Dry and dusty, the night recedes in the glow of the Threshold Motel’s bright lights. The man was right: a diner sits next door.
He should not have eaten the plate. It sits crooked halfway down his throat, and he isn’t sure how he managed to whistle. So he reaches in, pulls it free. A lone cinnamon bun clings to it. He pries it off, pops it into his mouth, and drops the plate in the dirt.
Cinnamon buns are the next best thing to herons, he thinks, licking his lips.
Big Al shuffles his way towards the diner, car noses and round hood ornaments to his left, dim light slanting out from curtained motel rooms to his right. His tail scratches along the cement walkway in a slow wag.
He stops at the third motel room where it smells so good. The gold number ‘3’ has been pushed to the left. He turns the knob, but it won’t budge.
“Who’s there?” calls a voice. Its sweet smell tempts him, but the door won’t budge. His stomach rumbles and he tries the knob again. Whoever is on the inside moves closer to the door.
“Who are you? I don’t know you. Go away.” The smell of the voice changes from sweet to tart. It smells more like the threatening smell. Big Al’s stomach wants in, but…
Don’t take more Buffalo stew than they are willing to give.
So he continues his walk to the diner. The neon ‘J’s of Jukebox Janus’ Burger Joint flicker like yellow music notes against the orange glow of the other letters. “Burger” flips three times, from word to closed grinning neon bun to open bun. It promises to be a bustling place of travelers, light and tantalizing smells.
Wide windows spill a soft aura of light around the building, while the lamps out front stretch cars into long shadows. Several people sit at tables and the bar, visible through the glass. Inside lingers the smell of people, cooked meat and what he would soon discover was French fries.
Around back comes the smell of more food, and without the distinct smell of people. Big Al’s stomach leaps, propelling him into a run.
He discovers that all the smells emanate from one place. Having never encountered a dumpster, Big Al isn’t quite sure how to make it work. He looks for a knob, but doesn’t find one.
“I’m taking it out now!” says a voice from inside that nears.
Big Al hides on the side away from the door that opens, but forgets to draw his tail closer.
A person steps out, lifts the top and something goes CHUNK into the interior. The lid clatters, then pauses, almost closed. Big Al notes there’s a lid to lift.
A moment of silence stretches out, then keeps stretching, the lid hanging midair.
Hot grease mingles with the rising scent of human fear, and Big Al realizes his tail has been spotted. The lid trembles, fanning that fear towards him.
“Okay, I didn’t just see that tail. Isaac did not just see that tail.” The voice stutters, talking to itself. “I—Isaac—need to stop watching creepy alien movies. Isaac is not seeing things…”
KCHNK. The door clicks shut.
Big Al waits, his nostrils flaring. The fear-scent fades, replaced again by fried food and traces of meat.
If humans see just my tail, they see my tail. But if they see all of me, they miss it. thinks Big Al. He has to remember that.
Big Al lifts the lid slowly, eyes widening as delicious scents rise to meet and then overwhelm him. His tongue hangs out of his mouth like a happy dog, and he loses control.
He grips the lip of the dumpster and scrambles. His rear legs scrape the dirt as he strains to lift himself up. With a final shove, Big Al drops into the dumpster.
Big Al goes wild that night. He devours bacon, eggs, fries, hamburgers, hotdogs, pancakes with syrup, mushroom-stuffed tortillas, and the occasional lactose-free milkshake.
He falls asleep in the dumpster, only to be woken up in the morning by a familiar, lemony-persimmon scent.
The truck driver is moving around inside his motel room. Big Al knows he needs to get back to the truck or he will miss his ride.
With a peek, he looks around outside the dumpster. The coast is clear. The first few faint streaks of sunlight reach across the prairie to paint his green skin yellow.
His movement is sluggish, not as quick as he’d like. His very full stomach throws him off balance as he tries to work his way out of the dumpster.
KERFLUMP
He hits the ground chest first, knocking the wind out of him. He wheezes and tries to draw a breath, but it doesn’t feel like he’s getting enough air. Again, he tries to breathe in, but it hurts.
The scent of the truck driver grows stronger, followed by a subsequent CLICK as he leaves the motel room.
Big Al forces himself to stand on four legs. He peeks around the corner of the motel down the walkway. Another door is open, and there are two sleepy kids standing with their backs to him.
“Do we have to get up already?” says the boy on the left.
“The sun isn’t even up yet,” says the girl on the right.
“Yes, we have a long drive ahead of us,” says a scratchy, husky voice. “It’s sixteen hours to Ankerton, and we want to be there in time for a late dinner. You can sleep in the car or play Nintendo. The charger’s already set up.”
