Red Centre

by O.G. Gough

  A small, reddish-orange star broke away from the other stars and drew closer to the Kombi, matching its speed. The star tracked alongside. It wasn’t long before Pete noticed the strange occurrence. He wasn’t sure what he was even looking at. The star got closer and closer. Red and orange light surrounded the vehicle ...

  Pete paused relaying his story. He broke his stare with Chris, looking down into his cup. A lump formed in his throat. He gently swirled the chocolate liquid, stirring up sediment off the bottom. “It just came right up next to us. Almost toying with us. Watching us. It was like the sun.”

  “More like a yellow fireball!” Betty interrupted, giving a small, chastising slap on Pete’s knee.

  Chris edged forward, enthralled by their story.

  “It just stayed there—floating,” Pete continued. “It could have done anything it wanted with us.” He took a drink of his hot chocolate. “Well, it’s getting late. I better let you good people be on your way.”

  Chris looked over at Lisa. He scratched his head, wanting to know more. His eyes were wide, taking everything in. “Please, continue.”

  “There isn’t much more to say. It just taunted us for about ten minutes. Betty and I didn’t know what to do. We just kept driving.”

  “Then it just took off”—Betty flung her arm—“like a flash.”

  Pete nodded, agreeing with Betty. “Just disappeared. Gone like a flash. Back to the stars. As though it was never there.”

  “I think it got bored of his slow driving.”

  “I’ve seen things like that before over the years in these parts.” Pete nodded, looking at Betty for support.

  Betty slapped him on the leg again. “Behave yourself! You have not. We haven’t seen anything like that before.”

  “Quiet you! You don’t know what you’re talking about.” Pete leaned forward, with a serious look, no longer his usual, animated self. The flickering flames reflected in his eyes and colored his face shades of orange. He paused for a moment. “The Aborigines call them ‘Sky Beings’—‘The Spirit in the Cloud.’”

  “We’ve seen all the paintings,” Betty said flippantly. “They’re throughout the Kimberley. All the wonderful rock paintings. Just amazing. We’ve seen a lot of amazing things in our travels. Haven’t we, doll?” She nudged Pete with her arm. “We just love to travel.”

  Pete was undeterred by Betty’s interruption. He kept his intense look. “Some refer to a supreme being—‘Djamar.’ They say you can hear him coming. It’s the sound of roaring wind. The Aborigines call it ‘The Bullroarer.’” Pete broke his intense stare, sipping more of his drink.

  He continued, “We need to know more about what’s out there.” He motioned with his head to the star-filled night sky above.

  “What do you think is out there?” Chris asked.

  “Aliens!” Pete said confidently.

  “Aliens?” Chris questioned.

  Pete nodded at Chris. “Yep. I think we don’t know anything about these supreme beings because of the government cover ups. It’s all a government cover up.”

  “Yes definitely,” Betty interjected.

  Chris looked at Lisa with one eyebrow raised. Is this guy for real?

  Lisa raised her eyebrows back at Chris, took a sip of her hot chocolate. This story wasn’t easy to buy, especially from an old, quirky couple—possibly on the edge of dementia.

  Chris turned his attention back to Pete. “Do you think it was a—” he cleared his throat “—a UFO?”

  “I couldn’t identify it.”

  Betty poked a stick at the fire. “Pete would know. He was in the army for two years, back when we was first married. I would definitely say it was a UFO.”

  “How big was it?” Chris pressed for more details.

  Pete scratched his head, trying to think. “I would say it was about the size of a large plane.”

  “It was hard to tell,” Betty said. “It was spinning.”

  Chris looked back and forth between the odd couple. “Could it have been a plane or a helicopter, anything like that?”

  “Definitely not!” Betty said, defending their story. “It was too big to be a plane.”

  “I suppose it could have been.” Pete paused, thinking about the object. “The strange thing about it: you couldn’t hear the damn thing. It was just silent.”

  “Did you notice anything else?” Lisa asked.

  “I couldn’t get my portable TV to work.” Betty nodded her head up and down. “I thought the UFO might have caused it. But the batteries were just flat. I like to watch all my programs, even when we’re on the road. But I didn’t get to watch them.”

