Kevin Wikse vs. The Alamo, Nevada Murder Hobo

 

I had long left the evening dark behind me, a filthy cloud of Arizona's crumbling asphalt and desert dust trailing in my wake. My mission was clear: outrun the night and put as much time and space between myself and Tucson as possible. But Nevada's 93 North, with its pitch-black void, finally cornered me. Phantoms of rime and rain swirled around my truck, thick tendrils of chilled fog closing in from all sides. Eighteen-wheelers haunted the road, behemoth ghosts roaring out of the shadows, ripping past at break-neck speeds, shaking my U-haul and rattling my frayed nerves. Exhaustion finally kicked its way in and grabbed me by the collar. With my focus wavering, drifting over the white line as the fuel gauge needle drifted uncomfortably close to E, I conceded to the night. I searched the horizon for the faintest glimmer of city lights.

I found salvation in the small, unincorporated town of Alamo, Nevada. As I slowed from 70 mph to 25, the truck vibrated and shook, tires slipping and sliding as I crossed into town. Black ice. The thought of hitting a patch earlier played vividly in my mind, a grim reminder of what could have been. Pushing the thoughts aside, I refocused on my new mission: fuel up and rest until morning. My concentration had been so fixated on the road that the sudden realization of my full bladder was shocking. Crawling down 93 North, I scanned the roadside businesses for a gas station, rocking back and forth in my seat, desperately trying to relieve the pressure.

It wasn't a gas station but a Country Cafe and Gift Store that caught my eye. A wave of mental relief washed over me as I turned in and stopped in a dark dirt lot beside the restaurant. Opening the truck door, the brisk, biting cold painfully stung my skin, and each inhalation froze my nostril hairs. Hurriedly, I made for the door. The store attendant undoubtedly read the urgency on my face as I barged in. 

He was a rotund and unhealthy man, maybe in his 30s. His hoodie stretched skin tight around his prodigious belly. Thin-rimmed glasses perched on his nose, and a patchy neckbeard accentuated his bulbous, pale, moon-cratered face. I imagined him spending his nights stalking underage children online and probably hosting some left-leaning true crime podcast.

His name tag read, "Jason."

"Bathrooms are locked. I am closing in ten minutes," Jason wheezed at me.

My dismay and annoyance must have been palpable as I sternly presented him with two hard options, "Which would you prefer? Open up a bathroom, or mop up a gallon of my piss?"

The manchild let out a huff and waddled toward the restrooms. "There!" he exclaimed, as if asking him to fiddle with a key and a lock was akin to an extraneous quest. I shouldn't have, but I thanked him as I bolted for the urinal. The relief was immediate and intense, as I released ten hours of stored bottled water and Red Bull from my porn-worthy dick. It felt like I might bore a hole through the porcelain.

All my trip-born anxiety burned away like good hash over hot coals, and peace became my prevalent emotion for the first time in so many days. I took a moment to check the weather for Alamo on my phone. Six degrees, with a wind chill warning issued that could plunge the temperature down to -10 or -11. Absolutely fucking freezing. I needed to find a room. With a hard shake, I zipped up and returned to the front of the store.

Jason was there, the attendant bleeding a frothy red river from his nose and sucking wind through his mouth, which is typical for a mouth breather.

"Some asshole threw a huge rock at me!" he squeal-cried, sputtering his words through a deluge of saliva, tears, and blood. My eyes traced his blood trail to the entrance door and a few steps outside. A hunk of rock, half the size of my fist, lay at the edge of a bright crimson puddle. I strained my eyes to pierce through the night and fog, hoping to see someone or something, but to no avail.

"Did you see who threw it?!" I asked, giving the attendant a better look over.

"No! It's so fucking dark. Fuck! It might have been one of those goddamn trucks. They throw stones and shit all the time when they don't slow down. They've cracked the store windows a few times."

It made sense. My truck had been pelted hard a few times by stones thrown from semi-trucks hauling ass along the highway.

"Move your hand. Let me see how bad it is," I ordered.

Hesitantly, the attendant brought his hands away from his nose. It wasn't the worst I'd ever seen, and I told him so, but it was still bad enough to make me wince.

