Mulling over a mug of over-priced black pour-over, I wondered what the hell I was going to do with my life. I’d be leaving the system soon, and hadn’t been prepared for life out of foster care. Not that I’d necessarily put much of my own thought into it. On my way out of the door that day, I was no closer to solving my impending responsibilities of adulthood. It was then that a doe-eyed couple, standing by the bulletin board, pinned up a flyer. The notice read: Help a Friend Abroad, Consider Humanitarian Work I wasn’t about to lie to myself—the humanitarian piece hadn’t interested me much. It was the word abroad that stopped me just before the doorway. The couple explained that the work would be tough—building houses, and churches, and centres. We would create structures for villages and communities in need. It would mean long days in the hot sun, strange food, and no pay. They yammered on about how impressive this type of volunteering would look on my CV for future employment, and how deeply it would satisfy my soul. As if satisfying my soul was my biggest concern. If God cared so much about those people, why didn’t He fix their houses? My only concern was getting away—and I shamelessly took that humanitarian opportunity to do so. A woman approached from my peripheral, pulling my wandering mind back into the present. “Here Bec, take a break and drink this. You’re looking dehydrated.” The water bottle placed in my hands was luke warm; it was hard to come across anything cold in climates like this. “Thanks.” We met eyes for a second, and I saw the strain in her smile. She was the woman who recruited me at the coffee shop. Her name was Jane, and like everyone on this trip, she was a nice Christian lady. Well, everyone other than me. The humanitarian mission was organized by a religious charity group, and while I had no construction skills and I didn’t even believe in their God, I was still recruited as a last-minute addition. I later learned they required a minimum number of twenty team members to green-light the trip. I was more of a number than a team member, not that it bothered me much. Their intentions seemed good enough, and they’d treated me kindly up until now. Jane walked away from the awkward silence looming between us. My loving foster parents kicked me out the moment I was legal, and so Jane and her husband put me up for the weeks prior to leaving for the mission trip. Initially, they were overflowing with empathy for my tragic life story, but I could see their enthusiasm waning the longer they got to know me. Admittedly, I got colder toward them the more they pried into my life’s history –I was used to this sort of over-the-top kindness from people, in the beginning at least. But the novelty would eventually wear off when they would learn just how screwed up I was. Jane and her husband were no different. If they thought I was some broken kid that they could fix with a hug and a dash of Jesus, they were bound to be disappointed. But I wasn’t here for them—I was here for me. For a new start. For living life on my own terms. For that very reason, I couldn’t get onto that plane to South Sudan fast enough. And that was exactly how I’d found myself here, baking under the blistering sun. This was called taking control of my own destiny. I lifted my face to the sky, letting the UV rays wash over my tender British skin. The sunburns never really went away—I was far too forgetful with applying sunscreen, and if it weren’t for Jane I’d probably get heatstroke. I imagined it was her sense of Christianly duty that prompted her to extend me that kindness, rather than any warm personal feelings. Everyone else on the team steered clear of me. Still, I was happier than I’d ever been. No one bothered me here, no one noticed my parents weren’t around, nor did they ask about my plans for the future. They were all far too busy putting their energy into levelling foundations and laying bricks. I walked over to the shade of a nearby tree and took a seat. I popped down and cracked open the water bottle, hydrating every inch of my dry throat. I then pealed my dark blond ponytail off of my drenched back and flicked it over the front of my shoulder. A break was certainly needed; my body was spent. Relishing in a much-needed break, I closed my eyes and leaned my head back against the tree trunk, giving myself executive permission to take a much-needed nap. Each morning, our team would wake up at the c***k of dawn to pile into a beat-up jeep to drive an hour outside the capital, Juba. The village, where we were building a healthcare center, was just beyond a military checkpoint. Admittedly, I knew next to nothing about South Sudan before arriving in the country. I hadn’t bothered to do any research. I hadn’t read any of the information papers Jane gave me or the websites she’d recommended. Maybe I should have. A few days into placement, I grasped why I’d signed so many consent forms. South Sudan was no stranger to civil unrest, and tensions in certain regions were still very high. We were in the grasslands, which were considered minimal risk areas, but we were still accompanied by two government soldiers wielding large automatic rifles each time we arrived to our job site. As soon as we began our work, they’d find a shaded spot to lounge, smoking and laughing the day away. It took some time for me to fully settle in, but by week three I’d adapted to the routine. Most of my team members were in their late thirties and their motivations were different than mine.  