The Sand Trap

It was hot as he trudged through the hot, hot sand. Hot as his throat burnt with thirst. Hot as the sun beat a rhythm on his head, his blood as percussion.

Kurt knew he was going to die today.

He had no idea where he was. His face was crusted with sand mixed with the remnants of his saliva, which had leaked onto his face as he grimaced through his discomfort and the certain dread that he was going to bake. His eyes were pinholes, squinting so much that he could view light, sand, haze and nothing more. His mind kept reaching for drinks and he had to steer it away with determination that he did not have.

Each foot placed in the sand was a slide back. He wanted to cry but he suppressed the urge, dry sobbing silently. He couldn't spare the tears.

How had he found himself here?

Quad biking in the desert should be fun. Mike had suggested it. Kurt knew that sand storms were created from nothing. When the bike started to sputter, he called out but no-one responded. He'd been able to hear Mike driving off, the panic as the sands whirled and spat. Mike'd driven to get help surely, he thought. He'd been crouched, terrified, using his bike as a buffer and watching as tiny grains crept and crept. He'd kept his helmet on initially but took it off when his head felt like it'd pop.

As the sand receded, Kurt looked around at his environment and recognised nothing. Why would he? This was the first and only time he would visit. He was not expecting to chart landmarks. They would have been swallowed anyway. His slits for eyes would not allow him to find them.

He was compelled to move. He knew its futility but he couldn't sit and be absorbed. He hoped a search was on but it had been days now.

He did not know that he had been lured. That even now, the person who had set this sand trap was raising a drink in a bar to him and practising his persuasive methods to take his place at home.

A friend.

Mike.

***

365 words

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