Short Stories by Matt Slater

The Runaways

11:00 PM, Friday, December 31st, 1999

0.75 miles outside of Leavenworth, Washington

Evan Samuels drove his truck up the mountain. His breath was shaky, and he remained focused on the road ahead despite the fact that his brain was processing 2,000 thoughts per second.

He was dressed rather slovenly: torn jeans, one gray sock, one blue sock, five-year-old tennis shoes that were showing their age, a camo t-shirt, a flannel shirt with the sleeves ripped off, a beige double-breasted coat, and titanium tunnels stretching his earlobes to a centimeter.

His hands kept moving from the steering wheel to adjust his glasses, or change the radio, or brush his pink hair. He had no idea where he was going, but he didn't care. He just needed to keep driving until he found a good place to stay for the night. But, of course, that might have to be the truck: it was snowing, it was eleven, and this was the middle of nowhere.

Suddenly, the truck started sputtering.

"No. Please not now."

Luckily, there was a diner with a parking lot to pull into. The restaurant looked sketchy, though.

No way in hell in I'm going in there.

He steered into the parking, put on his gloves, got out of his truck, and fetched the toolbox out of the flatbed.

Popping open the hood, he set the toolbox down on the bumper and put his hands on his hips as he surveyed all the gizmos inside the truck.

"Oh, who am I kidding?" he said to himself. "I don't know cars."

"Apparently not," someone said, "Because that's a truck."

Despite the cold, snowy weather around him, Evan started to sweat.

"G-God?" he eeked out.

"Nope. But I have been called an angel and a demon by numerous people."

Evan slowly turned towards the man the voice belonged to.

He saw a very attractive man in front of him: golden hair, short stubble, a thick down jacket, worn jeans, steel-toed boots on snowshoes, and a small gold hoop in each ear.

"Just come into the diner, I'll have someone look at it in the morning."

Evan blinked. "Um... no?"

The man chuckled. "I guess that sounded a little creepy given the circumstances."

"Yep."

The man stuck out his hand.

"Jim. Jim Crumb."

"Evan."

"Evan what?"

"Nice try."

The man laughed.

"What do you take me for, son? A backwoods gun nut? Just grab your tool box, and come into the diner."

Evan realized that unless he wanted to freeze to death, he had no other choice. So he grabbed the toolbox and followed Jim into the diner. Before he went in, though, he finally read the sign: "Jim's Diner."

"This is your diner?" Evan asked.

"Yup. Has been since 1988."

~*~

Inside the diner, Evan froze and blushed a deep red as five men and four women sitting at the tables looked at him.

"Who's the fresh meat?" a large, beefy man grunted.