Red Centre

by Ansel Gough

Chris looked over at Roy. He was amused by his piss-poor attempt to use correct radio communication.

  The radio crackled back. “Seagull, this is Cedar.” Frank’s barely recognizable voice muffled through the tiny speaker. “Go ahead.”

  “The sparrow is in the nest. Repeat. The sparrow is in the nest.” Roy killed the headlights.

  “Roger that, Seagull.” Frank laid his radio on the Humvee’s hood. The Humvee silently parked up on a small ridge overlooking the clearing where the gray lay. Pav was on the roof. He had erected the large satellite dish and plugged different cables into it, a small, hands-free flashlight attached to his head, lighting the technical work. Everything was almost in place.

  A clear night. No clouds. Frank peered into the night sky. His eyes moved from star to star, as though he was looking at suspects. They could have come from anyone of these—and there were millions, many light years away.

  He felt his insignificance.

  Frank gripped his double barrel, holding it close to his body. His eyes wandered back to Pav working on the truck’s roof. This was the night he had been preparing for, for the last two years. Finally, everything in place. This was his best chance to get Emma back, or at least avenge her.

  Pav moved around on the roof, like a skinny, white monkey. Grabbing onto the support bars holding up the dish, weaving in and out, hooking things together—moving around to the back, then finally making it down to the ground.

  Pausing for a quick, once-over glance at his work, he then climbed into the back of the Humvee through the rear door.

  The bluish light from the hands-free flashlight moved around inside the truck. It was crowded with all kinds of techy gadgets and equipment. Pav took his position on an old, wooden crate. A makeshift seat in the center of the equipment. Flicking a few toggle switches, he brought the gear to life. Lights of all different colors flashed as it powered up. Greenish lights from a few small computer monitors flickered and flashed, illuminating the interior. Exposed wires ran all over the place, connecting the monitors to case-less motherboards and cooling fans. An improvised computer farm.

  He pulled an old computer keyboard onto his lap, punching in commands. All in Russian. The monitors flickered; computer code ran across the screen. Pausing for a moment, he took hold of what looked like an old PC gamer’s joystick.

  He cracked his fingers to loosen them up—ready for the big moment. His fingers wrapped around the joystick and slowly moved it to the right. Little servo motors on the truck’s roof kicked in, turning the large dish to the right. The crazy Russian gave a squeal of joy. Everything seemed to be working. He moved the stick to the left; the dish complied.

  Frank watched from the outside. A crooked smile grew across his old face. It was payback, bitches. He climbed into the passenger seat, staring back, giving a nod of approval to Pav.

  Frank took to the radio. “Seagull. We are go!”

  Pav removed the black, alien, oval object from his top pocket and took a deep breath. The two men stared at each other with anticipation. A creepy, childlike smile covered Pav’s pitted face.

  This was it.

  He positioned his three fingers over the strange, foreign symbols, pressing them gently.

  Nothing.

  He was expecting the item to come to life and to shine its red lights. To make the call. But nothing. Dead.

  He pressed again.

  Nothing.

  Their anticipation quickly dissipated as the oval object failed to respond.

  Pav scratched the side of his head, frustrated. He quickly tried again, pressing harder.

  Nothing. Shit.

  Frank rested his double barrel on the seat next to him and leaned in closer to see what was happening. “What’s the problem?”

  “It not working.”

  “I thought ya knew how to work it.”

  Sweat broke out across Pav’s forehead. He violently scratched his head again, shook the object up and down, and then beat it with the palm of his hand. “Ublyudok.” (bastard).

  “Standby, Seagull.” Frank said into the radio.

  Roy tossed his radio onto his dusty dashboard. “Son of a bitch!” He bashed the steering wheel with a restrained hammer fist. “I thought it would be different this time.”

  “This time?” Chris said. “How many times have you tried this?”

  Roy rested his head against the headrest. “A few.” He turned his head back and forth, trying to crack his neck and loosen up. “It’s like fishing. You just have to use the right bait.” He leant slightly on his right ass cheek and let rip what sounded like a sloppy fart. Chris closed his eyes and shook his head slightly, not believing his luck being stuck with this uncouth idiot.

  Chris flung the passenger door open and made his escape to fresh air.

  His foot caught a chunk of trash. He stepped out and pulled it onto the ground. Frustrated, he squatted down to collect the crap. Amongst the burger wrappers, soda cups and other odds and ends, lay a baseball cap, upside down in the dirt.

  He quickly threw the trash back into the truck. As he grabbed the cap to toss it back in, he saw the word “BAKER” written across the front.

  Dusting dirt off it, he examined the word with his fingers.

  Images from only a few days ago of the Baker family standing in front of the ranger station talking to Lisa flashed into his mind—the mother, father and their two young daughters, their matching baby-blue, colored tee-shirts and baseball caps. Baseball caps with “BAKER” embroidered in yellow across the front. Each of them.

