Ireland screamed in frustration and kicked at the flat tire, then took a breath and knelt to start all over again. She had never changed a flat before and she was having issues with the jack. Namely, figuring out how to get it put together and working. There were no instructions on how to do that, but she was determined.
She went down on her belly, trying to see the little spot where the jack went, the reinforced spot where you were supposed to put it. Seeing the hole, she positioned the jack again, and as she did, she heard another vehicle pull up.
She scowled angrily, preparing herself. A man had just stopped and had condescendingly told her she should have just stood next to her car and smiled, flagging someone down. She had told him to fuck right off. She would figure this out herself if it took her two days!
"Hey, Lil Miss, you need a hand?" a man called.
"No! No, I have it!"
"A'ight... Miss you know at ya need ta..."
"I SAID I HAVE IT!" she yelled angrily, standing up to look up at the tall, skinny redneck.
His face went red. "All's I was fixin ta say was you have that jack upside down and it ain't put ta'gether right! Damned bitch!" he grated, turning to storm off.
Ireland turned red, looking down at the jack, embarrassed now as the man peeled out in his old truck, revving the engine loundly. It blew past as she went back to her knees to try and fix the jack, then screeched to a halt again in front of her car.
She felt sick as the man got out of his truck and closed the distance with his long legs. Opening her mouth to apologize, she had no chance as he leaned down and yanked her to her feet by her hair. She screamed, grabbing his wrist in terror as he shoved her hard against her car.
"Y'aint no better'n me! I was try'na help!" he yelled in her face, slamming her back into her car again. "Damned bitch!" he yelled again, then stepped back, pulling her along with him as he went back to his truck.
"Let go! Let me go, please, I'm sorry!" she cried desperately, trying to free herself from his grip. He shoved her into his old truck, pushing her down on the floorboard as he looked up and down the empty road. He pulled away, the engine roaring loudly as she screamed and tried to reach the handle on the far door.
"Lay your ass still or I'll fuckin' brain ya!" he yelled, hefting a large crowbar. "Leave what's left in the ditch! Uppity fucking cunt!"
"No! Please, I'm not! I just wanted to do it myself, please! I just wanted to prove to myself I could do it!"
"Shut yer mouth! Not a god damn sound or I put you down, ya hear me?"
Ireland curled up as far away from him as she could, hugging her knees and sobbing.
She was going to die. He was going to take her back to some old farm and his parents would carve her up for a meal. She was beyond lost out here in the country, she had no idea where she was or where the highway was. He was going to take her to some inbred house full of his brothers and they were going to cut her up with a chainsaw!
"Quit yer bawlin', you ain't hurt. Not yet."
"Please, sir! Please, I'm sorry! I wasn't trying to be rude, I swear! Another man had just come and said mean things to me and I was upset, I just..."
"I said shut yer mouth, girl!" he yelled.
Ireland flinched and huddled down even further, hugging herself. There was a smell from the engine that was making her sick, but she didn't dare try and move or get up in the seat, she just lay there curled up and sobbing.
She knew she should plan or try and think of a way to get away, but she was too afraid. The man wasn't burly, but he was wiry. Very tall and skinny. He wasn't as young as her, but he wasn't old either. Young enough to be fast, old enough to be wise.
After twenty long minutes of being jostled around hard, she finally sniffled and wiped her face, looking up at him. He still looked pissed as he drove, a single hand on the wheel, his other arm in the open window, elbow resting, his hand holding the top. He wore a cutoff shirt, the kind that he cut himself and the sleeves were cut off all the way down to the hem, leaving the sides open. He was skinny enough to see his ribs, but also tan and covered in tattoos up and down both arms and across his chest.Most looked older, especially the barbed wire one around his bicep that read 'Lyndie'. There were a few older tribal tattoos as well and the newer ones all seemed amatuer. Like someone went at him with a needle in a garage somewhere. They were decent, but not good.
Mostly he just looked... very redneck. His old hat had an overly curled brim, not like the flat brimmed hats so many city boys wore, and he had brown curls poking out from under it in a haphazard mess. Almost as if he had tossed a hat on without brushing his hair first. His jeans were loose on him, though they were the wrangler brand that was supposed to be tight, and they had holes in the knees that were worn there and not there for fashion. They looked stained, but not dirty and the old belt he was wearing with them had holes he had made himself. His old boots had seen years of wear and dirt and mud and she looked at his face. He had a few days growth of scruff, but his wasn't the sort of face that could grow a beard and he didn't really look to be trying. He just looked like he was too busy to bother.
She saw that in him then. He was busy and careworn.
As she began wondering where they were going and how far they were going to go, he finally hit the brakes, then honked.
She was confused as she shifted, glancing at the handle on the door as he looked out his window at something. Or someone.
"Jay!" he yelled suddenly, making her jerk. "Tell Ole' I have that carburetor, he can come get it when he wants!"
"Yeah, Em, thanks!" a male voice yelled, then the man took off again.
Ireland eased off the floor and up onto the seat, as close to the door as she could manage. The man glanced at her, scowling, but said nothing.
Looking around, she glanced at the handle again.
"You try it girl, see what it gets you," the man snarled.
"Sir, I..."
"Shut yer mouth. Not a god damn word, you hear me? Not a one! Not now, not ever. You'll keep yer mouth god damn shut, or you'll not be able to speak ever 'gin."
Ireland stared at him with wide eyes. Did he mean she wasn't allowed to speak, ever? Or she wasn't supposed to speak of her car and the incident and him taking her? She wasn't sure.
They were on an old dirt road and he pulled into a long drive that had trees lining it and hanging over it, the ruts and gravel making the old truck bounce and jerk around. A long mile up the drive, an old trailer came into view, along with a huge garden and a LOT of children. Along one side of the treeline to a forest were dozens of old cars, goats climbing all over them.
Ireland stared, wide eyed as the children swarmed the truck, yelling at the man, screaming and laughing and talking all at once.
The man turned to her and pulled her close, jerking her shoes off roughly before opening his door and pulling her out of the truck.
The kids all paused, looking her over.
"You brought us a mama?" one of them asked.
Ireland didn't know if it was a boy or a girl, they all had long hair, though she was sure at least two of them were boys. They were also too young to have been left home alone, though they obviously had been.
"Go on'n dig up some taters and Bray, go on'n catch a chicken for fryin'."
"He got us a mama!" the same child yelled, running off laughing to the garden as the others whooped and hollered and ran around screaming and laughing. The oldest of them, one she was sure was a boy, headed towards the chicken coop and she watched him with a sort of dread. That boy was too young to kill a chicken!
The man dragged her inside the small trailer and she looked around at the unholy mess of clothes piled everywhere and dirty dishes piled on the counter and sink. He shoved her at the kitchen roughly. "Get at it," he demanded, then turned and left.
