Hide in the Junkyard

I choose the junkyard. The decision feels cowardly at first. The fires of the settlement still flicker in the distance beyond the rusted sea of vehicles, offering the possibility of shelter, answers, and human contact. But every time I picture myself walking into that place, I remember the old man at the gas station.

I remember Mars and Lizard. Out here, human and safe no longer feel like the same thing. At least the junkyard makes sense. People can hide in junkyards, but they can disappear in settlements. With that comforting thought rattling around in my exhausted brain, I turn away from the distant glow and head deeper into the maze of abandoned vehicles.

The place seems even larger now that I am no longer passing through it. Rows of rusted cars stretch across the desert in every direction. Moonlight glints from broken windows and twisted chrome. The narrow pathways between the vehicles **** me to weave back and forth constantly, never able to see more than a few yards ahead.

The silence bothers me, not because it is unnatural, but because it is completely natural. There is no distant traffic humming across the desert. No airplanes carving white lines through the sky overhead. No city noise drifting across the horizon from places where people still live ordinary lives.

The only sounds are the occasional groan of rusted metal settling beneath its own weight and the faint whisper of wind moving through thousands of abandoned vehicles. Everything else has been swallowed by the desert. The junkyard feels forgotten in a way that few places ever do. Every car around me was once part of somebody's life.

Families rode in them. Couples argued in them. Children slept in the back seats during long road trips. Now they sit stacked together beneath the fading light, stripped bare and left to rot among the dust and sagebrush. Standing here among them, I cannot shake the feeling that I am walking through a graveyard built for the living rather than the dead.

I move carefully, looking for somewhere defensible. Somewhere concealed. Somewhere that would not immediately draw attention if somebody came searching. The first few possibilities prove disappointing. A rusted pickup truck offers decent cover, but no protection.

A stripped school bus contains too many windows. An overturned camper would conceal me from a distance but leaves me trapped if somebody discovers me. I keep moving. The deeper I venture into the junkyard, the older the vehicles become. Decades of American road travel sit rotting beneath the moonlight.

Eventually I find something promising. An old motorhome sits near the center of the yard behind several rows of wrecked vehicles. At first glance it appears completely inaccessible. A pair of crushed sedans block one side while a rusted delivery truck obscures the other. Weeds have grown around the tires. Most of the paint has peeled away.

Nobody would notice it unless they were specifically looking. I climb inside. The interior is filthy but intact. Most of the valuable components disappeared years ago. The appliances have been stripped out. The cabinets hang open. Several windows are cracked. Still, the structure itself remains sound.

More importantly, I discover that the rear storage compartment has partially collapsed. I crouch beside it. The space is cramped, dusty, and probably home to several generations of desert rodents. It is also nearly invisible. I crawl inside. Darkness closes around the compartment immediately.

I settle onto the cold metal floor. Every muscle in my body aches. My feet hurt. My throat feels like sandpaper. I would kill for a bottle of water. Outside, the junkyard remains silent. The wind whistles softly through distant rows of abandoned vehicles. Somewhere far away, a loose door creaks against a rusted hinge. Otherwise nothing moves.

For the first time since escaping the camper, I feel something approaching safety. Not safety itself, but the possibility of it. I hug my knees against my chest and **** myself to stay awake a little longer. If Mars and Lizard are still searching, they will eventually give up. If dawn comes without incident, I can decide what to do next. Maybe I can find a way back to the road.

The thought almost makes me laugh. Out here, maybe is the closest thing to hope I have left. So I sit quietly inside the hidden compartment while the moon hangs over the junkyard and the desert slowly settles around me, waiting to see whether the night is finally finished with me.