I offered to call 911 for him or at least drive him to an ER, but he declined. He didn't think his nose was broken. He didn't want to deal with the cops. He just wanted to lock up and go home. Honestly, I was tired of looking at him, and his effeminate voice made me want to throw another rock at him, so that worked for me.

"Hey! Can I have this pack of chocolate-covered mini-donuts?" I said, eyeing some sweet Hostess treats.

"I don't care! Just get the fuck out so I can leave," he quipped.

"Gladly," I replied, excited for my donuts and already heading for the door. I trekked into the frigid darkness and back to my U-Haul. The cold was no joke. The blanket of darkness and fog that now covered Alamo was equally no laughing matter. Had it not been for the cafe's lights and the scant few street lamps, I might not have been able to find my U-Haul. I opened the driver's door and climbed into the cab. I fired up the truck and put the heaters on full blast. Using my phone, I typed in "hotels in Alamo, Nevada."

The results showed a few. The Alamo Inn was directly across the street from where I sat. It was so dark, and the fog so dense, it veiled its location. Checking room availability came back as no vacancy. Damn. Just to be sure, I called them. I got a sleepy-sounding desk clerk on the horn who confirmed no rooms were available. I sat for a moment to weigh my options. I even considered getting back out on the road. Logically, it was a bad idea, but something inside me was trying to make a case for it. If not for a pair of bright headlamps on a diesel truck turning in from the road, I might have done it.

The headlights cut through the fog, illuminating the area and revealing just how thick the mist had grown. It wasn't safe to drive any further tonight. Resigned, I decided to stay put and try to get some sleep in the cab. I reclined the seat, wrapped myself in a blanket, and tried to relax. The sound of the diesel engine rumbling nearby was oddly comforting, a reminder that I wasn't completely alone in this desolate place.

The lights of the incoming truck expanded my view of the dirt lot where I was parked. It was more open and expansive than I had initially seen. Five or six diesel trucks were parked further in, all hunkered down for the night. A makeshift rest stop. That settled that. I would do the same. I parked close enough to the cafe that these guys could easily get in and out. I tore open the pack of mini-donuts, and I savored their chocolate goodness. If Jason hadn't taken a fist-sized rock to his face, I might have had to pay for these. 

So worth it.

The force of the wind started to rock my truck a little, and the plunging temperature was quickly seeping into the cab. I fired up the engine once again, idling, and let the full blast of the heaters fight back the cold. I turned on the radio and scanned for a decent talk show, but no such luck. I longed for the days of Art Bell's Coast to Coast. The golden days of Ufology. George Noory was a snore-fest, and other than that “ missing people in national-parks” guy, his guests were poorly vetted idiots.

I turned off the engine with the cab sufficiently warm and wrapped up in what I was sold as a "horse blanket," as in a literal blanket for a horse. Sleeping in the driver's seat was not at all comfortable, but exhaustion is a resourceful  creature, and I soon found myself entering the velvety black of sleep.

It wasn’t the kind of sleep that brings rest. It was the kind where dreams and reality twisted together in a macabre dance, and every sound from outside yanked me toward consciousness like a sinister puppet master. The wind rocked my truck, turning it into a horror movie cradle, a lullaby laced with menace. Any moment, that bough could break, and down would come Kevin, sanity and all.

A noise woke me—a soft rapping on the window, persistent and deliberate. My eyes flew open like shutters, and I stared into the darkness outside. The fog was thick, but I could see a figure standing close to the truck, peering at me through the driver's side window. Instinct kicked in. My fight or flight response surged harder than my dick after a fresh clean line of coke 

"What do you want?" I called out, my voice steady but tinged with irritation. The figure didn’t move. I grabbed the flashlight from the glove compartment and flicked it on, slicing through the murky darkness with a beam of harsh light, pointing it toward the shadow.

It was a man, disheveled, gaunt, and ragged, his clothes tattered and his face weathered. His eyes glinted with something unspoken, something dangerous, something...off. "Hey, can you help me?" he said, his voice rough and strained. I wondered how he could be out on a night like this. Part of me considered letting him in. It was freezing, and the passenger seat was empty. But even in the spirit of compassion, that was just too big of an ask. God knows what he could be into, and I wasn't in the mood to chance finding out.

