by Ansel Gough
Frank nodded.
“A long time to be in one place. Not too many people do that anymore.” Chris took hold of the bread, running it around in some of the bacon grease. “This would have to be your first home. Right?”
“Me granddad always told me, ‘Get ya block of land. Take care of the land and it’ll take care of you.’ And that’s what I did.” Frank looked up at Chris. “It was one of the smartest things I’ve done in me life.”
***
A thin layer of dust had covered the Cherokee but you could hardly tell, as the four-by-four was in desperate need of a wash. Chris stood at the open passenger door, the cell phone to his ear and its lead connected to the car charger.
“... and how are the girls?” He spoke in a soft, strained voice. Emotionally exhausted.
It was hard, thinking about his son; it was even harder talking about him; and it was almost unbearable updating his fragile wife about him.
To have to tell Kate he still didn’t have any leads and hadn’t made any progress—that crushed his soul.
During times of stress, he preferred silence. To cocoon and think. But he also knew his wife needed support, his support.
At times he almost felt like throwing up. It would be easier for him if he didn’t have to talk to her. It hurt too much. It would be easier if he could just phone when the time came and say, “I’ve found him. He’s safe. We’re coming home.” That’s what he wanted. That would make everything all right.
“They miss you,” Kate said, sitting on the end of her king-size bed, dwarfed and alone in her room. Dark circles under her eyes. She wasn’t sleeping well. She dusted non-existent fluff from her pale-pink, silky pajamas as she talked. The room was fresh and bright. White, linen sheets. Cream-colored walls, with lacy, white curtains. It looked very clean, almost clinical.
She paused, closing her eyes. “You should just come home.” She couldn’t believe she said it, because she knew it was giving up. Giving up on Shawn. But maybe it was harder with both of them gone. She needed Chris for support. Maybe the authorities could find her son without Chris’ help. Life needed to go on. The girls still had to go to school. She still had to go to work. The house still had to be cleaned. Food had to be purchased. She now felt like a single mother, grieving the loss of a child on her own. She could barely go on. Even eating was a struggle. Everything forced.
Chris glanced at his watch, looking at the date more than the time. “Give me two more days … Three tops.”
Kate stared at the ceiling, fighting back tears. She knew two or three more days wasn’t too much more to ask. Not for their son. She felt selfish. She needed to be held. She needed a shoulder to cry on. She needed the only other person that understood what she was going through to be with her. Her life partner. Her soul mate.
Wiping tears from her eyes, she sucked in air—a shuddered breath. No longer holding back, she let the tears flow freely down her face. She lowered the phone, placing it on her lap.
Chris could hear the sobbing. Tears welled up in his eyes. If he could just be there to hold her. Comfort her. Stroke her blonde hair—to tell her it would be okay. But that wasn’t going to happen. Not right now anyway. He looked around to see if anyone was looking. This ... this was what was crushing his soul. Clouding his mind. The last thing he needed in his vulnerable state of mind was Roy poking at him with a stick of insults. He couldn’t handle that. He would probably shoot the fat bastard dead if that happened and spend the rest of his days behind bars.
***
Metallic clanging echoed from shed one, like a hammer on metal, immediately grabbing Chris’ attention as he walked around the side of the house.
The large shed doors were wide open, welcoming the warm, morning sunshine. He approached curiously. The clanging grew louder.
With neck craned around the large, open door, he eyed a huge, mysterious vehicle, partially uncovered.
The heavy-duty, gray canvas tarp had been folded back to reveal the hood. Judging by the front end, the vehicle appeared to be a military grade Humvee. Beige and sandy color—perfect camo when driving around the Middle East. The massive bullbar, covered in an array of spotlights, looked menacing.
The perfect vehicle for Frank’s own private war.
As Chris moved in to investigate, he could see Frank’s legs and feet sticking out from underneath. He banged around, most likely repairing something on the truck.
Pav, the crazy Russian, circled around the truck, as though he was an eagle waiting for its prey to make a move. He ran his two hands through his crazy hair and yelled at Frank. “Ostanovit’ udariv po nemu!”
Pav yelled again. “Stop hitting it Mudak!”
“What’s he doing?” Chris enquired.
Pav glanced at Chris, ignoring the question. He bent over, placing his hands on knees to inspect Frank’s work. After a moment, Frank wriggled his way out from under the truck. He sat up, wiping his grease-covered hands with an old, oil-stained rag.
Chris walked past the two men, pulling back part of the tarp to confirm his assumption. “You were serious when you said we’re at war.” He pointed to the unusually shaped rooftop. “Is that a mounted fifty cal?”
Frank shook his head as he strained to push himself up using both hands on the oil-stained cement floor. He wobbled a little, grabbed his hip and propped himself against the Humvee, clearing his throat to speak—
“Not gun,” Pav interrupted with a thick, Russian accent and waving his arms. “EMP.”
