The Hills Have Thighs

The desert always seems empty until you give it a closer look. That is the first thing I notice whenever I cross into country like this. The emptiness is an illusion. The land watches. It listens. It waits. My powder-blue 1951 International Harvester rolls to a stop beside the lone gas pump with a tired metallic groan from somewhere deep in the engine block.

Dust swirls lazily around the truck’s tires before settling back across the cracked concrete. The station itself looks ancient even by desert standards. The paint surrendered to the sun years ago, and the old LAST CHANCE GAS sign hanging above the garage sags slightly to one side as if exhausted by decades of heat.

I kill the engine and step out into the afternoon sun. The heat hits me immediately. It wraps around my skin like a living thing, dry enough to pull the moisture from my lips within seconds. My boots scrape against gravel as I walk around to the fuel tank. I wear faded denim overalls cut high on the thigh, with my caramel leather jacket hanging open despite the temperature.

Sweat already glistens faintly along my collarbone. My dark curls move restlessly in the hot wind. I slide the nozzle into the tank and start pumping gas. The metallic clunk of the old pump echoes softly across the empty desert road. Beyond the station, sandstone hills rise from the earth in jagged layers of red and brown beneath a merciless blue sky.

Nothing moves out there. No cars. No birds. No people. Still, I cannot shake the feeling that something watches from the rocks. My icy blue eyes narrow slightly as I stare toward the distant ridgelines. I learned a long time ago to trust my instincts. Most monsters do not announce themselves with growls and claws.

My name is Jezebel James, and I am the half-human daughter of the outlaw Jesse James and Lamashtu, the ancient mother of monsters. Most people would call me a succubus, and they would only be half wrong. My mother's blood left me with a hunger that feeds on lust, attraction, and carnal desire.

I survive by drawing sustenance from those emotions rather than from flesh or blood. I manage the hunger carefully and take only what I need, because the alternative is losing my mortal soul and becoming the monster my mother always wanted me to be.

The curse that comes with that inheritance follows me everywhere. Men tend to find me more charming, alluring, or fascinating than they otherwise would, often without realizing why. When I've fed, I can just about always get my way. Most women, on the other hand instinctively dislike me, seeing me as a rival.

Sometimes a place simply feels wrong. This place feels very wrong. The case file sits folded open on the truck’s bench seat. Several photocopied reports poke from the manila folder beneath a spiral notebook full of my handwriting. I spend the better part of two weeks piecing the timeline together, and the deeper I dig, the less human the story becomes.

Officially, none of the incidents connect. Unofficially, they form a trail of blood stretching back almost thirty years. The earliest reports come from 1977. A suburban family traveling through the Nevada desert disappeared after taking a shortcut through an isolated government testing region.

Some bodies were recovered. Others were never found. The surviving witnesses described violent attacks by a clan living in the hills, but local authorities dismissed much of the testimony as shock-induced hysteria. I do not believe that for a second. Too many details match across too many statements.

The survivors all described people who move through the desert like predators. They speak of ambushes, crude traps, mutilated bodies, and human beings who behave more like starving animals than civilized men. The names in the reports linger unpleasantly in my memory. Jupiter. Mars. Pluto. Ruby. They sound less like a family and more like a twisted mythology.

The second major incident occurs in 1984. A motocross team vanished while crossing nearly the same stretch of desert. The reports from that case are even stranger. Witnesses described attacks from tunnel systems beneath abandoned mining territory. One survivor claimed a towering executioner-like figure hunted them through the hills with mechanical persistence. Another described hearing voices in the dark tunnels long before anyone appeared.

That detail bothers me more than the ****. Predators do not usually play with prey psychologically unless they enjoy it. The pump rattles softly in my hand as gasoline flows into the truck’s tank. The smell of fuel mixes with dust and hot metal beneath the brutal afternoon sun. The newer incidents disturb me most.

In 2006, another family disappeared after driving through a restricted military zone. This time the surviving witnesses speak openly about mutations caused by nuclear testing. They described deformed attackers living among abandoned government housing projects and fallout sites scattered through the desert. The official explanation blames radiation exposure and decades of isolation.

I think that explanation is convenient. Radiation might deform bodies, but it does not create behavior patterns that repeat themselves across generations. It does not explain ritualistic ****. It does not explain territorial behavior. It does not explain why victims are often dragged underground instead of simply killed. Most importantly, it does not explain why children keep disappearing.

The final reports come from 2007. A National Guard training unit vanished while investigating a distress signal from an old military research station deeper within the hills. Recovery teams found evidence of extensive tunnel networks beneath the desert. Most of the records from that incident remain sealed.

That alone tells me everything I need to know. Governments only bury things that frighten them. I lean lightly against the truck as the fuel pump clicks steadily beside me. Heat shimmers above the highway in wavering distortions. Far off in the hills, sunlight carves deep shadows into narrow canyons and dry ravines that look almost black against the red stone.

The landscape reminds me of old predator country. Places where things disappear forever. My fingers drift unconsciously beneath my jacket toward the familiar weight of the Colt Peacemaker resting against my ribs. The motion comforts me more than I like to admit. Most people think monsters hide in darkness. That is another illusion. Sometimes monsters live perfectly well beneath the open sun.