"I am not a charity. Go elsewhere!" I replied, keeping the flashlight trained on him.

"I just need a ride up the road," he said, but his words were too rehearsed.

"Not taking passengers," I snarled, feeling the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. He didn’t like that answer. His face twisted into a scowl, and his eyes narrowed.

"I wasn’t asking," he said, raising a large rock above his head and smashing it down into the driver's side window.

The flashlight fell from my hand as I pushed the door open, slamming it into the man's midsection. He grunted and stumbled back, but he was quick. Far quicker than I anticipated. He recovered almost instantly, and before I could react, he latched onto my foot, attempting to sink his rotten teeth into my calf muscle like a rabid raccoon, and trying to drag me out of the truck.

The opportunity presented itself, so I put the full force of my other boot's heel into his face and pried him off me before his teeth could break my skin, injecting me with something worse than the COVID-19 vaccine. The ground, iced over, was slick from the truck's heat, and I hit it hard. The cold dirt scraped against my skin, the impact nearly knocking the wind out of me. I reeled for a brief moment. He was on top of me in a flash, his grimy hands reaching, aching, striving for my throat. I could see his eyes now, wild and unhinged, a madman's eyes. I could almost see myself reflected in them, not literally, but metaphorically. Full of violence but devoid of humanity. This man had never sucked the milk of human kindness from the tender breasts of love and pleasure. Whereas, I was accustomed to the feel of big warm, glitter covered tits in my hands.

Bad situation? Yes, but I didn't panic. Training and experience kicked in. Shifting my hips and attacking his eyes, I diverted his attention and put him on the defensive. I brought my knee up hard into his groin. He let out a guttural scream. He was no longer pressing the attack, letting me twist free. I rolled away and got to my feet, hands up and at the ready.

He was laughing now, a low, guttural sound. "You’re a tough one," he said, his voice filled with a sick sort of admiration. "This is going to be fun."

"You sure? Because I’m the kind of kid who broke all his toys, and you'll fare no better," I retorted.

He charged at me again, but this time, I was ready. I sidestepped and delivered a solid elbow to his teeth. He staggered and turned his back to me but didn’t go down. The smell of blood hit my nostrils, and my animal nature compelled me to go in for the kill. Instead, something screamed inside my head, NO! I hesitated. Quick like a dirt devil, he whirled around to face me, slashing the icy night air with a knife, right where my throat would have been, the blade glinting in the dim light

Like two prize fighters, we circled and stalked each other. The cold air burned my lungs, but I ignored it. I focused on him, his movements, and most importantly, the knife. He was no stranger to violence. His cuts and thrusts were skillful and practiced. His feints were deft and crafty. He was a predator, that was certain, but was our meeting simply chance, or did he come specifically for me?

He lunged! I deflected his arm, and again, I drove my elbow into his face. The short power, explosive force in close quarters, is a cornerstone of the Southern Systems of Chinese Kung Fu and a specialty of my Sifu, a former enforcer of the Hop Sing Tong. Blood erupted from his nose, but he didn’t seem to notice. He slashed in a flurry of steel, putting up a type of shield to stall my counter-offensive, this time nicking the back of my arm.

Low visibility and icy, uneven ground made combating a blade-wielding drifter even more risky, let alone one with a knack for the knife. Keeping this elbow shield provided him with largely non-life-threatening targets. Using short power attacks with my knees and elbows conserved my energy and lessened the risk of him cutting deep into or possibly slicing off an extremity like a finger or wrist.

The dance of death continued, each of us testing the other, searching for an opening. His eyes were wild, filled with a mix of rage and something darker. My mind reached deep into my  reptilian brain , recalling every lesson, every drill. I knew I had to end this quickly; the longer it dragged on, the greater the chance he’d  eventually land a fatal blow.

I realized I had inadvertently adopted a defensive stance. This needed to end, and to do that, I needed to take some risks.

