Red Centre

by Ansel Gough

  Bits of trees—branches and leaves—slowly hit the ground around the vehicles and the craft.

  The RPG-2 was old, not known for accuracy. But it was all Pav could get his hands on.

  A second grenade whizzed through the air. More trees exploded in a flash of orange light.

  “Fuck. Shit.” Pav threw the useless launcher to the ground and scurried for cover in the thick trees and shrubs behind him.

  The shock of two blasts left everyone stunned, except the unfazed aliens. The crack of a single shot suddenly ruptured the silence, its echo heard for miles. Frank lifted his head from the gun sights. Smoke curled from the barrel. He squinted, checking the intended target.

  Chris turned his head. What had the old fool shot? A sentinel dropped to its knees, a large, gaping wound pumping purple liquid from its chest.

  Chris’ eyes grew wide. His heartbeat slowed. Every beat thumped his chest. A silent calm drifted over the road, as though everyone was holding their breath. The wind even seemed to be still. The other aliens, still. This was a whole new level. What had Frank done?

  The sentinel’s body fell to the hard ground. Its head smashed into dirt, bouncing slightly. Dust covered its lifeless face.

  Dead.

  Frank cracked open the double barrel to reload. Unexpectedly and from out of the shadows burst a figure, diving at him, sliding across the hood and kicking the door into him. The old man stumbled, regaining his balance. “Son-a-bitch!” he grunted.

  Chris slid off the hood and grabbed at Frank’s gun. The two men locked up in close-quarter combat, the empty, open double barrel tossed aside. They crashed to the ground, wrestling for control. They grunted, struggling for dominance. A raw brawl.

  Loose grass and mud covered their bodies. Shirts ripped. Adrenaline pumped.

  Frank was one tough old bastard, even with a wounded leg. He liked to brawl and he wasn’t going to let Chris get in the way of his war.

  Luck had insisted Frank land on top in the struggle. Rain continued to fall; large, heavy droplets covered the men. He pinned Chris to the ground and threw a barrage of solid punches.

  Chris defended as best he could from Frank’s ruthless onslaught, covering his face with both elbows. Instinctively he recalled jiu-jitsu combat training from his days in the Guard, and swept the old man onto his back, almost knocking the wind from Frank’s lungs; the position reversed.

  Chris gripped him around the throat and locked up one of Frank’s arms, stopping him from punching. Chris would rather defuse the situation and continue his extraterrestrial negotiations than bust up an old man.

  Frank gasped for air, face red, as he struggled to break the tight grip around his neck. Having been in tight spots before, there were no plans to yield. His free hand frantically searched for a weapon: rocks, sticks, anything.

  Sandy mud slammed into Chris’ eyes, blinding him. Releasing his grip on Frank, he grabbed his stinging eyes.

  Frank quickly followed with another fistful of mud, palmed into Chris’ mouth.

  Gagging and coughing Chris sucked dirt to the back of his throat. Saliva and blood mixed with dirt dribbled down Chris’ chin. He blindly struggled to control Frank. Chris spat blood-colored mud and looked to the sky for rain to rinse his burning eyes. The rain offered little help.

  Frank rolled a coughing Chris off him and staggered to his feet.

  A vicious kick to the gut knocked Chris onto his back, buckling him in pain. Desperately he searched for air. To breathe. Nothing. Passing out at any moment was a real possibility.

  After what felt like minutes, Chris inhaled air—like stripping plastic wrap from his face. The air almost sweet.

  With battered arms Chris covered his head as a relentless barrage of kicks and punches from different angles targeted his bloodied face.

  Chris blindly searched for his attacker, grabbing in air at the flurry of legs and fists.

  Blood, mixed with rainwater and sweat, ran down the side of Frank’s face. His left eye swollen. Catching his breath, he paused to wipe blood from his face with the back of his sleeve. He spat on Chris, then resumed the onslaught. Killing him, an option.

  Rain became heavier, beating down on the men. Mud and water splashed wildly.

  Almost by luck, one of Chris’ blind-air grabs paid off, catching Frank’s leg. Chris yanked. Hard.

  Frank’s back slapped into a pool of muddy water.

  With clenched teeth Chris let out a roar, like a wounded wild animal breaking free. He sprawled to hands and knees—and charged.

  Enough was enough.

  He dived on the fallen Frank, unleashing hammer fist after hammer fist, pounding the old guy’s face and chest.

  Frank’s unconscious head bounced in and out of muddy water with each blow. Blood and dirty water painted his face.

  A brutal attack. Chris had reached a point of no return. He might not be able to stop. Defense now turned to rage.

  A shot rang out.

  Chris stopped. Warm liquid spread across his cold, wet shirt. He grabbed his side—dark, warm blood quickly covered his fingers, followed by sudden burning deep in his side. Like a fire poker penetrating his ribs. He dropped off Frank, disorientated.

  With blurred vision he eyed Roy standing near the truck, a .357 revolver in hand.

  Chris gently rolled to his back in a pool of bloody, brown water. He tried to sit up, but somehow couldn’t. He tried to speak, but nothing came out. Rain peppered his face; his hand bandaged his side.

