Red Centre

by Ansel Gough

  After a moment of nothing, Chris slowly brought the object level to his mouth. His eyes darted around. He ran his tongue over his dry lips. “Hello?” He glanced around to see if anyone was watching. “Anyone there?”

  Silence. Only the howl of the wind and distant thunder.

  Discouraged, he dropped his arm by his side, breathed in deeply and peered into the night sky. Tapping a thumb on the alien device, he looked down at it with frustration. This is crazy shit. What am I doing here? Where the hell is Shawn? His mind was racing. He glanced back at the truck and squinted, the truck’s lights blinding.

  All the answers to his questions lay in the back of the truck. He just had to work out how to get them out of it.

  The tailgate dropped down. Chris looked over the gray's lifeless body in the back of the dark truck. He opened the blade of a small pocketknife he had commandeered from Roy’s glove compartment. Slowly he slid the blade under the thickly bound tape wrapped around its legs. He paused, hesitating to free this thing. Lightning flashed, lighting up the creature’s face from the darkness—for just a moment. A shiver rippled down his spine and up over his head. He shuddered, shaking off the shiver.

  He took a deep breath. He had to do this. He had no other options.

  The blade sliced the tape, freeing the creature’s legs.

  Cautiously he climbed up into the truck bed, pulling his shirt over his nose. With legs split to either side, the creature centered beneath, he hobbled over it to reach its bound hands.

  With the knife carefully positioned between the tape and its rubbery flesh, he paused one last time, looking directly at the creature’s closed, motionless eyes.

  Was it still out cold? He hoped.

  The knife sliced the tape. Its limbs dropped.

  Chris leaped off the side of the truck as fast as he could and shivered.

  For all he knew, if the creature suddenly woke, it could tear him limb from limb. It was the enemy, an enemy he didn’t know. It was also his only link to Shawn. Perhaps his only chance at getting him back. If he had to defend himself and butcher it with his knife, he would. But what would he have left? He might as well pack up and go home, tell Kate and the girls the devastating news that Shawn was never coming home. Ever.

  Chris edged closer to the side of the truck, slightly crouched, holding the knife in a reverse grip.

  Moving to the open tailgate, he figured the feet was the safest place to be when encountering a live alien, if it was still alive.

  “Hey?” he yelled at it, readjusting his grip on the knife.

  It lay motionless. He observed its long, slender, rubbery leg. Touching it would be like touching a gray toad. He hesitated.

  With hand hovering just above its ankle, he considered just poking it with a stick. After all, that’s what you’d do with a dead animal, a dead toad.

  He grabbed its leg and shook it. “Wake up!”

  Its black, almond-shaped eyes snapped open like a shutter on a camera. Eyelids blinking multiple times. With a tilted head it looked directly at Chris. His own reflection gazed back at him in its glassy eyes. The blank stare unnerving. Confronting.

  When it was unconscious it just seemed like a life-sized rubber doll, but when it stared—Chris realized what he was looking at—something not from this world. There was something behind those eyes: intelligence. Most likely far more advanced than anyone on this planet.

  Chris took a step back to give it some room, his footing unsure as he moved away. He feared this thing. He was by himself. Alone. No backup. No one would hear him scream out here, if it attacked.

  Suddenly he realized how foolish it was to leave his shotgun in the cab of the truck. Now his only defense—the small pocketknife.

  Wounded, the gray struggled to sit up. It held its left arm close to its body, nursing a large, black-colored wound, the dog collar and chain still fastened around its neck. Its unfamiliar movements and freakish appearance ran shivers up Chris’ spine.

  With the blade still open, he tucked the pocketknife into his pants pocket and tugged the shirt, uncovering his nose. It probably didn’t do any good anyway. It wasn’t as if it was filtering the air for him.

  He raised his hand, a sign of non-aggression, stepped back a little and fished for his wallet. Holding up a wallet-sized photo of his son, he slowly extended it out to the creature and carefully edged forward.

  Not sure what Chris was trying to do, the creature turned its head slightly. Its black eyes moved to the oval object partly hidden in Chris’ left hand.

  Chris looked down at the object, moving it behind his leg partially to conceal it. He moved the photo into its line of sight. “This is my son.”

  The creature slid its frail body to the edge, slowing climbing out of the truck. It stood tall. Tall and thin. The chain dangling from the collar locked around its pencil neck.

  It stumbled forward.

  “Hey!” Chris raised his right hand to stop its advance. Fear of the unknown insisted he prepare for combat, if required. “This is my son, Shawn. Have you seen him?”

  The gray didn’t respond, its eyes fixed on the oval device. Chris scratched the side of his cheek. “I know you probably don’t understand a single word I’m saying.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “I really need you to understand this. Please.” He waved the photo to get its attention. “My son!” Chris looked into the sky, knowing nothing was going in. “You friggin’ …” He searched for words to show his displeasure. “... mutated frog, piece of shit!”

  Chris breathed deeply, trying to compose himself. This wasn’t working.

