THUGLIT Issue Seventeen by unknow

Author:unknow
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Thuglit Publishing
Published: 2015-04-29T04:00:00+00:00

Big Hard Squall

by Lane Kareska

Abby has tasted her own blood before, sure—the playground, a single fistfight in high school, junior college basketball…but never this much of it. It's got a hot, sweaty quality to it. And it's not the taste, but the temperature, that makes her gag. She doesn't want to throw up. Not while she's locked in the back of her own brand new 1991 Mercedes Benz S-Class. The darkness, the heat, the insufferable conditions, they don't add up to fear exactly, like she would have thought. Instead, what she feels is a deep, rotten, insulted kind of anger. These two punks show up at her door. Do this to her. Bodily arrest her. It's unthinkable.

Her wrist bones feel crushed beneath the binding of duct tape. Her throat is full of blood and bile, but she can't do much about it but swallow and try to work her jaw enough to rip open the strip of gummy tape slapped across her mouth. One punch—that's all it was—and her nose simply burst. The blood hasn't stopped flowing since. The heat in the trunk of this car—for fuck's sake—this is bad. She keeps waiting for the fear—fear of sexual assault, fear of murder, fear of all manner of harm—to overtake her, but it's not happening. Instead, she just lies there, folded and bound, in the trunk, like a gift for someone.

She's probably only been in her trunk for a few minutes, though it already feels much longer. She was too disoriented to keep track of the initial turns, brakes and accelerations, but now they're on a long straightaway and the punk behind the wheel is putting it to at least forty. She guesses that they're leaving the long driveway out of the subdivision, which is really the only place for him to go. There's only one road in and out of Dune Acres, Indiana, and she is very confident that they're on it right now.

The driver slows, the car bumps gently over the railroad tracks. Yes, she thinks. I know where we are. Now it gets a little bit trickier. If the car turns right, they're heading into Chicago…probably. If they turn left, they're going for the highway that could take them to Chicago, or anywhere else. Indianapolis, Detroit, Tallahassee, who knows?

Her head is swimming. She's going to lose consciousness. These idiots didn't seem too concerned that Abby, a 65-year-old woman with two bad knees, might not be the type of person that would do well being attacked, bound, gagged, and shoved into a car trunk.

The driver turns left. The interstate.

It would be real nice to breathe a normal breath right now. It would be real bad to continue being unable to do so. She strains her neck muscles and tries to lower her jaw. The glue on the back of the tape rips at the skin of her lips. She grunts, cracks her lips, then tries to drive her tongue through the strip of tape. Her own husky, insane breathing and the rough noise of her struggling amplifies and fills the awful compartment.

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