  “What time was it when you first saw it?” Chris asked, trying to stay on topic.

  “Roughly eight o’clock at night.”

  Betty slapped Pete again. He jerked away, frustrated with the constant slapping. “Remember? It was twelve past eight. We had just finished dinner. We ate late that night because we had a late breakfast. Which caused a late lunch.”

  Lisa had had enough of the crazy couple and stood to leave. She looked down at Chris. “You a believer now?”

  Chapter Six

  Fourth Kind

  The sun beat down on the red Cherokee. It was parked on a small hill overlooking the Corbin house. Chris lay balled-up on the back seat. Not the most comfortable sleeping conditions. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead as the car heated up under the already intensifying morning sun. He stirred slightly.

  Chris’ eyes slowly opened as the sound of running water invaded his ears. Bright sunlight stabbed his eyes as it burst through the windshield, the light broken momentarily by movement outside the car.

  Chris shaded his eyes to see, struggling to focus. Not enough sleep.

  Soon his eyes focused on a man, silhouetted by the sun, standing on the hood pissing over his windshield—like a dog marking his territory. What the hell! was his only thought.

  The Cherokee’s back door ripped open. Chris’ leg grabbed by a stranger. He gave a kick, which struck air. His body was quickly dragged from the four-by-four. He dropped hard onto the desert floor. Red dust flew in the air.

  Roy jumped down from the hood and joined Frank, standing over Chris with his double barrel pointed at him.

  “Ya think we’re playing, city boy?” Roy said as he kicked dirt into Chris’ face and chest.

  Chris coughed as dust scratched the back of his throat and stuck in his mouth and nose. Propping himself up on his elbow, he raised his other hand to shield any further attack.

  “Whatta ya doin’ here?” Frank pushed his gun into Chris’ stomach.

  “Trying to sleep.”

  “Smart arse!” Frank pushed the gun harder into his stomach.

  Chris grunted. “I’m looking for my son.”

  Roy grabbed Chris by his ear, twisting it, to get him to stand up. As Chris got to his feet, Roy pushed him back into the side of the four-by-four. “Bullshit! Whatta ya really doing here?”

  “I’m looking for my son!” Chris said between clenched teeth.

  “Get his wallet! See who this Yankee bastard really is.” Frank indicated to Roy.

  Roy reached around, trying to grab for Chris’ wallet.

  Chris seized the opportunity, grabbing the back of Roy’s head, yanking it down, driving his knee up. Roy’s head snapped back. He dropped like a sack of shit. Blood burst from his nose as he fell on his fat ass. Both hands clutched his broken nose.

  Frank quickly stepped in for the attack. With speed Chris wrapped the gun with his left arm and grabbed Frank’s throat with his other hand. He circled and pushed him back toward the Cherokee, pinning the old man against it.

  Both men battled over control of the shotgun.

  Frank let go of the gun and swung both fists, one after the other; both connected, knocking Chris back. Good move, only now Chris had the gun. With one swift move, Chris spun the double barrel by the handle, snapping it to his shoulder and taking aim. A move that showed he was no stranger to
guns. Frank dared not even twitch.

  Roy grunted as he stumbled back to his feet, almost losing his balance; covered in dirt and blood. He was dazed and held his nose to stop the bleeding.

  “What do ya want from me?” Frank said in a subdued tone, slowly raising his arms to surrender. He was too old for this.

  Chris waved the gun, indicating for the two men to move toward the front of the four-by-four. They complied, stepping away. Chris opened the front passenger door, snatched a stack of pages, slammed them into Frank’s chest.

  Frank juggled the large stack of papers. He wasn’t sure what they were.

  “Go for a run, fat bastard!” Chris shoved the gun toward Roy.

  Roy hesitated, scratching his ass for a moment, then did as ordered. Nursing his wound, he walked away up the dirt trail.

  The papers were photocopied newspaper articles. Some lines were highlighted with a bright, yellow marker: “LOCAL WOMAN MISSING,” “UFO SEEN MOMENTS BEFORE,” “POLICE FIND NO TRACE OF TEENAGE TOURIST,” “STRANGE LIGHTS SIGHTED OVER DESERT.”

