Imperfect, she thought. It didn't work out. It never would.
The United States of America border guard had turned, at the sound of screaming through duct tape. She looked at the relatively empty end of the truck's compartment. Her brow creased, unsure of what she had heard.
Brittany Sanderson screamed. Again. And again, it was muted by duct tape. And again, it fell upon ignorant ears.
"Nice truck," The guard said, still staring blankly past objects at the empty corners of the truck's interior. Because it was a truck, she had to inspect it. Even if it was leaving her turf.
"Yup, it is a nice truck," the kidnapper replied, casually moving to block the woman's view of the ransom note.
Damn you, are you only concerned with paranoid principles, keeping terrorists out? Argh, I wish that bastard was brown! Then you'd take a moment to look up! Hello?! Look up!
The border guard walked out the back of the truck. He followed, and folded up the ramp behind them. Then, he closed the back hatches, him on the inside. And looking up at her, he smiled. His hair was short, and spiked with gel. However, it was disorderly, as moments earlier he had been wearing a balaclava. And his bristly face was unshaven. Mildly angular cheek bones, like the jaws of a spider. Nose beak-like. Hair black, as a raven, or a black widow spider.
Brittany stared him down, taking in his appearance, in hopes that she would soon be sitting across from a sketch artist. However, her mind kept lingering on how frightening he looked in the mouthless, tight, red balaclava.
Almost like a superhero in that thing with those messed up eyes, she thought. Creepy bastard. And, like Spiderman, you've got me caught in your web. Brittany stared through gray netting. She was in a hammock, and it was bound around her with silvery duct-tape - sealed, like a cocoon. And she squirmed, like prey caught in a web. Suspended on hooks, against the ceiling of the truck. She remembered the noxious rolling of her stomach with every turn the truck had taken to reacht he border.
"You better be a nice little lady at the next stop," he rebuked sharply. "No more yelling through the duct tape, or you'll get a taste of something else on your lips."
I'd spit on you, you bastard, if only I could. Brittany squirmed. Like webbing from a comic book, the duct tape smothered her teenage lips.
He sat down, as the truck began to move.
Those ignorant bastards! she seethed inwardly, What do we employ them for?! Arrgh! For Christ's sake, it's an inter-fucking-national border!
He had her ID out, and re-read it. A sly grin met his lips, "Oh, you're a birthday girl, huh?"
Brittany nodded, reluctantly, as he stared up at her. The truck continued to drive.
"Well, then I think I should give you a present soon," he paused for emphasis, as the truck stopped. "But not now, pretty lady. I've got other company to entertain."
He went out the back doors, leaving them open. The evening air came in cold, and Brittany gave it a refreshing sniff.
A dresser with three drawers stood in the corner of her eye, eerily out of place in the truck. It was taped to the floor, and always looked like it was about to come loose and slide across the floor with each turn of the truck. Each jerky turn, that made Brittany want to throw up as her body swung in the hammock.
A Canadian official entered, with the abductor in toe. He sniffed, "Is that alcohol on your breath?"
"Yes sir, but I haven't been drinking."
"And what was the nature of your visit?" Calm, interrogative.
The man's eyes unconsciously went up, but he quickly blinked. And just as quickly, he lied, "Social. My ex-wife lives down in the States-side of the Soo, here," he referenced the cities of Sault St. Marie, Michigan, and Sault St. Marie, Ontario, on either side of the border. "And my buddy up front was tagging along for the visit, and he drove me."
"Yeah, I think I might've seen you at this crossing before, y'know. And, how long were you staying?"
"Oh, we came across this afternoon, around four. Went to a magic show." Again, his eyes wandered. "And my son goes to school at a private school in Michigan."
"That's fine," The officer told him, as he approached the dresser, "Nice."
"Yup, it's a fine dresser."
Open it, you damn Canuck!
The officer turned and made his way back to the end of the truck. He frowned ponderously, and then looked up.
A tear of joy fell from the ceiling of the truck, and landed in the messy hair of Brittany Sanderson's kidnapper. And she looked straight into the Canadian's eyes. And the border guard looked straight into hers. He smiled, as if enchanted.
"It's a nice hammock, eh?" The officer asked with a northern Ontario accent.
"Yeah, it is a nice hammock."
"Amazing job with the duct tape, too, eh?"
Brittany screamed, through the duct tape, in anger and confusion. She did not understand the overwhelming ignorance that had swept over the man.
"Yeah, I know," her kidnapper simpered.
Another tear fell. And then another. And they were not tears of joy. She wept, as the Canadian border guard left. She watched the ramp fold up, then, Brittany became weary. The truck continued driving, and the red balaclava came over her captor's face again. Once again, he was Spiderman. She fell asleep then.
Brittany woke up. As she opened her eyes, she saw metal glinting in front of her. And thus, the duct tape over her mouth received another generous, muted scream. The hammock had been lowered,and there was a knife glinting in front of her. The rungs of the hammock around her mouth were joined, as the knife's cutting merged four into one hole.
And the man backed away, sizing up his work. And then, he moved behind her. And she could feel him cut another hole in the hammock's netting, above her rear.
Then, came the strong hand that painfully tugged the tape off her face. She screamed, and finally she was audible. And as the shrieking ended, the man laughed heartily. And, behind her, another man laughed, deeper.
"You wouldn't care!" she accused.
"I promised you a birthday present, didn't I, little lady?"
Again, the unseen man, presumably the driver, gave a deep chuckle. Then, a leg came over the hammock and met the floor on the other side. As if mounting a horse, he stood over her, and she felt the weight of the man press her against the gray netting. And all she could see was the floor seeming to move about as the hammock swayed.
"After all, she wrote us that nice letter. Made her write it in her own blood, too, Ross."
The man laughed again, and then stopped abruptly, "Ross, eh? Is that my pseudo-name, Peter?"
"What do pseudonyms have to do with this?" the man in the red balaclava asked.
"Shutup!" roared the unseen man. And she felt a bulge against her behind. "Pseu-do--name!"
"Oh, well, you didn't have to let her know our names are fake, man. I mean, she could've given the police a bad lead with them."
"She won't be giving them any leads when we're done with her."
Tell them! Yes, I'll have to... anything to stop them, she thought. Even if he is the only person I've told already, I don't mind if this leaks from the police to my parents. Better than getting raped again, here and now.
Behind her, where she could not see, a zipper came down with a familiar sound.
"I'm three months pregnant!"
Peter paused, left hand on the fly of his zipper. His right hand, digging into his pocket, presumably for the aforementioned condoms in his wallet. He grinned, "Who's the father? C'mon, sweet pea, what's his name?"
The one known as 'Ross' did up his zipper. 'Peter' took his hand out of his pocket, and slowly raised his left hand ponderously to his chin.
"You know the little bastard?" Three voices, incredulous, simultaneously asking each other the same question.
"You answer first, pretty lady," the man in front of her said, through his red balaclava.
"I dated him for two months. And then, when I said 'no', he raped me. I don't know how though, cause I'm sure I must be stronger than him."
Both men frowned, at the curious story.
"I ran over some kid who was picking on him at school, and the smug brat sent me a thank-you letter. And you, Andr-P--P-Peter?"
Andrew, known as Peter, grimaced, because 'Ross' had almost called him by name. Then, he continued, "Though I ain't got joint-custody back yet, Joseph Andrew Tayna is my son."
Brittany Sanderson's jaw dropped, and she was thankful that it was the only reason, that night, that her jaw would be dropping. Sodomy had quickly left the minds of the men around her. It was as if a spell had been broken.