Out of everything unusual that had happened in Cynthia's life, that was probably the oddest. And, going by the expressions of everyone in the van it wasn't supposed to happen.
Well, fuck this: thought Cynthia - she wasn't going to sit back and watch the world pass her by! Or get murdered.
Swinging her left foot up, she caught the brainless one by the shin. As he fell, she freed her arm and punched the pervert in the face. However, nose-bleeding, he caught her wrist and held on tight. Quickly she elbowed him where the sun don't shine and his face crumpled in pain. By this time the other had recovered. Using her body as leverage, she hoisted the pervert over her shoulder and onto the other's lap. Copious amounts of blood showered them all and Cynthia grimaced as her jeans became stained with dark-red blotches. The driver could do nothing as she crouched, to avoid hitting the roof of the car, and started to crawl towards the driver's seat.
Suddenly, he sprayed her in the face with a chemical that made her gag as she inhaled the vapours. Tears falling down her face, her vision going hazy, Cynthia could just make out the steering wheel. Lunging forwards she grabbed it with two hands and violently jerked it to the right.
They were in the wrong lane.
A truck was heading straight towards them.
And Cynthia couldn't see it.
The driver threw her off the steering wheel and she landed awkwardly on the passenger seat. The driver gripped the wheel, knuckles white with fear, and dodged the incoming traffic. From her position - upside down, facing the ceiling, one leg wrapped round the seat, another as if it was holding up the roof, hands trying to get a hold on the slippery leather - Cynthia could see they were on a bridge. A bridge that only had one-way traffic.
They were screwed.
The pervert, now bright-red in the face, hunched his back and stood up. He glared at her over the seat back and twisted her ankle wrapped round the seat. Cynthia let out a yelp and sucked in sharply: this was not going as well as planned.
Or as well as it would have done if they'd actually been a plan in the first place.
The seemingly brainless one pulled out a gun and held it to her stomach, blocking the mirror's view as he did so; the driver swore and narrowly dodged a family car. Swearing, he pointed out he couldn't see and the brainless one (who had now proved his lack of grey matter) lowered himself so he could still hold the gun to her and the driver could see. This left Cynthia in a very awkward, uncomfortable situation.
Why did she always have to land in the most ungainly positions?!
Luckily, the traffic narrowed out and became two-way. Expertly, the driver switched lanes and visibly calmed. He glanced towards her and motioned for the pervert to let her up and stop manipulating her ankle joints. Reluctantly he did so; as gracefully as ever, Cynthia twisted in her seat and sat up. Gingerly she rubbed her sore ankle and deduced there was no way she was going to be able to run on it. Th one with the gun cautiously, and slowly, locked her seat-belt and sat behind her. She could feel the cold steel presing into the base of her cranium.
Carefully she tried the buckle on the belt and discovered it wouldn't budge.
Shit! Trying harder in frustration she saw the driver smirk at her distress. Blowing her fringe out of her eyes in annoyance, Cynthia settled down and tried to relax. She couldn't scheme, or plan her escape, if she was stressed.
YOU ARE READING
Working Progress
ActionA story about a girl whose life doesn't seem to give her any answers, and where life itself wants to control her. Needless to say she tries to rebel against it's plan for her.