  The Baker’s barren and torn up campsite flashed into his mind: the camping table on its side, plastic plates and cups littering the ground.

  Chris kept the cap low, out of sight.

  He looked up at Roy, who was lost in his own world, then back at the cap. “What’d you say you used for bait before?”

  “I didn’t.”

  “What’d you use then?”

  Roy slowly turned to look at Chris. His eyes suddenly creepy and sinister. He clamped his teeth together, as though he was taking a bite of something. The two men locked in a death stare. Chris closed his fist tight.

  “Humans.” Roy let the word escape his lips slowly and arrogantly. Unnerving.

  Roy’s sinister voice echoed in Chris’ ears. He wasn’t sure if what he was thinking was true, but it scared the hell out of him if it was. He had been associated with these guys and that would make him an accomplice to whatever twisted world Frank, Roy and the Russian had created.

  The two men moved at the same time. Roy for his shotgun. Chris towards Roy.

  Chris threw the cap at him. A distraction. Then dove headfirst through the truck, punching Roy in the face, pinning him against the window and door.

  In the struggle Roy snatched the shotgun from its rack.

  Chris wrestled, controlling the gun’s aim.

  Suddenly the deadly sound of the shotgun discharged. The rear window exploded. The truck cabin rocked. The sound echoed through the outback national park for miles.

  Then silence.

  Frank jolted in his seat. He jumped out of the Humvee, moving in the direction of the gunshot blast. A deep look of concern crossed his face.

  “Seagull?” he said into the walkie-talkie. “Everything okay down there, Roy? What the bloody hell was that?”

  The radio in Roy’s truck was muffled on the dusty dashboard, Frank’s words unintelligible.

  Roy gasped for air, face red. Chris pressed the shotgun across Roy’s throat, pinning him against the window. Both men grunted, breathing heavily.

  Chris smashed his elbow into Roy’s face. And again.

  The driver door opened. Roy’s body dropped hard to the ground. The left side of his face bloodied.

  Chris threw the shotgun onto the seat next to him. Key turned. Engine roared.

  The shit wagon squealed over to the lifeless gray. With hammer in hand Chris bashed the spike sideways, knocking it from the ground. Holding his breath and with shirt pulled over
his nose, he assisted the gray to the bed of the truck.

  The radio sparked alive again. “Roy? Roy!”

  Chris reached into the truck, snatching the hand receiver. “Frank, it’s Chris. All good here.”

  “Why ya shootin’?”

  Chris bit his bottom lip. “Roy’s just shooting at ... arrr ... a rabbit or something. Maybe he’s getting a little a nervous or something.” He winced at his poor excuse.

  “Where’s Roy?”

  Chris looked back at Roy on the ground. He moved slightly, as if he was inebriated, trying to recover from blows to the head. “He’s now taking a piss … or shit … or something.”

  Frank breathed in deeply, not sure what to make of Chris’ story. “For shit’s sake, just put him on when he gets back.”

  Chris threw the radio into the cab. He wasn’t sure what he was doing, but he knew one thing: he had to get away from these guys and find out what was really going on. How many casualties of their war were there?

  Chapter Seventeen

  Dark Night

  The Corbin farm house and sheds sat alone in the dark night. Eerily quiet.

  Dust and sand from the surrounding desert blew across the small dirt road leading to the house.

  The old, rusted gate was closed, secured with the chain. The old, faded sign wired to the gate—“NO TRESPASSING, OFFENDERS WILL BE SHOT”—blew gently in the breeze, banging against the gate.

  Soon, truck headlights peaked over the crest in the road. Dust swirled behind the speeding truck. No sign of slowing down as it rapidly approached the property. Suddenly, it veered and blasted through the chained gate, the sign taking a direct hit, almost folding in half as it hurled into the ground.

  The wheels skidded to a stop just in front of shed two. Chris climbed out of the truck, shotgun in hand.

  Gun trained on the shed, he turned on the tactical flashlight taped to the barrel. With military instinct he checked his twelve, his three, then his nine. All clear.

  The steel chain and padlock secured the door as usual. The shotgun exploded as Chris let off a shot. The padlock shattered; pieces flew in different directions.

  He pumped the gun. An empty shell casing, trailed by smoke, flew into the air.

  Chris reefed the heavy, rusty chain to the ground and pushed the big doors open, shotgun still leveled. The truck headlights beamed into the dark interior.

  Silhouetted by the back lights, Chris moved slowly into the darkness.

  He kicked in the door on the first stall. Empty.

  Row by row, he stormed the stalls. Each stall empty, except one: an apple core lay in the center of the room. Browning, decaying—at least two days old.

  Chris carefully edged into the room, his shotgun and light sweeping the dark corners. No other signs of life.

