Gnawed On by Kevin Wikse

Gnawed On by Kevin Wikse


The sun had long since dipped below the horizon, leaving the Arizona desert to the night and the cold that seeped into Kevin Wikse's bones like an old, familiar ache. He limped toward his battered trailer, a solitary figure against the vast, indifferent sky. The structure itself barely stood, a forgotten relic in a world turned hypochondriac, gripped by the phantom of a pandemic. The desert around him lay silent, an expanse of shadows and stillness, where time moved slow and the land remembered everything. Kevin's dogged steps were heavy, each one a reminder of his mortality, but the pain was a testament to his unyielding resolve.


Kevin's body was a canvas of bruises, each one a testament to battles fought and survival won. His latest wounds, fresh from a hunt along the border, spoke of a relentless pursuit of a member of El Salvador’s MS-13. From Nogales to Tubac, he tracked his prey with a single-minded fury, a wild pursuit ending in a brutal confrontation that left his quarry for the coyotes and buzzards. His knuckles were raw, split from bone meeting bone. A jagged cut on his side, hastily bandaged, bled through the cloth.


He pushed open the creaking door of the trailer. The familiarity of his solitary sanctuary offered little comfort. The interior was as derelict as the exterior—walls peeling, floorboards warped, and littered with remnants of a life lived on the edge. His bed, a sagging mattress draped with a mosquito net, awaited him. Kevin collapsed onto it, exhaustion overtaking him before he could muster the strength to inspect his wounds, or maybe it was that he would rather not know. 


The night air was still, but inside the trailer, a subtle movement disturbed the quiet. Small black ants, sensing the presence of warmth and blood, began their march. They crawled in through the cracks, up the legs of the bed, and into the folds of the mosquito netting. Kevin, drifting in and out of consciousness, was unaware of the invasion.


His dreams were fevered, dark things. He found himself submerged in a scalding yellow broth, the heat bearing down on him like the unrelenting sun over a barren desert. He thrashed, but the water seemed alive, teeming with piranhas that tore at his flesh with a mechanical precision, relentless and unfeeling. Struggling to reach the surface, Kevin saw through the haze that he was simmering in a metal pot, the dim glow of familiar landmarks from a Korean restaurant he’d once known a decade past. The pain was a savage symphony, each fiery bite snapping and popping on his skin like firecrackers, pulling him apart piece by piece. Kevin's mind wavered on the edge of madness, unable to separate the reality of the ant bites from the teeth of the fish in his fevered visions.


He awoke in bursts, gasping for air, the taste of blood and sweat on his lips. The ants were relentless, their bites and stings sharp and unforgiving. He tried to move, to swat them away, but his limbs felt depleted, his strength sapped by the day's ordeal. The boundaries between the dream and the waking world blurred; he was drowning, he was being eaten alive. The piranhas in his mind and the ants on his skin became one and the same, a relentless, devouring pain.


Between injury and ant venom, a bleak realization settled into Kevin's delirious mind. The desert is the belly of a great and terrible monster. Its thirst for water knows no bounds and its hunger is endless. The heat of the sun was merely the act of digestion. He had long ago been swallowed whole by the beast. Too weak to run, and nowhere to go if he could, Kevin surrendered to the act of consumption.


The desert night pressed on, indifferent to his suffering. Hours passed, each one an eternity. Kevin's breathing became shallow, his body a canvas of swollen hives. His mind, caught in the tightening grip of hallucinations, replayed the day's violence, the hateful faces of evil men merging with the creatures of his dreams.


Morning came with the first light of dawn, a pale, cold illumination creeping through the gaps in the trailer. The ants retreated, leaving behind a man on the verge of collapse who had fought battles both in his waking hours and in the depths of his subconscious. Kevin lay there, eyes open but unseeing, every breath a struggle, every movement a reminder of his waning humanity.


Like a big lizard whose blood was finally warmed, Kevin began to stir, his sluggish undulations gaining purpose and momentum. His limbs, heavy and laden, slowly came to life, driven by a primal instinct to survive. He rolled to the edge of the sagging mattress, every movement a laborious effort, and pushed himself upright. The early light filtered through the cracks in the trailer, casting long shadows across the floor. Kevin's breath was ragged, but each inhale brought a measure of clarity and revitalization, a slow return from the land of delirium. The pain remained a constant companion, but now it was tempered by the grim resolve that had seen him through countless trials.


The day’s challenges would not accept silence. 


-Kevin Wikse


Kevin Wikse's Official Site.


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