Every morning before starting the day they held early morning prayer sessions. They’d quote scripture like it was as much of a life source as water. I opted out of every religious activity, and I presumed that choice, in particular, was how I’d become the black sheep of our crew. **** When the health centre was finally completed, I gladly joined in the celebration. The excitement from the community was palpable, and although their words were in a language I couldn’t understand, their gratitude was communicated without a single difficulty. We finished the health centre by mid-afternoon at the beginning of our fourth week. On the drive back to our host home our team decided that a dinner celebration was in order. The local missionary group we were partnering with offered to treat us to a meal in the city later that night. I would participate in anything as long as it meant eating food instead of stacking bricks. I picked at the blisters on my hands and wondered for the first time if a cashier job was a fitting alternative for my future, rather than jumping from one humanitarian mission to another in a desperate bid to avoid facing reality. I knew I’d never forget that delicious aroma wafting from the restaurant as we walked in. Though, it soon dawned on me that I’d underdressed for the occasion. In a sea of shirts and semi-formal wear, my loose top and khakis stuck out like a sore thumb. This was a humanitarian trip, and coming from a foster home I barely had five full outfits to my name. I certainly didn’t pack a semi-formal dress. Black sheep of the herd, once again. We arrived to the establishment and were greeted by the missions group hosting us for our celebratory dinner. Among them, a family of five sat at the back wall. At least I assumed they were related; three children, and two adults. They drew my attention like a magnet, and wouldn’t let go. On the far left of the table were the youngest kids: a teenage boy with red curly hair and a little girl in a frilly dress. The adults sat across from them, chatting quietly among themselves. A young man reclined next to the parents; broad-shouldered, slicked black hair, bold and narrowed eyebrows. He, in particular, piqued my interest. He looked up from across the room and my heart jumped into my throat. The dark-haired boy was impossibly handsome. My cheeks grew hotter the longer he watched me, and from the predatory interest in his eyes, the air from my lungs deflated. By pure survival instinct, I tried to place myself on the farthest side of the room to lessen the influence of his intensity. I was just about to sit down with some of my teammates when our mission director called me over. “Finally, some people closer to your age,” she cheered, motioning me to join the family, and the striking stranger, at their table. “You’ll have plenty to talk about!” She abandoned me just as quickly as she’d dumped me on them. My feet sifted through concrete as I made my way over to the table. That table was quite literally the last place I wanted to be–and I had been happily living in a country plagued by civil unrest for the last month. I claimed a spot next to the young girl with light brown locks and huge blue eyes. I gave her a side glance, only to find her deep pools staring intently at my face without a single bit of regard for manners. We looked at one another. I blinked a couple of times. I just didn’t know what to say. She did the honours to break the silence first. “Are you English?” Her accent was similar to mine, but more polished. “Lucie, dear, use your inside voice please,” the woman across the table scolded. “Forgive my daughter; she’s very excited to meet another girl under the age of thirty.” Laughing at her own joke, her blue eyes beamed, exaggerating her already sweet smile. My arms crossed themselves on my chest in that familiar defensive barricade. I forced a polite smile in response. The little girl, Lucie, continued to stare. “You didn’t answer my question.” She tilted her head to the side. “Are you from England?” I cleared my throat, scanning the table for a brief second. I regretted doing so as soon as I noticed those dark, intense eyes of the handsome stranger boring into me. “Yes. Surrey,” “We live in Newcastle, but we used to live South, too,” Lucie chirped, jumping a little in her seat as she said it. “What’s your name?” What was I doing here? Had I seriously been put at the kiddie table? “Bec.” “How old are you?” She just wouldn’t relent. “Quit it, Lue,” the teenage boy with the curly red hair protested under his breath. He glared at his place setting. “What’s with you and always giving the third degree?” “I was not,” Lucie whined. “I was not giving her the third degree! Mummy, tell him I wasn’t giving her the third degree!” The boy gave an irritated huff. “Do you even know what the third degree is?” “Cut it out you two,” the middle-aged man across the table ordered. “You’re behaving terribly in front of our guest.” An awkward silence fell over the table. It was like I was back in foster care; kids bickering at one another because they didn’t know any other way of expressing how miserable their lives were. Just peachy—the very thing I flew across the world to outrun had still managed to catch up with me. What a cruel joke from the universe. “So, Bec,” the woman began. “Have you always lived in Surrey?” I nodded. I’d take conversation with an adult over sitting in uncomfortably silence next to the two pouting kids any day. “How long have you lot been in South Sudan?” A safe, probing question to shift the spotlight off of myself and let someone else do the talking. The mother smiled. “Almost six months