  Slowly stretching out its long fingers the gray reached for the object.

  Chris pulled back.

  He looked down at the object and then back at the creature, its hand remaining stretched toward him. Maybe if he gave it back it would help him. A trade. He couldn’t get it to work anyway.

  He carefully handed the item to the gray, keeping it at arm’s length. Its long, slender fingers wrapped around the device. Its fingers freakishly long and gray—but very human looking. It gently pressed on the symbols in a well-rehearsed pattern. A password.

  The object sparked alive. The middle strip of red light glowed; the little symbols around the outside lit up with the same deep, red glow that Chris had seen before. Now we’re getting somewhere. Would the others come and trade, or would they simply take him too? What choice did he have?

  As though it was finally relieved that it had activated the device, it let itself crash back into the truck, leaning against it to hold itself up. The device slipped from its grasp, falling into the dirt. Chris’ eyes followed the object to the ground and then quickly back to the creature. It was laboring. Every breath it took seemed like a struggle.

  The creature let itself slide to the ground. It looked to the heavens above. It no longer seemed concerned by the device ... or Chris.

  It looked as though it wanted to die. As if it was time to die.

  The object’s lights pulsated ever so slightly. A pulse he hadn’t seen before. What had it just done?

  His body went numb. Shit! A GRENADE!

  He bolted, diving into a small group of trees, the only cover he had. Hands clutching his head, he curled into a ball, eyes tightly shut, anticipating a blast that would shred or engulf his body.

  Was this it? Would they now just find his charred, twisted body in the middle of nowhere? If there was anything left. Maybe he would now get to see Shawn. Is this how he would die?

  Thoughts and fear stabbed rampant in his mind.

  They say your life flashes before you when you’re about to die. His didn’t. All he could think of was his family. His beautiful wife. Three wonderful children. His other son who had died so young. That was his happiness. His world. Nothing else mattered.

  Would his shattered family ever recover?

  The old bastard Frank was right. Kill every last one of those frog-eyed fuckers.

  Chris opened one eye; unclenched his teeth.


  Nothing happened.

  Removing tight hands from around his head, he craned his neck over the bushes to sight the truck. On the red dirt lay the gray. Motionless. Chris couldn’t even tell if it was still breathing. The object lay next to it, its red, rhythmic, glowing lights still pulsating.

  Chris squatted down next to the ailing creature and placed the photo of Shawn in its hand.

  “You bring back my son”—he leaned over, removing the dog collar—“and I’ll get you home.”

  He took the device in his hand, carefully wiping the dust with his shirt.

  Chapter Twenty

  Fifth Kind

  From the truck’s bed, Chris leapt to the roof. Heavy boots dented the already beaten, rusted top. Strong wind whipped around his loose clothes and fit physique. He stood tall. He looked at the glowing device, its light painting his face red. He punched his right arm up into the air.

  Lightning arced across the night sky. Thunder cracked.

  “COME GET IT!” he yelled into the night.

  With arm extended he stood frozen on the truck roof. Savage wind battered his tired body. The sweet smell of impending rain threatened.

  “Come get it,” he said softly, exasperated. This was his final pea. He could do no more. Nowhere else to turn.

  Cool rain peppered his face.

  It felt as if hours had past, even though he knew it had only been twenty minutes. His hand and arm tingled due to lack of blood flow. He remained firm in his commitment. If he had to climb a mountain for a better signal, he would.

  Another six minutes past. Eight.

  Chris dropped to his knees, slumped in a small pool of water collecting on the rusty roof. Cold water soaked through his jeans, swallowing his knees.

  He dropped the pulsing object in front of him and stared at the water splashing off its metallic casing.

  His body shook. He sobbed. The same uncontrollable sobbing he experienced when Aaron died. He sobbed for Shawn, he sobbed for Aaron, he sobbed for his family.

  Suddenly the rain around him stopped, as if an umbrella had popped up over the truck.

  Without warning a shaft of blinding, white light beamed down on Chris. Shielding his eyes, he looked above into the silence.

  Soon a large, red glow descended on him as the large craft lowered itself, not far from the truck. No sound, no sign of propulsion. It slowly drifted down, floating just a few feet above the center of the dirt road.

  The white light stayed trained on Chris as it maneuvered into position. It was surreal, almost dream like. Everything seemed to slow down. His heart thumped in his chest. He could feel the side of his head starting to pound. This was really happening.

  The red lights around the outside of the craft were hypnotic. Chris jumped from the truck. He cautiously approached, arm stretched out with the device in hand. His eye started to twitch.

  What was going to happen next? He didn’t know.

  He paused halfway between the truck and the craft. Maybe he should have brought the gray with him—better still, the shotgun. These frogs weren’t going to get him too. He felt for the pocketknife. Still there. He turned back to the truck to see if his resident alien was making his way over. It was a no show.

  He turned back to the craft and froze. Three thin personages suddenly stood a few feet in front of the bright, burning light. It was amazing and terrifying at the same time. He was witnessing something that would rock humanity.