I gritted my teeth and exploded forward, cracking my open hand like a whip at his eyes. With lightning speed, his knife slashed vertically, the edge centimeters from catching a finger or two of mine. Immediately, like a snake strike, I speared my fingers into the nape of his neck. Caught off guard, he gagged and heaved, stumbling back, clutching at his neck. I pressed my advantage, another short power elbow landing hard and square to his chest. He went down but rolled quickly to his feet, laughing that insane laugh again and somehow, all the while maintaining the wherewithal to keep the tip of his blade between him and me.

“You’re not bad,” he wheezed, sputtering blood from his mouth. “But you’re not good enough.”

"You really need a better job," I snapped. "It's obvious you're not making rent.”

He sneered, eyes blazing with a mix of defiance and madness. "I'll make it by taking everything from you.

He took the initiative and attacked. A flurry of feints, more desperate than before but still controlled and measured. I dodged and parried, swaying like the King Cobras I'd spent hours watching at the zoo when I was young. Internalizing their movements and intuitively knowing they had important lessons to impart to anyone who would pay attention. Noticeably aggravated, he lunged forward with the knife again but stumbled, his foot catching on an uneven patch.

Seeing my opening, I brought my hand down like a giant meat cleaver on the inside wrist of his knife-wielding hand, just behind the weapon. The force I caught him with flung his arm behind his back. A shrill scream of pain came out of his mouth, and the knife, now out of his hand, was swallowed by the darkness.

I swung my hammer fist at his temple like Babe Ruth aiming for a home run. He crumbled, collapsing to the ground with a dull, unimpeded thud. The night and I were silent witnesses to his moans, and for a brief moment, the cold air seemed to freeze in time.

I stood over him, breathing hard, examining his wounds. My mind was a whirling moral calculator, tabulating my options. Should I leave him here in the cold, trusting the freeze to finish him off? Or should I ensure his end by bringing my book down and crushing his head like a pumpkin? Calling 911? Not a chance. Too many personal questions, and I wasn't in the headspace to fabricate lies for the pigs.

The drifter at my feet was capable, no doubt. How many lives had he taken with that knife? This didn’t feel random. Flashes of intuition hit me, visions of Henry Lee Lucas and Ottis Toole flickering in my mind. Those two sub-human maniacs, products of the Hand of Death cult training camps in rural Florida, had been allowed to feed their murderous impulses as long as they served their masters.

The feral vagabond writhing in pain could easily replace those two vile fucking idiots. Maybe he followed me, hitchhiking from Tucson or somewhere nearby. He could have come into Alamo, Nevada, with an unsuspecting trucker or traveler. Worse, he might have been transported here by his handler. The thought made me glance around, my eyes scanning the dark, empty streets for any signs of danger.

Stupid. 

A shard of glass, maybe from a broken bottle, painfully struck me under my right eye. I had waited too long, and he wasn’t done yet. He threw that sharp glass like a ninja star, catching me flat-footed. I stumbled back, bringing my left hand to cross-block. Good thing I did because he had found that knife on the ground, and my hand parried the trajectory of his lunge aimed straight for my neck.

The arduous hours and endless reps I practiced with my Sifu on "hand trapping" skills paid dividends. His knife-wielding hand was first parried and deflected with my left, feeding it into the hungry tiger's mouth that was my right hand. I seized his wrist, shaking it violently like a dog killing a rabbit. Once again, I got him to give up the knife. My left hand gripped and bit deep into the skin on the side of his neck, securing another effective control lever.

Maintaining my grip on the side of his neck and with the knife no longer in play, I wrenched his wrist in a taught and tight-wringing motion, twisting the muscle and bone beyond the scope of his tendons. He screamed in pain, but like a pit bull, or a Jewish mother, I’d never let go. Instead, I increased the pressure and twisted harder, feeling his bones snap under my grip. The volume of his screams amplified in kind. His legs buckled, and he collapsed to his knees under his own weight. Only when his hand felt like a dead, boneless fish did I release and capture his throat.

"You're right; it's been fun, but I warned you: I break my toys," I said, my voice low and deadly. His eyes widened in fear, the first real emotion I’d seen from him. I kept eye contact as I applied the squeeze.