  He heard Roy’s voice, deep, slow and rolling. “Ya right, Frank?”

  Chris slowly turned his head to Frank, ear submerging into water and mud.

  Frank blinked his eyes, slowly coming to. He rolled to his knees.

  Chris struggled to breathe. Each breath like a knife stab. His body pale. Fingertips numb. The rain washed over him. He blinked slowly to clear the water from his eyes, to focus. As he opened them, the round, stainless steel barrel of Roy’s .357 came into view, followed by his ugly face. He grinned, showing a half-toothless smile.

  Chris dropped his right arm, in no condition to fight and no match for a .357 magnum. Slipping a hand into his pocket he grabbed at the pocketknife; the only line of defense. Just grazing the top of the handle, his fingers stretched for it.

  Roy stomped on Chris’ leg with his large cowboy boot, twisting the heel back and forth to cause as much pain as possible. Chris screamed in pain. In desperation he pushed his hand further into his pocket, fumbling for the knife.

  “Ya ain’t gonna get off that easy.” Roy cocked the gun.

  Chris could smell his stinking breath. He needed to get the blade.

  Noticing the movement, Roy eyed Chris’ fumblings. He raised the gun to lay down a pistol whipping.

  Chris snagged the handle. With a last burst of energy he sat up and stabbed Roy in the thigh, twisting the blade sideways. The fat bastard squeal in pain and landed on his fat ass, grabbing at his leg. The gun dropped into the mud.

  Chris flopped back, energy now completely spent. His heart pumped blood, quickly. His vision faded in and out, as though his eyes were closing while still open. He tried to sit up again. His body refused. He grabbed at a floating twig in muddy water. Coughed blood. Suddenly he felt tired, afflicted by the urge to sleep. Rain hitting his face was all he could see. He couldn’t see Frank, or Roy, or the truck.

  He heard the sound of Frank’s shotgun reloading.

  The sound of the shotgun exploding in his ears. His arm jolted. Blood splattered into his eyes and face. He didn’t feel the shot this time, just the sound ringing in his ears.

  Muffled voices filled his head. A smile drew across his bloody, mud-caked face. He was back home, playing catch with Shawn at the front of his Colorado home. Shawn was eight. Eight and innocent. It felt so good to play with him again. To be with his boy. To teach him. Protect him. The sun was bright, grass green, the air fresh. Mountain air. Shawn was safe now. And so was he.

  And then it was gone. Gone in a brilliant flash o
f white.

  Chris’ motionless body lay in a pool of his own blood and swirling, muddy water. Rain pattered down.

  Lifeless.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  War

  The double barrel snapped open. Two empty shells slid out, dropping to the waterlogged ground. One by one Frank guided two fresh, but wet shells into the chamber. His hands shaky and numb. Sweat, mixed with blood, water and dirt, ran down his beaten face. His heart pounded as though it was going to come through his chest. Heavy breaths.

  Remorse was replaced by rage in his eyes. A switch had been switched. A line had been crossed.

  He was dead inside. Had been for years. He only realized how dead he was at this very moment—the moment he took Chris’ life. But all was not lost. He could still win this. This was his time now. His chance for payback. His war.

  The bright craft drew his full focus. A doorway had opened on the side, with a ramp leading to the ground. The two grays loaded the dead sentinel onto a floating stretcher. The sentinel’s long, limp arm scraped the ground.

  Another gray stood behind Roy’s truck, standing over the wounded prisoner alien. From a small sphere in its hand a bright, bluish light emanated, sending a jolt of life into the wounded gray.

  Frank moved between the two groups of aliens. They were packing up, gathering their dead and wounded, heading home. They now had what they’d come back for. Their war was over.

  But it wasn’t over. Not for Frank. He rushed to retrieve Roy’s .357 from the ground, tucking it into his waistband. He glanced at Roy lying on his back, nursing his leg wound. His eyes moved again to Chris’ lifeless, blood-covered body. They had made him do this. Chris had made him do this. It wasn’t his fault. Chris was a casualty of war. A war Frank didn’t start and didn’t want anything to do with, but something he was forced into. The day they breached his home. His sanctuary. The day they took Emma, they started the war

  Frank dragged his left leg, stumbling into the middle of the road between Roy’s truck and the craft.

  “HEY!” Frank called to the grays, his call drowned out by the pouring rain.

  The grays either ignored or didn’t notice his call and continued their escape towards the ramp.

  “HEY!” he called again, pressing on, trying to get closer.

  His second call drew their attention. In unison, the grays turned, locking onto Frank. Their piercing, black eyes menacing. Lightning reflected in their eyes as it lit up the sky.

  Frank locked his gun against his shoulder, his finger hovering over the trigger. With left eye closed, he took aim. “Give me back me wife, ya sons of bitches!”

  He squeezed the trigger. The shotgun clicked. Nothing. A misfire. His wet shells now useless. Quickly snapping open the gun he let the shells fall to the ground. He advanced on the enemy, retrieving two more shells from his pocket.

  The grays continued towards the ramp.

  The shells loaded, Frank pulled the trigger again. The double barrel failed again.

