by O.G. Gough
A bright light in the distance peeked through the trees, catching her eye. She paused; so did the creature. Shit, not more of them. The whitish light quickly drew closer. It moved with speed, crushing all in its path. No tree could withstand its charge. The distinct noise of a roaring V8 engine came into range.
Lisa’s truck barreled through the bushes, crushing its own road. It burst through to the open, rocky area where the two stood. Chris could see the strange creature standing close to Lisa, now fixated on him and the speeding truck.
Chris pushed the truck harder, straight toward it. As the truck bounced, Chris lost sight of both of them, just for a split second. As soon as it stabilized, he only saw Lisa, still on the ground.
The gray, gone.
The four-by-four pulled to an abrupt stop, small rocks crunching under its tires. Lisa, more than happy to see Chris, desperately hobbled on an injured ankle to the passenger door.
***
Hitting a mound of dirt the truck bounced into the air, landing front wheels first, back onto the sandy road. Twisting and crunching, the old truck had never known so much abuse; a trail of destruction left in its wake. Chris was intense, not taking his eyes off the road.
Lisa was in shock—dazed. She stared straight ahead. “Destroying plants in a national park is an offence,” she said in a monotone voice. All her confused mind could think of was the damage Chris had caused. That was all she wanted to think of. It was the only way to feel somewhat normal again.
Chris glanced over at her for a moment. Dumbfounded. It was something his wife would say to him. Maybe it was a woman thing, to think of something other than themselves.
His eyes drifted down to the white-gold wedding band around his finger. It was snug. When they first got married, it was loose and he had to be careful not to lose it. He would often leave it at home for safe keeping when at work, much to his Kate’s disappointment. Kate preferred he let other women know he was spoken for. How would she react with him driving around the outback of Australia with a young woman in the car at night? Kate wasn’t really the jealous type. She trusted Chris, but she preferred to avoid confusion and the appearance of wrongdoing. Chris loved that about her.
Chapter Nine
Black Tracker
Dabbing rubbing alcohol on her grazed knee Lisa winced in pain. She sat on the step at the front of the ranger station with a first-aid kit. The morning songs of the local birds sounded out amongst the trees; the sun barely up. Chris leaned against the side of his Cherokee watching on as Sergeant Jack MacKenzie circled around Lisa’s truck. He had his notebook out, slowly taking down notes.
Bits of trees and shrubs hung off the front bullbar. Dried-vegetation skid marks painted the front and sides of the truck. Fresh dents covered the hood; a crack across the windshield; the side mirror—completely ripped off. MacKenzie pulled some of the small branches off and dropped them onto the ground. “Looks like you took out a few trees,” he called over to Chris.
Chris reluctantly pushed off the side of the Cherokee with his back to join MacKenzie.
“You’re sure you hit the, arr … alien?” MacKenzie said as he scratched the side of his face. He wasn’t sure what to make of their story.
Chris nodded. “I must have.”
MacKenzie leaned in to look at the hood a little more closely. “Have you had anything to drink?” He scratched at some of the paint/skid marks with his fingernail.
Chris shook his head, crossing his arms. Lisa approached from behind to join the conversation.
MacKenzie looked up from his notebook. “We’ll have to run some tests.” He stood back to take in the whole vehicle, taking a few snap shots on an ancient-looking digital camera—first generation, very low quality, very outdated.
He slowly moved around the truck, looking it up and down, snapping the camera as he proceeded. Chris and Lisa slowly followed behind. They weren’t sure what he was looking for, but it didn’t take much guess work to know he didn’t believe them. They finally reached the bed. MacKenzie rested his arms on the tailgate, staring into the empty bed. He ran his fingers through his hair and down to the back of his neck, giving it a small rub.
He removed a small flashlight from his police belt, holding it loosely. “And you had it in the back as well?” MacKenzie continued.
Lisa nodded. MacKenzie’s flashlight sparked on, shining around the bed. Nothing unusual there. “Then it jumped out and chased you?” He scratched the side of his head with the back of his light. “So how did you get it in the back in the first place?”
