Red Centre

by Ansel Gough

  Frank walked just in front of Roy, packing the trusted, double-barrel shotgun. It was clear these boys weren’t out for a morning stroll in the woods.

  ***

  The third man, an Aboriginal tracker, led Roy and Frank. Mogo was small-framed, barefooted and mid fifties. His rough, black hair and scraggly beard were highlighted by streaks of silver. His tribe had lived in these parts for thousands of years—an ancient culture, indigenous to Australia. Navigating the land and tracking were instinctual. He knew this area like the back of his hand, being one with the land. His tracking ability like no other: heightened sight, smell and hearing. Trackers like him were called “Black Trackers” by the white man, able to track when others couldn’t. People out here knew Australian Aborigines were some of the best native trackers in the world. “Track or die” was their way to survive. If you didn’t track your food, you didn’t eat.

  Mogo’s eyes traced over the area, looking for anything out of place. A misplaced twig, rock or maybe animal tracks in the soft dirt. Animals leave all kinds of clues.

  ***

  Chris watched from a distance, trying not to get noticed. What were these three men doing out here? Surely they couldn’t have heard about last night already. Were they already out looking for the Baker family? Not likely. The cops weren’t even out here yet. Locals wouldn’t go looking for tourists without any encouragement from law enforcement. Where were they when Shawn first went missing? Something didn’t seem right about the three men. Frank and Roy couldn’t be trusted. Especially Roy. Redneck.

  Mogo poked around scuffed footprints in the sand; prints not of a man. These weren’t trails he had seen before. They were tracking something unearthly—a wounded creature. A small, liquid trail followed the footprints, maybe blood in the sandy dirt. Mogo moved swiftly, following the trail. Frank and Roy followed closely behind.

  The group of three travelled further into rocky terrain, their movement slowed by rocks and a growing lack of clues. Mogo softly dusted rocks in his hands and crouched motionless for a couple of minutes—as if he was rehearsing movements in his mind. He moved in circles, looking for anything that would provide the creature’s whereabouts. The other two watched on, letting the tracker do his work.

  Chris continued to observe from afar.

  Mogo let the wind hit him the face. He breathed in deeply, trying to see what smells were in the air, looking for anything out of the ordinary. However, only the native fauna aroma was present. He closed his eyes to listen to the things around him. Nothing. The trail was lost, for now.

  Roy glanced over at Frank. He wasn’t too keen on the tracker, and Frank knew it. Mogo was Frank’s friend after all.

  Roy had his dog. That was all he needed to track this animal.

  Suddenly something caught Mogo’s attention, maybe a sound or a smell. Whatever it was he was on the trail again. They followed Mogo, traveling a short distance, further into the rocky terrain, finally reaching a hidden cave behind some dry shrubs. Chris edged a little further along the ridge, trying to get a better look and not blow his cover.

  Mogo pointed to the cave, not willing to go any further. The old Aborigine gave Frank a nod. He had done his job.

  Frank repositioned his fingers around his double barrel. His eyes traveled along Mogo’s dark, outstretched arm and dirt-covered finger, gripping the entrance to the dark cave. Mogo turned and disappeared into the surroundings.

  Frank moved to the cave entrance, pushing back the shrubs. It was a small opening, barely big enough for a man to get through. It looked as though it went down deep into the earth, but it was hard to see. They weren’t prepared for spelunking. They didn’t even have a flashlight. And who knew what could be in there? There were a thousand things that could kill you in these parts, excluding aliens.

  Roy came over for a closer look at the cave, his pit-bull leading the way. The dog let out a growl, peeling back its lips to display large, saliva-coated teeth. It then exploded into a savage burst of barking, jerking hard against the chain leash, rising up on its back legs. Saliva sprayed from its blood-stained mouth. Roy fought to control the rabid-like dog. Something was definitely in there. He looked over to Frank—what now?

  Chris inched right to the edge to see what the men were up to, even though he knew he still wouldn’t be able to hear what they were saying. After a moment, Frank headed back in the direction they came from, leaving Roy to guard the cave. Chris stayed low to avoid detection.

  Roy looked around, already bored. The hot sun beat down on him. He spat on the ground, a string of saliva sticking to his hair-prickled chin, and moved a short distance back to take cover under a small, leafy tree. He flopped to the ground to rest. The shotgun rested on his knee, pointed at the cave entrance. He wasn’t going anywhere.

  Chris watched Frank disappear into the wilderness. He had to make a choice: keep eyes on the fat bastard, or follow Frank.

  ***

  Frank’s F-250 truck was backed in close to the Corbin house, right near the front door.

  Chris crept along the side of the house, staying low and out of sight. He moved to the corner, peering around to see what he could find. Frank came through the front door juggling an armful of supplies: bottled water, packaged food, backpack. He made repeated trips in and out, loading his truck with rope, shovels and other tools.

  After Frank finished loading, he removed a large set of keys and locked his front door. It was three-inch-thick hardwood and had four locks to secure it. Overkill for these parts, but considering what he had gone through in the last two years—justified.