  He reached the last one, readied himself, breathing in deeply with anticipation. He wiped sweat from his brow, then stepped back and exploded with the last big kick. The door gave way with little fight and slapped the hard wall behind it.

  He lowered his gun, letting out a sigh of defeat. The stall ... empty.

  Chris cautiously walked out into the open space in front of the shed. His eyes moved up to the dark house.

  ***

  The sound of a shotgun blast ripped through the farm house. A large chunk of the recently repaired back door shattered into the house like confetti. The door lock, now a massive hole.

  The flashlight beam cut through floating shotgun smoke and wood dust as Chris breached the damaged door into the house.

  He wasn’t sure how quickly Frank and Roy would make it back here, but he knew he had to move quickly. He wanted to check every square inch of this place. What secrets would be revealed?

  Chris bypassed the ground floor—he’d seen this part of the house. He wanted to know what was upstairs. The first step creaked under his weight. He paused, peering up into the dark, empty space at the top.

  Each step creaked, despite a carefully placed foot. The sound almost seemed deafening.

  His senses in high gear. Constantly checking in front, behind, for any impending danger.

  The last time he entered Frank’s house uninvited he was knocked unconscious and held hostage. This time he wouldn’t be so unlucky. They had shown their cards and he had shown his; and it all didn’t match up. These guys weren’t playing anymore; this was serious shit.

  He finally reached the top; gun locked to his shoulder. He scanned the hall, finger edging on the trigger guard—safe position, but ready to shoot in a heartbeat.

  A bead of sweat ran down the side of his face.

  The flashlight lit up the small, wooden corridor. It stretched in both directions. Four wooden doors. One to the right, the other three left.

  Chris didn’t really know what he was looking for up here. He didn’t really know these people. For all he knew he might find Emma’s body or, God forbid, Shawn’s body.

  He was afflicted by the sudden desire to shoot anything that moved.

  He went right first, moving slowly. The old, wooden floor boards creaked with each slow step.

  He twisted the worn, brass door handle. The master bedroom’s door slowly opened. Moonlight poured through the large windows. Chris could see the bedroom was in a mess. Papers littered the floor, the walls covered in pictures. Similar to the images down in the living room: newspaper clippings, pictures of UFOs. But this was on a much larger scale than the living room.

  Chris was suddenly entranced. An entire wall dedicated to Emma. Not your normal dedication. Pictures covered the entire wall, like wallpaper. Old photos of a younger Emma; more modern photos right before she vanished.

  It was a shrine. It was creepy. It made Frank appeared to be an obsessive, stalker husband.

  Chris moved down the hallway carefully. Each step carefully placed. He grabbed hold of the next door handle. Locked. Why? Why was it locked? For now he would leave it and check the other doors.

  He proceeded to the last two doors. Chris recognized the second last room—he had been a hostage there.

  Behind the last door was another bedroom. It was empty. Even though it was a long shot, he secretly hoped that maybe Shawn had been caught up in all this and was behind one of these doors. He had to keep telling himself that he wasn’t there.

  Chris returned to the last door, paused for a minute, cocked his head to one side to listen; the room silent. One last check of his surrounds—all clear.

  He lunged forward with a powerful front kick, destroying the door jamb on impact. Pieces of wood flew into the air.

  Gun raised, his light snapped around the room. The light stopped dead, highlighting four bodies lying in the center of the floor.

  Adrenaline pumped through his solar plexus. His skin prickled. He held his breath.

  He was too late.

  Slowly the light moved up towards the female body’s face. He imagined seeing dead, black eyes staring back at him. Empty. A white face. He almost dared not look.

  Would he be able to look at Shawn’s lifeless face?

  What had these sick bastards done?

  Terrified, he had to push past the state of freezing where he stood.

  The bright light met her face. He almost looked away, a split second before looking.

  Suddenly she squinted.

  It was Mrs. Baker. And she was alive. The Baker family was alive!

  All four of them huddled together on the floor. Their hands and feet bound. The father, mother and two daughters, mouths gagged, completely terrified.

  Tears welled up in their eyes.

  Chris’ fear that the Baker family had been taken by Frank and Roy were now confirmed.

  He told them it was okay now, calming their nerves as best he could, as he freed them from bondage.

  He was relieved to find the family—God only knew what the sickos might have done to them— but immediately felt a pit in his stomach. Shawn wasn’t with them. Even though all the evidence pointed to an alien abduction, he still had to hope t
hat his son was a victim of a normal kidnapping, not some extraterrestrial conspiracy.

  He felt sick. Hopeless.

  He felt he was getting close, yet had nothing to show for it. And how would he tell Kate? A family was saved, one his wife didn’t even know was missing, but his own son was nowhere to be found.

  Chris watched on as the Baker family embraced, joyous that their nightmare was over. Chris was happy for them. He just wished it was his family celebrating a reunion.