The Charger’s hood stood propped open under a sky too blue to trust. Jack leaned over the engine bay, sleeves rolled up, hands already blackened with grease and dirt. The engine ticked softly as it cooled, a sound he knew better than his own heartbeat. Whatever else this place was, an internal combustion engine still obeyed the same rules. That was something.
The strange creature lay a few feet away in the grass, twisted and still. In daylight, it looked less like a nightmare and more like a problem someone had failed to clean up. Six legs splayed awkwardly. Tongue slack. Eyes dull.
Jack twisted a hose back into place and tightened a clamp. “There,” he muttered. “You behave, we’ll talk later.”
The engine turned over when he tested it. Rough. Uneven. But it caught. Relief washed through him - then immediately curdled into something hotter.
He stepped back from the car and looked at the damage.
The punctured hood.
The cracked windshield.
The bent door.
His jaw clenched. He turned and kicked the corpse.
“Sonuva-”
Kick.
“-bitch-”
Kick.
“-you just-”
Kick.
“-had to-”
Kick.
“-wreck my hood-”
“-and crack-”
“-my windshield!”
Kick. Kick. Kick.
He stopped, chest heaving, boot hovering in the air like he might go for another. Then he dropped his foot. He stood there for a second, breathing hard, one hand on his hips.
“…Asshole,” he muttered. He flipped the dead thing off, wiped his hands on the rag, and looked at the Charger, then at the horizon. “Car first,” he said quietly. “Everything else can wait.”
The Charger idled rough but steady. Good enough to move. Good enough to look. Jack took the shotgun with him this time and walked the perimeter of the field, eyes on the treeline, ears straining for anything that didn’t belong. The forest stayed quiet. Too quiet.
A few minutes of careful circling paid off.
Tracks. Not the beast’s - something simpler. Wagon ruts. Old, but used. Grass flattened where wheels had passed often enough to keep it down. He followed them until the trees thinned and the ground hardened underfoot. A dirt road.
He stared at it for a long moment.
“…Figures,” he muttered.
It wasn’t paved. It wasn’t marked. It definitely wasn’t reassuring. But it was a direction, and right now that was better than spinning in circles in a field with a dead nightmare and no cell service.
He headed back to the car.
Before getting in, he popped the shotgun open and removed the shells, slipping them carefully into his pocket. He didn’t know what passed for a gunsmith - or a law - in this place, but powder and shot were problems you solved before you ran out.
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Then he looked at the body.
The creature lay where it had fallen, already starting to look unreal in the daylight. Like something that might fade if he blinked too long. Jack stared at it for a second, then sighed like a man who just found rust on a fresh paint job.
“Nope,” he said. “You’re coming with me.”
Someone, somewhere, was going to explain what the hell that thing was - and whether there were more of them.
“Alright, ugly. You’re riding in the trunk, but you’re not riding dirty.” He yanked the tarp free from its spot behind the spare tire, spread it across the floor of the trunk, and smoothed it flat with the heel of his hand. “I just cleaned this thing last month. If you leak, I’m gonna feel it for the next six thousand miles.”
He hauled the corpse in, grunting as the horns clanged against the metal, then folded the tarp over it like he was wrapping leftovers nobody wanted, the faint coppery tang sticking in his nose. “Tight enough?” He gave the bundle a quick pat. “Yeah. Tight enough.”
The trunk lid dropped with a solid thunk. He rested a hand on it for a second.
“You stay wrapped. I stay pissed. We got a deal.” He paused, letting out a breath. “Should’ve stayed off my car,” he muttered. Then he got in, turned onto the dirt road, and started driving.
---
The dirt road wound tighter as he drove, flanked by timbered fences and the occasional grazing animal. Ahead, a cluster of buildings appeared - low, half-timbered houses with smoke curling from stone chimneys. A village. He slowed, scanning. No modern signs, no lampposts. Just wood, stone, and thatched roofs.
Villagers appeared at the edges of the road, frozen in place as the Charger rumbled closer. Their eyes were wide. Mouths slightly open. Hands gripping tools as if they might use them, though Jack doubted they’d know what to do with the machine.
A kid shouted something, pointing at the car. Another woman covered her mouth, clearly trying not to squeal. They didn’t get the horn, the exhaust, or even the fact the engine growled on command - they only knew the wagon roared like a beast and had no animals pulling it.
He exhaled through his nose.
Gas stations don’t exist here. Of course they wouldn’t, ?he thought. And neither do mechanics.
He rolled down the window, leaning one elbow casually on the sill, and gave a small wave. “Hey,” he called, keeping his voice friendly but firm.
One of the villagers, a man in his thirties with a leather apron and a pair of suspender-like straps across his chest, stepped forward, still clearly confused. “Uh… hello?” he said cautiously.
Jack smiled to himself, grateful. No language barrier. Thank God.
“I need two things,” he said, voice calm, authoritative. “A blacksmith and a hunter. You know where either of those are?”
The man blinked, looked at the Charger, then back at him. The confusion didn’t fade. If anything, it deepened. But after a moment, he nodded, as if accepting that whatever this was, it wasn’t going anywhere soon.
---
Jack let out a long sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose. “It’s not dwarven,” he said flatly. “It’s American. But yeah - hammer out the dings, get rid of the dents. Can you do it?”
The blacksmith hesitated, scratching at his apron. “I think so. The plating of your wagon I can fix, but not the windows. I don’t know anyone who works glass here.”
Jack grunted. “You don’t know anyone? Come on, there’s gotta be-”
“Well…” The man mumbled, eyes flicking toward the forest. “There is someone. A-” He stopped, lips pressing tight. Whatever he was about to say clearly didn’t survive long enough to reach air. “Never mind. You’d be… better off waiting until the next town.”
Jack raised a brow. “Better off waiting? With cracks this prominent, webbing out? “I need this fixed before I hit the next stretch of forest.”
The man sighed, shoulders slumping. “If you insist… There’s a witch. Her name’s Eirwen. She lives on the edge of the village, near the woods. She… helps people. Fixes things. Cures things. But… you might not find her company pleasant.”
Jack blinked. “…what, is she a cannibal or something?”
“No," said the blacksmith quickly. "No, she’s… eccentric. People come to her when they’ve tried everything else. Brilliant, yes. Helpful, yes. But… she’s not… polite. Or normal. Don’t take it the wrong way, but… best be prepared.”
Jack shrugged. "I don't care if she has two heads, or whatever. Can she fix a windshield?”
“Well she doesn't have two heads. Yet. But yes,” the man admitted reluctantly. “Potions, salves, fixes… she can help with anything, really. But I’m telling you now, she doesn’t tolerate foolishness. And she doesn’t like visitors who can’t keep up. You’ll know what I mean when you see her.”
Jack tapped the glass with a knuckle. “Look, I don’t even care if she scowls at me or lectures me for ten minutes. I want this fixed. Now.”
The blacksmith’s shoulders slumped further. “If you say so. Her hut’s just past the edge of the forest. You can’t miss it. But… I warned you.”
Jack smirked. “Good. I like warnings. Makes things interesting.”
He slid back into the Charger, engine purring as he glanced in the rearview mirror at the blacksmith, who was shaking his head, muttering something about “crazy witches and crazy travelers.” Jack didn’t care. He had a car, a trunk full of weird beast, and a cracked windshield that wasn’t staying cracked for long.