  The F-250 sped away, up the dirt trail.

  Chris watched on as the truck disappeared into the distance. He glanced at his watch. The day was starting to get away from him and he wasn’t sure what these two were up to. This wasn’t getting him any closer to finding Shawn. All this alien shit had screwed with his head. He couldn’t lose another day.

  He turned to leave, but something caught his attention: the front window had been blacked out with what looked like black paint. This man obviously liked his privacy. Maybe it was all the reporters hounding him when his wife disappeared that took him to the brink of complete seclusion; or maybe it was just that his wife was gone.

  His eyes moved to another window, and then another. All the windows in front had been blacked out. His mind started to race. Maybe Frank was crazy and killed his wife. Or maybe she was still alive, but they didn’t want anyone to see. Lots of thoughts ransacked his mind. Chris couldn’t help it, he had to know. Was his wife in there? Was Shawn in there?

  Chris pounded on the front door. “Hello?” He glanced around. “Mrs. Corbin?”

  No answer.

  He moved around the house, looking. All the windows were the same—thick, black paint; except for one at the rear of the house, on which the paint was a little thinner. He must have been low on paint. Chris glanced around to see if anyone was watching him. He was alone. There were two large, rust-covered, corrugated-iron sheds at the back. Big enough to house large farming equipment or a small plane. They were old and rusted out, sitting side by side. Both had a chain and lock on their large, hangar-style doors.

  Chris slowly put his eye close to the window. Peering through some of the streak marks he could just barely see into the dark house. A dim light was on, maybe a lamp. Chris repositioned himself to get a better look. Suddenly a shadow flashed across the wall. Chris stumbled back.

  He quickly moved to the back door.

  It wasn’t heavy duty like the front door and had only one lock. He pounded on it. “Mrs. Corbin! Emma Corbin!” He scratched his head, frustrated. “I saw you, Mrs. Corbin!”

  He pounded the door again with the palm of his hand. This was bullshit! He tried the door handle, twisting it back and forth. Locked.

  “I’m coming in, Mrs. Corbin!” He twisted the handle and pushed on the door. It didn’t budge.

  Chris raced over to the window again, pressing his face against the black glass. He tapped on
the window. “Mrs. Corbin?”

  He ran back to the door and thumped on it. Chris paused, backed up a little and charged the door, shoulder first. He bounced off it, exhaling. He moved back, repositioned himself and unleashed several heavy kicks. The door burst open. Part of the door jamb missiled across the room.

  A stale smell of body odor mixed with mothballs and what smelled like rotting food washed over him, burning his nose. He covered his face with his shirt.

  “Mrs. Corbin?” he said in a subdued voice, slowly entering. An old washing machine and rusted-out tub sat in the corner of the room. He was in the laundry. A flickering light burned in what was probably the living room, just up ahead.

  He moved further into the house along a small, dark corridor, toward the lamp. He cautiously entered a small living room where the flickering lamp rested on a wooden coffee table. Pictures of people, newspaper clippings and pictures of UFOs taped around the walls immediately caught his attention. Hundreds of pictures and articles decorated the room. One picture froze him in his tracks. His stomach churned.

  The picture … his son, Shawn.

  “What the hell?” His fingers touched his chin. Tears filled his eyes.

  Chris slowly moved forward, reaching out with stretched fingers to touch his son’s photo. Out of nowhere a crushing blow struck the back of his head, like a brick smashing against his skull. All he saw was a flash of white and black. His body stiffened like a board, went limp and crashed to the floor.

  Out cold, twitching momentarily.

  Chapter Ten

  Ransom

  The room was blurry at first. Chris tightly closed his eyes, opening them again, readjusting. His head pounded. Disorientated. Realization set in—he had been struck from behind. Knocked out cold. Probably a concussion.

  The hair on the back of his head felt moist. Mostly from blood mingled with sweat. An ice pack would be nice.

  He immediately realized his mouth had been taped. A single strip of silver duct tape silenced him.

  His wrists were also bound with tape; strapped to the armrests of an old wooden chair in the middle of the room.

  Blackness crept into view; his eyes started to close again. He could feel himself slipping into unconsciousness again. Before he could stop it, he was out cold. His head flopped forward. A single drop of sweat ran down his forehead, along his nose and onto the dusty, hardwood floor beside his boot.

  ***

  Muscles in Chris’ cheek twitched. He let out a muted grunt as he became conscious again. His eyes slowly focused; things gradually sharpened. His eyes darted around. He was sitting in a small, dark bedroom. Dust particles floated and danced around in the few beams of sunlight that cut through gaps in the painted, black windows.

  The room was sparse; only a small bed behind him against the wall and a wardrobe in the corner.

  Sweat beaded on his forehead, running down the sides of his face. It was hot and stuffy in this little room.

  Shooting pains stabbed the back of his throbbing head. His mouth felt dry. His body dehydrated. It wasn’t helping being stuck in a sweat box.