“That’s enough, Pavlova!” Frank chastised.
“PAVLOVICH!”
Frank waved his hand at him, dismissing his correction. “Nah.”
“Mudak.” (“asshole”)
Chris looked back and forth between the two men, waiting for an explanation. None was forthcoming. He grabbed the large tarp and dragged it off, revealing the rest of the armored vehicle.
Along the roof was another row of spotlights, mounted on a metal bar. In the center of the roof, lying flat, was a large, gray, metal dish, which resembled an upside-down satellite dish.
He moved around the outside, examining the exterior for any other modifications. He was used to this vehicle—driving one many times during his service in the Guard. However, he was not familiar with the mounted dish. “Electromagnetic pulse?” he questioned.
“Directed-energy weapon.” Pav folded his arms. He stared at Frank. This was his project. His work. And he wanted Chris to know it. “Big microwave. Cook circuits. Lights out. Goodbye.” He chuckled at his analogy.
“You’re going to shoot them down?” Chris said. “With that!”
Frank tossed his oily cloth onto the hood. “We stole the idea from your mob.”
“I not steal!” Pav pounded his chest. “US government stole from Russia first.”
“The US government still hasn’t perfected it. Why do you think yours will work?” Chris questioned. “How are you even going to power it?”
“Compression generator.” Pav scratched the back of his head. “Using high explosives.”
Chris wasn’t buying it. “What are you going to do when you shoot it down? You do realize there’ll be more than one? It’s not like it’s you versus one of them.”
Pav looked over at Frank for reassurance. Frank shifted his weight.
“It’s a work in progress,” Frank said.
“What’s that even mean?” Chris scratched his freshly shaven, raw face. “Shouldn’t we focus our efforts on getting Emma and Shawn back, rather than trying to blow these things out of the air with something that won’t even work?”
“We’ll be running tests,” Pav interjected.
“What tests?” Chris pressed.
“On the creature.” Pav looked directly at Chris. “See its weaknesses.”
“So you’re torturing it?” Chris shook his head in disbelief. “I want to see it.”
“Not now,” Frank said.
“If you want your money, you need to make me an equal around here.”
“Frank! I want to see it.”
The old man shook his head.
“That’s not a request.”
***
The old shed was dark and dingy. Like a dungeon. Damp. Moldy.
A few dust- and cobweb-covered incandescent light bulbs hung from the high ceiling. They sparked to life, providing very little light. Frank carried his trusted double barrel as he led Chris down a large passageway straight down the middle. Old farm tools—pitchfork, rakes, shovels—decorated the interior.
Large cracks patterned the stain-covered cement floor. The layout was more like a barn, with different stalls lining the outer walls, used for housing animals and storage years ago.
The stalls were made from crude wood, splitting from age. Large gaps between each wooden slat provided minor ventilation. The walls only stood about six feet and didn’t reach the very high, cathedral-like iron roof. The years of animals shitting all over the place and walking over the floor had made it a disgusting place. Sunlight crept in through holes and gaps in the walls and roof.
The shed moaned in the gentle wind. The old, rusted iron and rotting wood was barely holding itself together. A sound drifted through the air above the moan of the shed. Maybe a distant cough. It was too faint and muffled to tell for sure what it was, but it could have been a woman’s cough or maybe even a child. Frank didn’t seem to flinch. Maybe it was just the moan of the shed.
Chris proceeded with caution. He glanced around, trying to take everything in. His gut was telling him something wasn’t right. The hair on his arms prickled. High alert.
The pair finally reached a stall at the middle of the passageway. A makeshift door blocked the entrance. Two simple, white, sanding respirators hung from an old, rusty nail in the center of the door. Covered in dirt and sweat stains, they looked well worn. Chris hesitated to put the mask on, before snapping it tightly to his face.
It smelled how it looked—old socks in a locker. But, it was either get grossed out by thoughts of the previous wearer, or be subject to whatever disease the alien creature could be carrying.
The door slowly opened. Chris surveyed the room. The gray creature lay motionless in the corner. Its hands and feet were bound with duct tape. A situation he had found himself in not too long ago.
Bits of fruit were scattered on the floor. Pieces of apple and banana were browning as they decayed.
Frank let Chris enter first. First step cautious. His eyes moved around the crude, unsanitary room.
Chris glanced back at Frank. “I hope Emma and Shawn are being held under better conditions.”
Frank simply grunted.
The creature was wounded. Chris could see that. He edged closer to examine it.
It lay motionless. Its eyes looked closed, although it was hard to tell without moving in even closer.
He couldn’t be sure if it was dead or alive. A crease formed on his forehead as he grew more concerned for its welfare. He squatted down a few feet from the gray. He looked back at Frank, who stayed close to the door. “Is it dead?”
Frank shook his head.
“We need to get this thing help,” Chris said. “Professional, government help.”
