Sniffed Out

I do not remember falling asleep. One moment I am sitting in the cramped storage compartment beneath the ruined motorhome's bedframe, listening to the desert wind moving through the junkyard. The next, my eyes snap open. For several seconds I do not know why. The sky beyond the dusty windows has begun to lighten. Then I hear it.

A heavy footstep echoes somewhere beyond the motorhome, followed by the groan of rusted metal protesting beneath a tremendous weight. The sound rolls through the junkyard and fades into the space between the stacked vehicles. Several seconds later another footstep follows. Whoever is out there is not searching frantically or stumbling through the wreckage.

They are moving with the confidence of someone who knows exactly where they are and exactly what belongs there. My pulse begins hammering. Someone is walking through the junkyard. I remain perfectly still. The footsteps continue. Every few moments I hear the sound of rusted metal shifting beneath tremendous weight.

Whoever is out there is big. Much bigger than Mars. Bigger than Lizard. The footsteps stop. Silence settles over the junkyard. Then a voice echoes between the rows of abandoned vehicles.

"Come on out, little rabbit." The voice is deep and rough, like gravel grinding together. I freeze. "Cain't hide from me." The footsteps resume, closer now. "You ain't the first one ta try." Something crashes nearby. A vehicle rocks on its suspension. I squeeze myself farther into the compartment. The footsteps keep coming.

"They all think the junkyard's a good place ta hide." A rusted door squeals somewhere outside. "They all learn different." The voice is almost conversational. "I know every inch of this place." I hear another crunch and another groan of tortured metal. "This here's my kingdom."

My mouth goes dry. The footsteps stop directly outside the motorhome. For a long moment, nothing happens. The footsteps stop somewhere outside the motorhome, and the junkyard falls silent once more. I sit motionless inside the cramped compartment, barely daring to breathe. Maybe he passed by. Maybe he never noticed the motorhome at all.

Then I hear a long, slow inhale. The sound is disturbingly close. Another follows. A deliberate sniff.

The voice comes again, lower this time. "I know you're here. I can smell your pussy." My blood turns to ice.

A massive shadow passes across the storage bin, blocking what little dawn light filters through the dusty interior. The entire vehicle shifts as something climbs inside. Rusted springs groan beneath tremendous weight. Cabinet doors rattle against their hinges. Loose debris skitters across the floor above me.

The motorhome creaks and groans around me as Reaper begins his search. He moves through the wreck with surprising patience, methodically opening cabinets, kicking aside debris, and peering into every shadowed corner. Several times I hear him stop completely.

Each pause is followed by the sound of a long inhale. Not a normal breath. A deliberate one. Like a hunting dog testing the wind. He circles the motorhome twice, first inside and then outside, his heavy footsteps crunching across the gravel while he mutters to himself.

Every few moments he sniffs again, following traces invisible to me but apparently obvious to him. I remain frozen beneath the compartment floor, scarcely daring to blink. Dust tickles my nose. My lungs ache from holding my breath. At one point his footsteps stop directly outside the hidden access panel that leads into my hiding place from beneath the motorhome.

I hear another long inhale, followed by a low grunt. The metal panel rattles once beneath a massive hand. Then silence. Seconds stretch into an eternity before the footsteps finally begin moving away. Reaper wanders deeper into the junkyard, still sniffing the air and talking to himself as he goes.

Eventually even his heavy footsteps fade among the rows of rusted vehicles, leaving me alone with the pounding of my heart and the uneasy realization that he came far too close..I close my eyes for a second. Maybe he still has not seen me. Maybe he is bluffing.

A giant hand suddenly tears aside the hanging fabric concealing the compartment. Morning light floods the space. I look up. The man filling the opening barely seems human. He is enormous. His shoulders nearly span the width of the compartment entrance. Thick muscles strain beneath layers of scavenged leather and filthy animal fur.

A bald scalp gleams in the pale dawn light while long black curls hang around the sides of his head and spill into a tangled beard. Deep lines crease his weathered face. Dirt, grease, and years of desert living seem permanently embedded in his skin. His dark eyes lock onto mine. A slow smile spreads across his face.

Several teeth are missing. The ones that remain look broken and worn from hard use. For a moment neither of us moves. Then the giant chuckles. The sound is deep enough to vibrate through the motorhome's frame. "Well now," he says. "Ain't that a pretty little thing ta find hidin' in my junkyard." The smile widens.

I immediately scramble backward. There is nowhere to go. The giant reaches in. I kick at him. It accomplishes absolutely nothing. One hand closes around my ankle. The grip feels like a steel trap. "No!" I claw at the floor. The giant simply drags me from the compartment as though I weigh nothing.