“You can have the Nintendo, bro. I’m gonna sleeeeeep. I want to go back to the crystal city I saw in my dreams.”
“I might sleep too,” says the boy with a yawn.
Big Al creeps across the walkway, ducking behind a car. The boy turns, confused.
“Did you hear that, Sal?”
“Hear what? I’m still sleeping. OOoogh, I’m a sleep zombie.” Her sleepiness smells like a damp beaver dam to Big Al.
“No, I’m serious, Sal. Something’s out there.” To Big Al, the boy’s heightened awareness and disbelief wavers like a faint whiff of green tea.
Big Al moves closer to the truck, his claws and tail scraping against the gravel like raptor claws. He slips between a pick-up truck and a station wagon, daring a look. On the walkway stand the two children, staring straight at him.
The ear-piercing wail doesn’t surprise him, but it means he has to move fast. If he wants his ride, he has to get inside the truck before the man emerges from the motel lobby. He glides to sit directly behind the truck. It’s high enough he can hide underneath the back of it and reach up and around with his tail. The door slides upwards and Big Al lifts himself into the box just as the truck driver emerges from the motel lobby.
“For chrissakes! What is wrong Sally?”
“There’s a MONSTER out there!”
There’s a brief moment of silence before the sound like a stick breaking and then the girl starts bawling. A putrid scent stings his nose, worse than the diesel smell. He shakes his head, gently snorting.
“Don’t EVER yell like that, do you hear me? EVER. I don’t care if you’re dying. You probably just woke up everyone in the motel with your stupid imagination. I’m going to throw that Nintendo out the window if you keep this up. Get in the car and shut up.”
The entire parking lot reeks like something dead, and it’s not carrion worth eating, just a rotten stink.
“But…she did…” says the boy.
“Don’t you dare start too. I’ve had it up to here with your constant whining and yelling. This is the last time we ever go on a road trip. It’s too early for this.”
The truck driver’s smell changes to tart, but has something else to it, something that smells sharp, incisive.
From his hidden position in the back of the truck, Big Al can smell the changing positions of the people outside.
Two doors slam, and the kids’ scent diminishes. Incisive, the driver’s scent moves past the front of the truck.
“Hey, you,” says the trucker.
“I’m sorry?” says the dad.
“Got a minute?”
“No, I’m getting ready to…”
“I DON’T CARE IF YOU DON’T HAVE THE TIME, YOU LISTEN UP,” bellows the truck driver, then drops his voice to a hard whisper.
The dad recoils, the tart fear smell blooming like a lotus.
“If you keep doing that to your kids,” the trucker says. “They’ll grow up just. Like. You. Maybe they’ll yell at their own kids. Maybe they’ll spend years in therapy trying to figure out what they did wrong. But the worst part? When someone bigger uses their size to hurt someone smaller. That’s how bullies are made.”
“Psh...”
“No. Kids don’t see their mistake—they see someone they trust lose control and take it out on someone smaller. That breaks trust.”
The man’s scent spikes, tart escalating into bitter, settling into a heavy, smoky heat.
“Well, maybe that’s your percep—” The tang of shame is only a trace, a drop in a bucket of sharp irritation.
A tractor chugs by on the gravel road, gravel crackling under wide tires before it fades.
“Do you have any idea what that does to a kid? To get malice from someone they trust? It shatters them! It breaks their heart, and they carry it forever. It makes them think it’s normal. It isn’t. I’m forty-three and still in therapy.”
“You don’t get to tell me how to raise my kids—”
“No. You shh,” says the trucker, low but steady. “I never stood up to my dad, so I’m doing that right now. In this forever moment they just got, someone’s saying something. Bring your ego down to size before your kids grow up. Drop the crap, get a grip, and treat them how you’d want them to treat their kids. It’s generational. Simple as that. Got it?”
Silence. A motel room door opens and closes, someone else just waking up.
Big Al’s nostrils flare, the air between them smelling like cooling metal.
The truck creaks as if agreeing with its driver.
“Good day to you,” says the driver, stepping back to his rig.
KTHUD
The door slams so hard the truck shivers on its shocks. The starter scratches the engine to life, the turbo-diesel a deep, throaty rumble that pulses the parking lot. After a long pause, the air brakes hiss; the transmission slips into place and the truck eases back, rolling away like a giant.
That was different.
In minutes, the parking lot’s scent shifts like a season turning, and Big Al’s nostrils quiver at the swirl drifting over him like fallen leaves after a windstorm.
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Chapter 8 audio drops October 18
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