  Frank looked up at Chris, not sure what he was supposed to make off all of this. “I’ve read the headlines many times before.”

  Chris held up the photo of Shawn. “My son.” He cleared his dry, morning throat. “He’s been missing for a number of days.”

  Frank looked down at the stack of papers in his hands again. He placed them on the hood. “What does this all have to do with me and me wife?” The light, morning breeze lifted some of the pages, blowing them across the desert ground.

  Chris continued, “One of his friends was suppose to go with him, but dropped out at the last minute. Shawn decided to go anyway. A two-week backpacking adventure. See the outback of Australia.” Chris looked to the ground. In hindsight, it would have been better if he hadn’t let his son go alone. “He’s barely eighteen.”

  Five days earlier

  The sun had just hidden itself behind the horizon. Night was closing in. An array of colors exploded across the sky. Picture perfect. A naive Shawn Marshall, a gangly eighteen-year-old, walked on the side of the lonely highway. His sneakers worn from a lot of walking. His face was burnt from walking in the sun all day. The heavy load of his backpack pulled on his shoulders like a bag of bricks. A long way to go; his head hung low.

  Headlights coming from behind caught his attention. He turned, holding out his index finger, trying to hitch a ride. A look of hope lit up his face. The car didn’t stop. It didn’t even slow down. Shawn was soon left in darkness once more. Only the high-pitched sound of crickets to keep him company. Realization set in—he’d be sleeping on the roadside tonight. Maybe he should have listened to his dad and not gone at this alone. He was used to camping, having gone many times with his father, but this was a different country. And he was on his own. Backpacking wasn’t the safest way to get around, but it was the cheapest. He’d have some spare money when he got back to Sydney.

  He stopped to take a sip from his water bottle and removed his cell phone to check the time. He knew it would be earlier hours of the morning back home, but he also knew there would be no phone coverage further out of town. He dialed his father. Voice mail. Shawn left a message. “Hey, Dad, it’s me. I thought I would just let you know that I’m heading back to Sydney. Then I’m coming home. I’ll call you from the airport in a couple of—”

  ***

  Chris held out his phone for Frank to hear the recorded message. Shawn stopped talking. Something had caught his attention. Frank leaned in to see if he could hear anything. Nothing. Complete silence. Eerie silence.

  Shawn’s excited voice burst out once more over the speaker-phone. “Dad! Damn! You won’t believe this!” He laughed, as though he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. “Strange ... red ... light ...”

  Chris’ small phone speaker crackled. The remainder of the message was a mixture of distorted speaking, high interference and then … nothing.

  “This was the last we heard of him. He never made it to Sydney.” Chris pocketed his phone, his voice shaky. “Police haven’t found any trace of him. Not a shoe, his backpack. Nothing. Like he dropped off the face of the earth.”

  Frank folded his arms. “Are we done here?”

  “What do you think it means?” Chris said in a subdued voice.

  Frank stepped forward, pulling his gun from Chris’ loose grip. “You don’t need me to tell ya. You already know what it means.” He rested his gun on his shoulder, ready to leave.

  “Is your story true?” Chris asked with a desperate plea. “Was Emma taken?”

  “You don’t get it, do ya?” Frank grabbed the remaining papers off the hood and slammed them into Chris’ hands. “Your son ain’t coming back.”

  “I can’t believe that. I can’t accept that.”

  “Go home, Yankee.” Frank turned to leave, his back facing Chris. “There’s nothin’ you can do here.” He started to walk away, done with the conversation.

  Chris called after him. “Did you give up? On Emma?”

  Frank stopped, turned back to face Chris. “They thought I killed me wife,” Frank said through clenched teeth. He scratched his head. “Investigated me for months. I waited for months for them to return her.” His voice cracked. “Where the hell was I supposed to even look for her?” He looked to the bright-blue morning sky. “Ya just gotta hang on to the memories. The good times. There’s nothin’ else you can do. There’s no one that can help ya.”

  “I’m going to find my son and I don’t care what I have to do.”