  He could tell his legs weren’t bound, but he moved them and glanced down anyway, just to make sure. At least part of him was free.

  His muscles strained, pulling hard against the thick tape.

  Panic roared through his body. He was a hostage. His wife would now be missing a son and a husband. Was Shawn experiencing the same fate? Was he scared? Locked in some room? Not sure where he was or what his captives wanted? Was it Frank and Roy?

  He shook off the thoughts. He had to concentrate on his own situation first. He had to get out of there. What the hell were these people planning to do to him?

  The pulse in his neck started to pound.

  Frantically scanning the room, Chris searched for anything he could use to free himself. Anything!

  He used his feet to hop/scoot the chair toward the old, dark, wooden wardrobe. The chair thumped and squeaked loudly as it edged forward inch by inch; wood against wood. With an outstretched boot Chris tried to hook the door handle.

  His foot barely grazed the little steel handle. The boot too big to grip.

  A key slid into the lock on the other side of the solid bedroom door. Chris froze. It clicked, unlocking.

  The door handle slowly turned. Chris breathed in deeply through his nose, anxious to know what was about to happen. A large, silhouetted figure stood motionless in the doorway.

  The bedroom light sparked on. Chris squinted, eyes struggling to adjust to the bright light.

  “Not so tough now, are ya? Yankee bastard!” said the large figure.

  Chris immediately recognized the gruff voice of Roy Lambert. Shit!

  Roy lazily strolled into the room. He looked dirtier than normal. Dust covered his baggy jeans and shirt. His nose swollen. Spots of blood were still visible in his half-shaved beard. Two eyes blackened—the damage from the last time these two tangled ass.

  Roy scratched his half-shaven face, then interlocked his fingers, giving them a good crack and stretch.

  Chris knew an ass whooping was about to go down. He grabbed hold of the arm rests again and frantically pulled and twisted, burning his wrists red. His eyes widened with anticipation. Rapid breathing from his nose spotted warm droplets of moisture on his tape-covered mouth. Soon it would be covered in droplets of his blood.

  The tape strained against the pressure.

  Chris tried to yell at him, but the tape silenced him. A muffled yell ripped up through his throat; face red with strain. No one but Roy could hear it.

  “What’s that? Speak up, I can’t hear you.” Roy laughed at his own useless joke. He hitched up his loose, stained jeans, ready for a beat down.

  Like a raging ox Roy rushed Chris, fist raised. His full weight behind him.

  Chris tucked his head, sucked as much air as he could through his nose and prepared for impact. At the same time he thrust his boot up with as much force as possible; a single attempt to block the attack.

  The boot bounced off Roy’s pudgy stomach. Roy connected with a powerful, straight punch to Chris’ sternum. The punch hard enough to make a man cough blood.

  The chair tipped over backwards, Chris’ head inches from bouncing off the hardwood floor like a bowling ball.

  Face red and contorted, Chris gasped for air. The wind knocked out of him, unable to catch a breath.

  Roy grabbed Chris’ leg, pulling him back up. Chris flopped forward in the chair. Roy followed up the attack with a backhanded hammer fist to the side of his face. Chris’ face snapped back—a purple bruise immediately formed on his cheek.

  A sloppy right hook followed, hitting Chris in the nose. Blood burst from his nose over the silver tape. Deep pain shot up his nose into his forehead. His eyes instantly filled with tears. Small drops of blood dripped onto the hardwood floor. His face numb.

  Roy breathed hard. Out of shape, all of this was working him too hard. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Sweat dripped from his sun-tanned forehead. “Frank!” he called. “He’s awake.” He slapped Chris across the top of the head with an open hand.

  Soon a dust-covered Frank appeared at the door—the thick, red dust likely coming from the caving. In his right hand, a large kitchen knife.

  Chris eyed the knife. His nasal, hyperventilating and silenced scream kicked into overdrive. He could only imagine what these psychos were going to do to him now. They probably killed whoever went missing in these parts. Frank probably killed his own wife and Shawn. Now Chris would taste the sting of the blade and never be seen again. His heart cried out for the pain his wife would feel. This one thought traumatized him more than the blood he was about to taste. Husband and son, gone.

  Frank moved briskly forward. Chris’ eyes widened with fear.

  The blade squeezed between the tape and Chris’ arm. The sharp knife easily sliced the tape, freeing him. Instantly relieved and in disbelief, Chris slowly peeled the tape from his mouth. He rubbed his mouth to ease
the pain.

  Frank looked Chris over. “I told ya to wake him, not beat the piss outta him.”

  Chris rubbed his bruised face. “You’re pretty tough, attacking a restrained man.” His hand moved to the back of his head, feeling a gash and slightly dried blood.

  Roy laughed. He didn’t care; he was a coward.

  “Whatta ya doin’ here?” Frank said.

  “I don’t know what kind of sick game you’re playing here, but if you’ve done anything with my son”—Chris clenched his teeth—”I’ll kill you ... The both of you.”