  Frustrated, Frank tossed his gun and whipped the .357 from his waistband.

  He ran as fast as he could, hobbling on a wounded leg. Ignoring the stabbing pain in his leg, he wasn’t going to let them escape—even if he had to crawl on hands and knees. They were not making it off this planet.

  His leg almost giving way. He stumbled. Yelling in pain and rage, he approached the departing grays.

  He took aim as the grays reached the top of the ramp. The gun recoiled. Two shots fired.

  Two bullets ricocheted, sparks lighting up the side of the craft. The creatures, saved by poor aim, disappeared into the craft.

  Frank made it to the bottom of the ramp, stopping. He looked into the glowing light of the craft. This was it. No going back now. He hesitated.

  Carefully planting his right boot firmly onto the metallic ramp, one foot after the other, slowly he made the climb. The light became more intense the closer he drew near to the opening.

  Halfway up Frank glanced back, looking into the dark, rainy night. His world left behind. He may not come back to it. His quiet life in the outback was no longer. It had been gone for years. He was just the shell of the man he used to be.

  His eyes snapped back to the opening. Three silhouetted figures appeared at the doorway, startling him.

  Undeterred, unafraid, Frank rushed them. He took aim and fired over and over again, three shots emptying the gun.

  One bullet found its target. The stopping power of this weapon lived up to its reputation—“a manstopper.” It dropped the gray where it stood. Its lifeless body fell from the top of the ramp, crashing to the muddy ground. Its head bounced off the ground on impact.

  Frank closed in, meeting the remaining two stunned aliens at the top. Gun empty, he charged, ready to go hand to hand.

  One of the creatures revealed its two-foot cylinder as Frank approach, ramming it into his chest. A blue spark jolted from its end. Electricity charged through Frank’s body, starting at his chest, running in all directions, going deep to the bone. His body convulsed, then stiffened like a board.

  Adrenaline pulsed through his veins. It was the only thing holding him upright.

  They would need a bigger taser to stop this ox. Amazingly, he powered through the attack and lunged, hammer fisting the gray in the face. A tough left hook followed. So much power it would take your head off if it connected. But before it connected, the gray struck him again in the chest. His body stiffened again. This time he couldn’t resist the force.

  Electricity charged through his entire body. He dropped onto his knees, then flopped to his back, lying in the middle of the ramp. His body convulsed and then finally stilled. His right leg twitched slightly.

  Frank’s eyes darted around, unable to feel his body. Paralyzed from the neck down. Eyes filled with fear, he realized he was no longer a rescuer, but a victim. Just like Emma.

  Long, gray fingers wrapped around his ankle. His body was effortlessly dragged by the gray up the ramp. They disappeared into the bright light.

  Gone.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Missing Persons

  The warm, morning sun peaked over the treetops. Water droplets rolled off the leaves, dropping to the damp ground below. Birds were chirping as the land awoke from its sleep. Roy’s shit wagon and the Humvee remained parked on the dirt road. All signs of the night before had been removed. Chris’ lifeless body lay on the wet ground, covered in dried blood and mud.

  A finger twitched. His chest raised and lowered as air filled his lungs. Eyes flickered as the soft, golden sun touched his face.

  He was alive!

  Sucking in a deep breath, his eyes opened wide. In shock, he suddenly realized where he was. How he didn’t die through the night was beyond him. Nothing remembered after that final gun shot. His hand moved to his blood-stained shirt, feeling for his wound. His skin felt smooth. There was no pain. Propping himself up on his elbows, Chris lifted his shirt. No sign of any bullet wound; only dried blood on his shirt. What the hell happened?

  “They healed you.” The distinctive, Russian accent of Pav broke the silence.

  Chris slowly turned his head in the direction of Pav’s voice. Pav sat on the ground, leaning against the large, front wheel of the Humvee.

  In disbelief Chris rechecked for any gunshot wounds, not sure if he could believe the Russian. But it was true. Somehow they had saved his life. Who were these creatures? How could they possess power over life and death? Why save him?

  Chris dropped back onto the muddy ground, staring into the bright-blue morning sky. A gentle smile on his face. He had survived, but no one would believe him. It felt good to suck in the fresh, morning air. He thought he would never get that chance again.

  He turned to look at the Russian. “Hello, Pavlova,” he said in a dry, drawn-out tone, not excited to see the crazy scientist. “Why are you still here? And where are the other two?”

  “Pavlovich,” he said in a calm voice. “I let it go this time.” He got to his f
eet and walked to Chris, staring down at him. “I don’t drive.” He grinned sheepishly. “I hid in the trees. I waited all night for you to wake.” He scratched his head. “The other two didn’t make it. They were taken.”

  Chris closed his eyes, glad they had spared his life and not taken him. The gladness quickly washed away. He still didn’t have Shawn.

  ***

  Red and blue lights flashed. Police cars lined the dirt road of the Corbin driveway. Cops were scattered throughout the yard, in the sheds and in the house, like ants swarming over food scraps. Boxes of papers, computers and other boxes of evidence were seized and being gathered in piles in the front yard.