“We’ll lose all bargaining power if ya hand it over to the feds.”
“If it dies, we lose everything.”
Frank raised his chin, partially folding his arms with the double barrel in hand. He didn’t want government involvement. They had their chance to help when Emma was taken. But they didn’t want to listen. They thought he was crazy. He had to do it on his own, and they weren’t going to get their filthy hands on his new prized possession.
Chris got back to his feet. He moved around the gray, watching it carefully. He gave it a small shove with his boot. No response. Chris placed his hands in his pockets. Frozen. Trying to think of the best course of action. This creature was the only connection or lead to his son, and it was about to die, if it wasn’t already dead. How to take control of this operation? That’s what he had to figure out. Right now, it was all in the hands of the useless Australian hillbillies.
“Stand back!” The immediately recognizable Russian accent broke Chris out of his trance.
Pav marched toward the creature, holding a bucket of liquid. A large handkerchief covered half his face. Chris cleared the path, not sure what the crazy Russian was about to do.
Pav began pouring the bucket. A watery substance washed over the gray. Its large, black eyes jerked open. In desperation it tried to scurry away into a corner. Bound limbs stalled its efforts. Liquid soaked its body.
Chris glared at Pav, who seemed to be enjoying the act. “What is it?”
Pav, too focused and in the zone, didn’t even realize Chris was talking to him.
Chris’ eyes snapped back down to the helpless creature.
For an instant its black eyes met Chris’, then closed as Pav poured liquid over its face and head.
Chris felt something. A connection. Maybe these creatures had a soul. Maybe they were like us, just trying to work shit out. Chris felt a degree of sympathy for the strange being. “That’s enough!”
The liquid continued to flow. This must be the test. The torture. Could it be drain cleaner, bleach? He didn’t know. The gray didn’t appear to be in visible pain, but it didn’t seem right.
Chris rushed forward, grabbing Pav by the collar, pulling him off balance. “That’s enough!”
Pav shoved back, trying to shake him off.
Chris slammed the crazy old Russian against the dirty stall wall. Dust burst into the air.
He pinned the old scientist with force. “I said, that’s enough!” He spoke through clenched teeth.
“Crazy American. Tough cowboy.” The Russian let out a chuckle. “You so tough to beat up old man.”
Chris pulled Pav off the wall, and then smashed him back against the old, wooden slats.
“It only salt water,” the Russian said in defense.
“It’s not happening like this.”
Then Chris suddenly froze.
Cold, hard steel from a double barrel press against the back of his neck. “Ya right, it’s not happening like this,” Frank said in his gruff voice.
“Have you even tried to communicate with it?” Chris didn’t budge, keeping a tight grip on the Russian’s shirt.
Pav chuckled again. “I don’t think it speak American.”
Chris released his grip, stepping back. Frank lowered his gun.
The tension in the room eased.
“Now that we have bait, it’s time to go fishin’.” Frank slung the shotgun over his shoulder as he turned to leave. “Get some rest, Yankee. We roll out tonight.”
Chapter Sixteen
The Bait
Clanging echoed through the vast wilderness. Metal on metal. Repeated banging over and over. In a small clearing amongst the trees, truck headlights highlighted Roy as he stood over a two-foot metal spike. Old hammer in hand, he drove the spike into the hard, rocky ground. Attached to the spike, a short chain, about four feet long. On the other end, the gray, which had a large, leather collar around its neck, tethered like a mongrel dog to a chain, its slim limbs still bound with the tape. It lay motionless in the dirt, watching as Roy finished his job.
The night was dark, quiet. Only the sound of the leaves blowing in the gentle breeze. Roy wiped his brow. He had worked up a sweat and was out of energy. Hitching up sagging jeans, he made his way back to the truck.
Chris sat in the passenger seat of Roy’s truck. The bench seat was well worn, springs starting to protrude through the vinyl cover. Old take-out containers littered the interior, crowding his foot space. He kicked at them to make some room. Filthy animal.
Roy’s 12-gauge shotgun hung behind him in the rear window, ready for action.
Displeased with the current plan, Chris decided to go along with it anyway to see what happened. His son’s rescue was more impo
rtant than the gray.
Roy threw the hammer onto the bench seat as he squeezed into his seat, using the steering wheel to lower his girth. His sweaty, fat-ass odor filled the truck as he flopped into position. Chris gagged, instinctively shielding his nose with the back of his hand. Holy shit. He would have wound down the window to save his faculties, if it wasn’t broken. His eyes watered. A cough expelled the feces-filled air from his lungs.
“Ever thought of taking a shower?”
“Whatta you, a faggot?”
Roy fumbled around on the seat, tossing papers and empty beer bottles on the floor as he looked for his hand-held radio. He brought it up to his cracked, dried lips. “Cedar? This is Seagull ... Ya there Frank?”