  Frank nodded and turned his back on Chris, walking away again. “Let me know if you find a way to get him back from up there.” He pointed to the sky.

  “I don’t believe it! I don’t believe you!” Chris called.

  Frank waved his arm, shrugging off his comments. He didn’t care. “Ya said it yourself. The cops found nothin’. Go home.”

  Chapter Seven

  Third Kind

  Large information sheets littered the wooden walls of the small, run-down ranger station. Information about vegetation, colorful birds of all kinds—kingfishers, egrets, herons, rainbow bee-eaters. Chris read carefully over the information. He was intense, trying to learn as much as he could about this new environment. Photos of large, venomous snakes, spiders—large, black, hairy (the ones that will kill you)—provided warnings to campers and visitors. Dingoes and crocodiles rounded out the rest of the Australian information sheets.

  Chris glanced back to Lisa, who watched from her small desk. “Says here the park covers forty-six thousand hectares. Pretty big?”

  Lisa nodded. “It’s a big place. You gotta know what you’re doing out here.”

  Chris turned back to the information sheets. His eyes were drawn to the snakes and spiders. “Do people get bitten often?”

  Lisa nodded her head slightly. She knew he was hurting, but he was drawing unlikely conclusions. “It does happen, but it’s rare.” She pushed back a lock of her red hair. “Chris, I think you need to back off and let the police look after the search. If he’d been bitten, the police would have found him by now.”

  Chris bowed his head, facing the wall. “He’s still my responsibility.”

  Lisa smiled sympathetically. “Come on. I’ve got to check on some of the campsites. You can see some more of the park.”

  ***

  The big, four-by-four tires slid on the sandy, dirt track, which twisted and turned through the trees, over dirt mounds and through small gullies.

  Lisa and her old, beat-up Toyota truck were seasoned to these conditions, weaving through obstacles with skilled precision. The engine roared as it climbed over large rocks. Chris sat in the passenger seat, staring out the window in silence.

  The truck cab was messy. Papers, maps, first-aid kit, flashlight and other knick-knacks cluttered the space. Lisa had bulldozed it with both hands into the middle seat, to make room. She wasn’t used to having anyone else in the truck with her.

  She looked over at this stranger. She
felt for him. She was naturally a kind person and wanted to help wherever she could.

  “Impressive isn’t it?” She referred to the landscape before them. An attempt to break the awkward silence.

  Chris nodded in agreement. “Sparse.”

  “These palms here are called red cabbage.” She shouted over the roar of the engine, pointing out past Chris. “We have about three thousand of them.”

  Chris nodded, not really paying attention, having lost interest in the conversation. He didn’t want the guided tour.

  Lisa noticed his lack of interested but pushed on. “They’re unique to this area.” Lisa glanced over at Chris, trying to engage him.

  His mind was elsewhere.

  It was wandering, pondering his family. They would need to have a big celebration when he returned with Shawn. A family vacation. A happy place! Are the kids too old for Disneyland now? No one’s too old for Disneyland.

  ***

  The sun was low in the sky. It would be dark soon. The four-by-four drove along beside a small river, until it finally reached Boggy Hole campsite. A picturesque area: blue water, lush green banks. The truck crept along slowly. Lisa surveyed the area. She noticed a campsite, a tent and the Baker’s four-by-four a little way off, amongst a cluster of trees.

  Lisa abruptly stopped the truck and reefed on the e-brake. She banged the steering wheel with the palm of her hand, annoyed. “Damn tourists! They never listen,” she said as she unclipped the seat belt. “Is it that hard to set up bloody camp in the designated area?”

  Lisa marched briskly toward the tent. Drawing closer she noticed that some of the camping gear had been tossed around. The back door of the Baker’s four-by-four was open. No one around. “Hello?” she called out. “Park ranger.”

  In front of the tent a small camping table lay on its side. A few plastic plates and cups littered the ground. Lisa squatted next to the table, picking up one of the cups. Her eyes scanned the site. What a mess. She looked around for the Baker family.

  She caught site of the truck’s big tires parked on top of some young, red cabbage palms, crushing them. She threw the cup to the ground and stood.