  His heart raced.

  Silhouetted by the craft’s powerful radiance, the middle figure stood a few feet in front of the other two. They seemed more like bodyguards, sentinels guarding the way. The two appeared to each hold a thin, long cylinder in their hands. About two feet long.

  The two sentinels broke formation, starting to slowly circle around the edges of the road, their appearance covered by dark, backlit shadows. The slow rain was whipped sideways by the strong wind. A lump formed in Chris’ throat. Were they going to give him a beat down? Take him? Experiment on him? He clenched his teeth and slipped the object into his pocket, taking out the pocketknife. He kept it close, concealed. The other hand formed a fist. Take out the leader first. Blade to the side of the head. Run like crazy for the shotgun. Drive like hell. He played the scenario out in his mind.

  “I come in peace,” Chris called to the leader, his voice shaky. “I just want my boy.”

  The sentinels continued to circle and slowly move in. No indication that they had understood his request. The leader began to walk towards Chris. Do I meet these bitches head on? His eyes darted back and forth. Stay calm, asshole, he told himself.

  Light beamed through the trees to Chris’ right, followed closely by the roar of a V8 engine. The large Humvee burst out of the scrub onto the road, a short distance from the meeting point, interrupting the close encounter. Small trees were crushed under its heavy, large tires, as it carved its own road.

  The aliens stop their advanced, unfazed, but unsure of the men’s intended actions.

  Frank sat behind the wheel with a battered Roy in the passenger seat. Frank hit the brakes. The men’s heads jerked forward as they skidded to a stop in the muddy water.

  Pav was in back. He held onto his gear, hoping it and himself wouldn’t slide along the floor. All the gear was alive and ready to go. Lights flashed and computer screens glowed. He pounded on the keyboard, inputting commands. He grabbed the joystick, turning the dish on the roof, taking aim at the craft.

  It was go time.

  “Fire! Fire!” Frank screamed orders. This was their opportunity and he wasn’t going to let these bastards get away.

  Pav’s index finger hovered over the joystick’s red trigger. He closed his eyes and breathed in deeply. This was his moment.

  He pulled the trigger hard. The hum of electricity amped up, gathering power. Ready to unleash its power.

  After a quick wind up, smoke began to rise from some of the CPUs, filling the cab. The smell of melting plastic filled the space.

  As fast as it started, the hum wound down. Lights flickered and monitors shut down. Pav grabbed at the toggle switches, flicking them off and on. “Der’mo! Der’mo!” (“Shit! Shit!”) he screamed. He thrashed the joystick up and down, pulling on the wire.

  The weapon was done. Fried. They didn’t have the power to run it. It sucked the vehicle dry, leaving it dead.

  Frank bashed the steering wheel as the vehicle died. The headlights went out; the dash blacked out. “Useless bloody Russian!”

  “It’s not my fault,” Pav yelled back at him, tossing his arms into the air. “Cheap shit!”. He tossed the keyboard and joystick from his lap, getting to his feet.

  Using his boot he pushed computer gear off a large, military-style, pale-green case, with white Russian writing decorating the outside. A creepy smile crossed his face. “Plan B,” he said to himself softly.

  As he exited the truck Frank grabbed his gun, taking cover behind the door. Trying to work out who to shoot first, he shifted his gun from side to side. Blinding light from the craft and dust blowing into his eyes from the pounding wind didn’t make aiming easy.

  Roy ducked down, getting on the floor of the truck. A coward move. He cracked under the pressure of coming face to face with the creatures.

  Pav exited the back of the truck, an old 1949 RPG-2 shoulder-mounted, anti-tank grenade launcher glued to his shoulder. The grenade on top, missile shaped.

  Chris did a double take on Pav armed with the rocket launcher. Not wanting to wait around to see what was going to happen next he bolted for cover. He slid across the dirt, hiding behind the shit wagon’s hood. This had become a war zone.

  Pav re-positioned the weapon on his left shoulder. Closing his right eye he lined up the iron sight on the alien craft. “Do svidaniya, asshole,” (Goodbye asshole) he whispered to himself. He squeezed the trigger. A blast of fire and smoke blew out the back of the launcher as the rocket fired. Six little stabilizer fins unfolded from the rocket grenade as it hurled towards its intended target.


  The rocket whizzed past Chris and the truck toward the craft. Everything happened so fast—but for Chris everything seemed to slow down: the noise of the rocket echoing in his ears, the sudden surge of heat, the trailing line of smoke.

  The three gray beings stood firm, seemingly unaware of the damage that was about to be unleashed on them.

  The projectile flew past, flying into the nearby trees, into darkness—it missed. Seconds later an orange fireball erupted from surrounding trees, along with a massive boom.

  Chris covered his ears. “Holy shit!”

  Black smoke drifted into the air. A wave of heat from the explosion stabbed at the men’s faces. Each shielded his face with a raised arm. For a moment dark night seemed like day.