He croaked something that I imagined was supposed to be in English as blood drained out of his mouth. His last unintelligible  words vibrated on my fingertips like barbarouses speech, a sorcerous  transference of raw primal energy conferred upon me. A necromancy, both marvelous and sinister. An act that I am sure made some accursed abomination in the lower nine hells smile.

With a final, brutal squeeze, I crushed his throat between my thumb and forefinger. I held on as I watched the dim light in his eyes fade, and he went limp. I let go, observing him fall face-first into the cold dirt, lifeless. 

To think, just mere minutes ago, this dumb fucker thought he'd win. I laughed at the absurdity. Not so much because he thought he could kill me, but because people like him existed at all. A Haitian proverb my Godfather used to say echoed in my mind, "When man strikes man, God laughs." This encounter had allowed for a deeper understanding of its meaning.

I stood there for a moment, waiting and listening. The hum of diesel engines idling intermittently was drowned out by the high-pitched howl of the blisteringly cold wind. Part of me waited for a bullet. While the underlings were often cartoonish, like low-tier comic book villains, their handlers tended to be more direct and pragmatic in their approach. The frigid air brought me back into the moment. A moment that contained a body I now needed to stow somewhere.

I dragged his corpse to the back of the Country Cafe and Gift Shop, each step sending jolts of pain through my body. The dumpster was half-full, with just enough room for this pile of human garbage. I heaved him inside, covering him with trash bags and old cardboard boxes, and I laid him to rest. Considering the type of man I presumed he was, the dumpster was quite befitting of his character.

As I walked back to my truck, the cold air biting at my skin, I couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to this encounter than met the eye. This wasn't random. It couldn't be. There was a method to his madness. Little by little, the pieces began to fit together. The rock that had hit Jason, the deranged laughter, the precision of his attack—it all pointed to a deeper motive.

Jason’s bloodied face flashed before my eyes. The rock had been meant to incapacitate him, to make him an easy target. My presence had thrown a wrench into his plans, and he had decided to gamble on a far more dangerous prey—me. This wasn’t just a random drifter; this was a predator, a serial killer who hunted in the remote and lonely areas of truck stops, rest stops, and gas stations along the highways. Tonight, he aimed for big game, and his would-be quarry made a meal out of him.

But, so it seems, that’s where it stopped. No handler in a nearby vehicle, no one waiting for the call that I’d been neutralized. A lone-wolf thrill-kill junkie who met a bad and well-deserved end at the hands of a grizzly. The circle of life.

I staggered, I climbed up into the  truck, my head awash with conflicting thoughts and possibilities. The only things I knew for sure were, one, I couldn’t stay here for much longer and two, none of those theoretical equations could be satisfactorily answered in the present. I had to keep moving, especially now that the involvement of Law Enforcement was less than a full day away. His body would absolutely be found. The adrenaline was wearing off, and it was possible I might require medical attention, but that would have to wait.

The cold was now gnawing its way through my clothes and into my bones. I had to get to Boise. I had to put as much distance between me and this place as possible. I fired up the engine and let the heater roar to life. The pain from the encounter was starting to catch up with me, and those couple cuts really had some sting in them now. I glanced at the clock. Dawn was still some  hours away. I was in even worse condition to drive a rig, and deep into the red of sleep deprivation. There would be consequences if I stayed here too long, but until the weather changed and the fog dissipated, I was stuck in this hell. However, if I played my cards right and managed my time correctly, I could sneak out before the Devil knew I was there.

I took a quick whore’s bath, stripping down in the U-Haul cab. Washed the blood and dirt off with a wetted hand towel, digging the dead man out from under my fingernails as best I could. Changed into some new digs. I set my phone alarm for 5 am and, like an alley cat after a bad fight, curled up the best I could, trying to self-soothe enough to get even a modicum of meaningful sleep. The cab was my sanctuary, a fragile bubble of warmth against the chaos outside.

My mind raced as I lay there, the events of the night replaying in a continuous loop. The drifter’s wild eyes, the feel of his bones snapping under my grip, the cold, calculating decisions I had to make—it all swirled together in a nightmarish haze. I needed to rest, to regain some strength for the journey ahead, but sleep was elusive, slipping through my fingers like smoke.