now.” She placed a hand on the shoulder of the man next to her. “Before I forget, this is my husband, William. I’m Evelyn. We’re researchers helping on a local project. Then there is our daughter Lucie, next to her is Jacob, and this is our oldest, Theodore.” “Theo.” The eldest corrected, for what sounded like the millionth time in his life from his tone. It was the first time I’d heard him speak, and the vibrations of his voice sunk into my bones. His eyes were downcast while he played with a coin between his fingers. Dark hair matched dark eyes, and his features were sharp and symmetrical. He could have been on the cover of magazines being that dangerously good-looking. Theo glanced up from his coin and directly at me. A shock went through me the moment our eyes met. Time itself froze in the vicinity of our table. “You never said how old you were,” he pointed out, breaking my concentration. I hesitated, forgetting how old I was for a second. “Eighteen.” “Theo is eighteen too!” Lucie shouted, making me jump at her outburst. William stretched his arm across the back of his wife’s chair. “Yes, he just turned eighteen last week. Already an adult. Scary when you really think about it.” Evelyn shared a laugh with him, beaming at her eldest son. “We’re so very proud of him; our little boy is growing up.” Theo scoffed. “Can’t really help but get older,” He leaned back in his chair. “It’s kind of a given, isn’t it?” “Oh shush,” His mother objected, turning back to me and shaking her head. “I’m sure Bec knows what I mean. Weren’t your parents proud of you when you turned eighteen?” I stared at my plate as that familiar numbness settled over me like a blanket. In four weeks, not one person from my team had managed to bridge the distance to this conversation. And yet, after five minutes with this random family from England, land right on it? Maddening. I shrugged, fidgeting with the utensils on top of the napkin in front of me. There were no parents to be proud. My birthday passed with little notice. I hoped they would drop the subject and move on. “What, did they not care?” Theo asked, a hint of victory in his voice like he’d had proven his parents wrong. Dead exhausted from such a brief exchange. I wanted this line of questioning to stop, and for that reason, I decided to drop the bomb. “I wouldn’t know. They’re dead.” A vacuum sucked all of the air out of the room, leaving only an eerie silence in its wake. I felt…guilty for it. But that was silly. Why should I feel guilty for admitting I’m an orphan? As if the angels themselves pitied me, our hosts finally arrived a second later. Among them were the group of missionaries and a few South Sudanese men in suits. We all stood to greet them as they entered. The others did it out of respect, but I was just going along. I interlocked my brick-blistered fingers in front of me and studied the floor until it was appropriate to sit down again. A few of the missionaries came over to our table and greeted William and Evelyn. They were cheerful. They were probably friends, judging by the hugs and smiles. It wasn’t a type of relationship I knew first-hand. I exchanged a few hollow words with the woman next to me and allowed Evelyn to introduce me to the group. Thankfully, they failed to pay attention to me for the remainder of the dinner. At times, I would glance over at my teammates. They conversed and laughed, and I’d silently spite every few minutes for casting me to the kid’s table like this. Once my plate was empty, I felt someone hovering over my shoulder. I looked up and was uneased to see Theo whispering something to his sister. She hopped off her chair and scurried over to sit next to their mother where Theo had previously been. She scooted the chair over and nestled closely into her mum’s side, a big pout on her face. “It makes sense, you know,” Theo offered, taking his sister’s spot. I tried to ignore his enticing woodsy scent as I glanced at him, his face very close to mine. A little to his right, his brother, Jacob, was fidgeting with his food, obviously eavesdropping on our conversation. “What does?” I asked as casually as I could. The corner of his mouth lifted. “That you’re an orphan.” Not what I was expecting him to say. “Oh, really?” “Well, yeah.” He leaned forward and placed both elbows on the table. “What loving parent in their right mind would let their eighteen-year-old daughter travel on a humanitarian mission to a country drowning in civil unrest?” I laughed. “Funny. Out of everyone at this table, I think I like you most.” I played it off as if I had intended to be so bold, when in reality those words had slipped past my mental filters. Theo raised a sharp eyebrow. “Do you, then?” A fluttering started deep within my chest. Good looking, yes. Charming, certainly! A deadly combination to a young woman like me, already so far away from home. What was that saying? What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas? Perhaps I could let South Sudan be my own Sin City? For a face like his, a small voice in my head already knew that the answer was yes. I shrugged, as if uninterested. “Certainly more fun than anyone else in the room.” Theo laughed, and looked into my soul with a crooked smile that could kill. “You doing anything tonight?” I fidgeted with the napkin on my lap through the lingered silence. Lowering my voice, I said, “No, but I doubt I can get away from the group.” He grinned and leaned in close enough to catch my reflection in his eyes. “But the real question is”—he whispered, sending a shiver down my back—“do you want to do something tonight?”