The Thing in the Junkyard

Theo S. Bernard

Josie was ankle-deep in swamp muck when she saw The Thing.

She had parked discreetly, slipped her feet into sturdy rubber boots, and marched through a deserted industrial park until she reached the vacant lot by the river. It was early on Saturday morning, and the streets were empty. 

Gnarled mangroves grew close together along the muddy banks of the tidal channel. She turned down-stream and squeezed between their leathery leaves, following a fence of ugly corrugated iron which marked the back boundary of “Rick’s Auto Dismantler’s”, the specialists (according to the faded sign) in Ford and Mazda parts, along with flagrant abuse of the apostrophe. Many people thought the mangroves were an ugly weed, but Josie admired their tenacity and their rugged beauty. They softened the harsh man-made lines in the back-waters of the city, and held back silt and pollution, filtering the water which eventually flowed out into the sparkling blue harbor. To an ecologist like Josie, they were far more interesting than the sterile white of the sandy beaches. Armed with notebook and camera, she walked the banks and assessed their health.

A boggy wetland separated the fence from the mangrove trees. A bare area caught Josie’s attention, and she sloshed towards it. She frowned when she saw the rainbow sheen of oil on the surface of a stagnant pool. She traced its path until she came to the corrugated iron of the fence. A panel was missing, and through the gap she could see piles of smashed and rusting car bodies. Engine blocks and transmission cases spread like dismembered organs, and broken safety glass lay in drifts like old snow. Here was the dirty underbelly of private transportation, far from the latest-model low-interest no-deposit glamour of the showroom. The stench of oil and old rubber wafted on the breeze. Greasy liquid dripped and trickled across slabs of broken concrete, collected in a gutter, and oozed out under the fence. Rick was definitely not following the council requirement to contain hazardous runoff.

Josie reached for her camera to document the mess. A scraping sound caught her attention, and she looked up. She froze as something rounded the nearest car wreck. It looked like a huge dog, and she caught a glimpse of snarling teeth as it leaped towards her. She threw up her arms, expecting the thing to crash into her, and its jaws to close on her flesh. But then came a rattle and a thud, and the thing stopped dead and crashed to the ground, brought up short by a sturdy chain which ran back from a thick collar and disappeared among the car bodies. 

The Thing crouched just inside the iron fence, straining against its chain. Josie’s panic subsided. So, Rick had a guard dog. But was it a dog? Now that it was stationary, she could get a better look at it. Its head was very dog-like, with wide jaws like a Rottweiler. Its ears were small and round. It had four legs and a tail. But its body was wider than a dog, and a row of spines ran along its back. It had leathery skin covered in patches of thin black fur. It was filthy, and its rank smell reached Josie even over the odors of the decaying cars. She could see sores on its legs and flanks, and it looked malnourished and lackluster despite its straining muscles and fearsome snarl. 

Josie forgot her fear and stepped closer. She was partly motivated by a surge of pity, but mostly by scientific curiosity. Could it be some strange mutated canine, or perhaps an exotic species she’d never heard of?

A strange thing happened as she moved closer. Perhaps the thing perceived her lack of fear, for its demeanor changed. It sat down on its haunches, and its snarl softened. It was dirty and probably diseased, and yet for a moment she saw a spark of life in its sad eyes. But as she stepped towards it, she saw anger and fear well up again, and a deep growl brought her to a stop. 

Then the thing stiffened and cowered down, casting a furtive glance over its shoulder. Footsteps approached between the car wrecks, and Josie realised  that she was inside the fence. A surly figure stumped into view. His threadbare overalls were nearly black with grime, and his boots left oily prints on the concrete. Perhaps this was the apostrophe-abusing Rick of Rick’s Auto Dismantler’s. 

“Oi!”, he barked by way of greeting. “This ain’t a tourist attraction!” 

“Ah, sorry”, the woman stammered. “I was just photographing the mangroves.”

He stared at her with open suspicion, not comprehending why anybody would waste time on such a pursuit. 

“Well there’s plenty more of them so you don’t need to do it here. You’re just lucky the mutt was tied up.”

Josie seized the opportunity. “Surely that’s not a dog, is it?” she asked. 

“Well it’s not a cow, that’s for sure.” Rick sniggered at his own humour. “I dunno what breed it is, but it’s too fuggen ugly to be any use.”

Josie watched in horror as he aimed a kick at the thing’s ribs. It cowered down, but she didn’t miss the look of hatred it directed towards the man. 

“Git inside!” he yelled, and it slunk off and vanished behind the cars, its chain rattling over the concrete. But as it left, it caught Josie’s eye with a look of pleading and despair. Rick didn’t seem to notice as he turned back to her. 

“Makes a good guard-dog, though. Keeps the riff-raff out. Now, clear off, if you please. I have work to do.”

His expression left no room for further small-talk, inquiry or argument, so she had little choice but to gather her dignity and retrace her steps. It wasn’t until she was out of sight and safely among the mangrove trunks that she remembered the camera in her hand. She had not thought to photograph the strange animal, let alone the leaching pollution which had been her original target. 

Rattled by her encounter with the repugnant and non-compliant wrecking yard owner, Josie abandoned mangrove exploration and retired to a cafe. She researched obscure canine variants on her phone over coffee and cake, but found nothing that fitted the description of the strange thing. 

Between clothes shopping and lunch with her mother, she didn’t think much more about it for the rest of the day. But that night, while she lay in bed alone and sleepless, the baleful look in its eyes came back to haunt her. She told herself not to romanticise the animal, and yet she couldn’t help but think of it as intelligent. She hated to see unnecessary suffering in any creature, and the Junkyard Thing deserved far better, she was sure. She pictured it huddled in a rusting car body, shivering in the cold and damp of the night. Alone... like her. 

By 1am, she had convinced herself that it deserved to roam free and majestic through the city, and damn the consequences. Better that than another day in the muck, prisoner of the cruel junk yard owner. She dressed in camouflage cargo pants and a black woolen jersey, and her heart fluttered in anticipation as she slipped a flashlight into her pocket. She parked several streets away from the junk yard, and sat for a moment. Everything was quiet apart from the ticking of the cooling engine and the distant murmur of motorway traffic. Doubts filled her mind. What if “Rick” caught her snooping around again? What if the thing attacked her – or went on a vicious rampage? But then she remembered the pleading look in its eyes, and she knew she must set it free.