Every creak of the truck, every gust of wind outside kept me on edge. I was a coiled spring, ready to snap at the slightest provocation. The fog outside was a suffocating blanket, hiding unknown threats in its depths. I had to be ready for anything. I was in a world of uncertainty. 

Finally, exhaustion reigned supreme.. My eyelids grew heavy, and I sank into a fitful sleep. My last conscious thought was a promise to myself: I would make it out of this. I would get to Boise, no matter what it took.

The sound of my phone’s alarm was met with a sigh of relief. My eyes welcomed the faint gray in the sky, the earliest rays of the sun dispelling both the night and the fog. If it wasn't for the very real slashes I now carried on my body, I could have almost convinced myself last night’s encounter was just a bad dream. Looking out at my immediate area, nothing hinted that anyone other than me and the drifter knew what transpired.

Fuck! The knife! Shit, it had my blood on it! As much as I didn’t want to, for as many heinous crimes it could be attached to, I had to secure it. That was a link I needed to remove from the evidentiary chain. That necessary trophy I would tuck away inside a hidden container in my towed vehicle. Boise, Idaho was still a day’s drive away, and getting pulled over, however unlikely, was still a possibility that required addressing.

I found the blade near the truck, an older military survival knife, the kind carried by the MACV-SOG. It had a lot of miles on it, and now in my hands, hell, it might eventually get a few more.

As I pulled out onto the main drag and headed out of Alamo, Nevada, I felt a strange sense of uneasy calm. I laughed to myself, a dark chuckle echoing in the cab. "All that for a piss and some fucking donuts," I muttered, reaching for another chocolate mini-donut and stuffing my face with it. I wondered if that sniveling bitch-titted  liberal soy-boy back at the cafe would ever know what fate had in store for him had I not intervened. 

The road stretched out before me, a ribbon of black asphalt cutting through the mountain pass. The heater hummed, the warmth seeping into my bones. My wounds throbbed, a reminder of the fight, but the pain was distant now, dulled by the dark humor of the situation.

I thought about the murder hobo, about what drove him to target people like Jason and others. Culling Jason from the herd I could almost understand, and in some terrible way, appreciate his ambitions. However, I could only assume the majority of his victims were of the highly vulnerable variety, probably young women. We can romanticize the prowess of a predator all we want, but when we get to brass tacks, all they really do is prey on the weak, the young, the elderly and the sick. In that, I find nothing admirable, not from a human perspective. 

Maybe he was just a drifter, a man who had lost everything and decided to take it out on the world. Or maybe he was just born wrong, a twisted mind that found pleasure in the pain of others. It didn’t matter now. He was dead, and I was alive. I was the rock he broke himself against. The measure he could not meet. No longer would he hurt anyone, and in that, I could find comfort.

I couldn't help but smile when I saw it. There, on the edge of Alamo, Nevada, was a gas station. A last bastion of hope before I descended into the desolate high-desert landscape. The attendant, a grizzled, weather-beaten old man with a face etched by the harshness of the desert, eyed me with suspicion. I made a beeline for the cold drinks, snatching a couple of Monsters and Red Bulls, and headed to the cash register.

"Long night?" he grunted, his voice a gravelly drawl that echoed through the empty station.

"You could say that," I replied, placing my items on the counter. "Got any donuts?"

He laughed, a harsh bark of a sound. "Fresh out, but we got coffee."

"Damn. Well, coffee does sound good," I said. "And $80 on pump one."

$80, seriously? Fucking Biden. 

I slowly sipped the scalding hot coffee and thought about the road ahead. Boise was still a long way off, but I was ready for a change in scenery. Hard living in the desert had nearly evaporated my civil nature, leaving me callous and a little hateful. The drifter, in some fucked-up cosmic melodrama, could have been my perfect dark mirror, reflecting what I risked becoming if I didn't make finding "home" a priority.

The warmth of the coffee spread through me as I got back in the truck. With the first light of dawn breaking on the horizon, and another monster condemned to eternal night, I started the engine and pulled back onto the road. The darkness behind me, the future ahead. Maybe home was somewhere over those mountains.

-Kevin Wikse