Day 10.6: Rot and Ruin


    The junkyard is up close.


    Everything here is dead—rotting cars, rusted fences, the air itself. The silence isn’t real. It’s thick, clinging to me like damp cloth, stretching too far, too thin, like something unseen is holding its breath. It feels wrong, like the whole place is waiting, watching, daring me to step just a little too far inside.


    I tighten my grip on the crowbar and step forward, slow and steady. The air is thick, heavy with rust and old oil. The smell of rot lingers, clinging to the back of my throat. The cars are piled high, leaning against each other like bodies left to decay. The metal shifts and groans as the wind pushes through the wreckage, making everything feel alive in the worst way.


    Some of the cars are stripped bare, just hollow shells of what they used to be. Others still have doors, closed tight, dark windows hiding whatever might be inside. My stomach twists at the thought of what could be watching me from behind the glass. I swallow hard, forcing myself to move. I need gas. That’s all. Just gas. But this place—it feels like a graveyard, and I don’t know if I’m the only one walking through it.


    I need gas. That’s all. Just gas.


    I step between wrecked cars, moving slow. Careful. The ground is littered with broken glass, gravel, and things I don’t want to think about. Each step makes a sound too loud in the dead air. My breath is tight in my chest. I keep my grip firm on the crowbar, my knuckles stiff and white.


    I stop at a car with its hood up. The engine is gutted, wires hanging out like cut veins. I run my fingers over the metal, feeling the cold, the rust. No keys. No fuel cap. It’s dead. Just another husk.


    I move on. Another car. The door hangs open, swaying slightly in the wind. The inside is stripped bare. Nothing useful. I check another. And another. The same. Empty. Hollow. It’s like someone came before me, took everything, and left the bones behind.


    My hands shake. My stomach twists in pain, an ache that has settled deep inside me. Hunger makes my arms feel weak, my legs slow. I swallow hard, forcing myself to push forward. I can’t stop. Not now. Not here.


    Then—


    A noise. Soft. Too soft. Like something shifting just out of sight.


    I freeze. My breath locks in my chest, caught halfway to my lungs. I wait. Listen.


    Nothing.


    No, not nothing. Something. The kind of quiet that isn’t empty but full. The kind that presses against my skin, wraps around me like unseen hands. The kind that tells me I’m not alone.


    I move slower now, careful, each step measured. My pulse pounds in my skull, loud, too loud, hammering in my ears. The weight of the crowbar in my hands feels smaller now, like it might not be enough.


    I reach another car. This one still intact. Whole. Untouched. Its windows are thick with grime, streaked with dried rain and dust, a dull gray film that hides whatever is inside. I lift a shaky hand, wipe at the glass with my sleeve. The dirt smears, making the inside even harder to see.


    This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.


    Inside—


    Keys. Sitting in the ignition. Like someone left in a hurry and never came back.


    I twist the handle. Locked.


    I exhale, shaking. It’s fine. It’s fine. I can break the window. I can—


    A shadow moves.


    Not just a flicker. Not my mind playing tricks again. Something real.


    I snap my head toward it, every muscle seizing up, breath caught halfway in my throat.


    A car door, slightly ajar, shifts. It sways, creaking, slow and steady, like something nudged it just enough to break the silence.


    I don’t move. My grip on the crowbar tightens until my fingers ache. My legs are locked, trembling.


    The air is heavy, waiting.


    Then I see it.


    One of them. Crawling. Not walking, not stumbling—crawling. Its fingers scrape against the rough ground, nails broken, skin torn. Its arms pull, slow but steady, dragging the rest of its ruined body behind. One leg is twisted the wrong way, useless. Its ribs poke against thin, rotten flesh, each movement making it look more like a corpse being dragged than a thing still moving on its own. But it is moving. Clawing closer. Its jaw hangs slack, a low, wet moan slipping from its lips, thick with hunger. The sound makes my stomach clench. My breath catches. It shouldn''t be alive. But it is.


    It doesn’t see me. Not yet.


    I step back, slow. Careful.


    My heel knocks a piece of scrap metal.


    CLANK.


    The sound cuts through the stillness like a knife. Too loud. Too sharp. The air around me shifts, like the whole junkyard just took notice.


    The thing’s head jerks toward me. Its eyes—milky, sunken—lock onto mine. Its mouth twitches, lips peeling back over jagged teeth. A wet, rattling breath slips out, thick and hungry.


    Then it moves.


    Faster than it should. Too fast for something so broken. Its arms yank at the ground, pulling its ruined body forward with awful strength. Its nails scrape against the pavement, its breath wheezing.


    I barely get the crowbar up in time.


    It crashes into me, a dead weight of rotting flesh and snapping jaws. The force slams me backward into a car, my shoulder screaming in pain as metal digs into my back.


    Its fingers claw at me, nails hooking, pulling, tearing. Its breath is hot and foul, thick with the stench of rot, of death long past. My stomach clenches, bile burning my throat.


    I swing.


    and swing.


    The crowbar connects with its skull, a wet crunch. But it doesn’t stop. Its fingers scrape against my arm, dragging down, pulling at my skin. I swing again. Harder. The sickening crack makes my stomach turn. Its body twitches, then slumps.


    I shove it off, gasping, my chest heaving. My hands are wet with sweat, my fingers shaking. My legs feel weak, like they might give out any second.


    I look down at the thing. The way it moved. The way it came for me, crawling, dragging itself, like it knew exactly where I was. My stomach twists. My head spins. My vision goes blurry at the edges. My ears are ringing, too loud, too sharp. The smell of it still clings to the air, thick and sickly sweet.


    I need to move. I need to get inside that car.


    I lift the crowbar with trembling hands. I barely feel the weight of it anymore. I swing. The glass shatters on impact, falling in sharp, glittering shards across the seat.


    My breathing is rough, uneven. I reach in, careful to avoid the broken edges, and unlock the door. My fingers fumble as I yank it open and slide into the driver’s seat. The leather is cold. Feels stiff under my back. Feels real. I grip the keys, twisting them hard. The engine stutters. Chokes. I whisper a curse under my breath, try again.


    A weak, dying rumble.


    The fuel gauge barely moves. Just a sliver of gas. Almost nothing.


    I turn the key again. The engine sputters, coughing, struggling—but it doesn’t catch. My heart slams against my ribs. I twist the key harder, my breath sharp, my fingers slick with sweat.


    Nothing.


    I try again. The starter clicks, wheezes, lets out a sick, dying whimper.


    No gas.


    No escape.


    The silence rushes back in, thick and suffocating. My hands tighten on the wheel, knuckles white. Outside, the junkyard feels heavier, like it’s closing in, like it knows I’m trapped. My stomach turns. My pulse pounds in my skull.


    My hands grip the wheel, my breath coming in fast, sharp bursts. The junkyard looms around me, heavy and silent. The crawling thing stays where I left it, its body twisted, unmoving.


    But I don’t look away. Not yet.


    Because for a moment—just a moment—I swear I saw it twitch.