“We didn’t put it in the back!” Lisa said. “It was just in there!”
MacKenzie turned to face them, leaning his back against the truck. “So it just climbed in there itself?”
“I don’t know. I guess so,” Lisa said, putting her hands on her hips, getting a little exasperated.
“This is getting a little out of my expertise.” MacKenzie closed up his little notebook and slipped it into his top shirt pocket. “Nothing more I can do here.”
“What about the Baker family?” Lisa took a step toward him. “Don’t you want to see where they were—” she bit her bottom lip, not sure if she wanted to believe what she was going to say “—taken?”
MacKenzie started to walk towards his patrol four-by-four. “Lisa, can I talk with you for a moment?” Lisa followed the sergeant over to his truck, just out of earshot from Chris.
MacKenzie rested his hands on his belt. He looked down on Lisa with chastising eyes. “To put it bluntly, I don’t believe you or the Yank.” He nodded his head toward Chris. “You’re better than this. I’m not sure what you guys are up to alone out here. And I don’t know what game he’s playing. Seems to me, he’s trying to get some sort of media attention, some renewed interest in his son’s disappearance. Not that I can probably blame the guy.”
“It’s the truth,” Lisa said softly.
MacKenzie looked around behind him, as if searching for an imaginary friend to back him up, and scratched his head. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “I don’t know if he got you drunk, or drugged you—but this is just bullshit. Surely you don’t expect me to believe this? I’ve been around these parts all my life.”
“I don’t drink, remember?” Lisa fired back.
MacKenzie shook his head in disbelief. He raised an index finger, wanting to speak, but just gave up. What would be the point?
He slowly climbed into his four-by-four.
“Jack?” Lisa called, wanting to reason with him. MacKenzie slammed the door. She tapped on the window. He punched the gas, leaving her stunned and in a cloud of dust.
***
Loose pieces of the Baker’s tent flapped about as a small breeze blew through their deserted campsite. Chris walked around the site looking for clues. He squatted down, staring into the vacant tent. How could a family of four just disappear? Could this be what happened to his son? Wrong place, wrong time. Plucking grass off the ground he played with it between his fingers. Contemplating. There was nothing to see here. No evidence of anything strange.
He was careful not to touch anything. This place would soon be a crime scene and he didn’t want to mess that up. His training had taught him that; he had never worked any kind of investigation, but had served for a number of years as a part-time guardsman in the National Guard when he was in college. The plan was to go on to Special Forces, but he didn’t make the cut. It sounded cool, but his heart really wasn’t in it. The pay was the main attraction at the time. It helped out with college fees and he got paid to stay fit. Even though it had been many years since he served, he still retained a lot of the discipline and expertise learned.
***
The hot, morning sun beat down on Chris’ parked Cherokee. It was parked in almost the same spot as Lisa’s truck the night before; the place where Lisa took flight into the wilderness to escape.
Chris wandered off a short distance, walking the trail of destruction he had carved into the fragile landscape. Cru
shed and broken trees lay before him.
Finally making it to the small clearing where he had found Lisa, he searched the surrounds. He struggled to believe what he had seen last night. How could anyone else be expected to believe it? And he had seen it with his own eyes. It was crazy talk. A dog barked in the near distance, breaking his thoughts. Following the sound of the barking dog he made his way up onto a slight ridge overlooking a small clearing. In the distance three men and the dog searched through the scrub.
The muscular, brown-haired pit-bull pulled hard against its leash. Its thick, studded collar was a sure sign it was used in these parts for pig hunting. And it was hot on a scent, but not for pigs. Roy was on the other end of the leash, fighting with one hand to stop the dog from running off. His other hand busy nursing his shotgun.
Frank walked just in front of Roy, packing the trusted, double-barrel shotgun. It was clear these boys weren’t out for a morning stroll in the woods.
***
The third man, an Aboriginal tracker, led Roy and Frank. Mogo was small-framed, barefooted and mid fifties. His rough, black hair and scraggly beard were highlighted by streaks of silver. His tribe had lived in these parts for thousands of years—an ancient culture, indigenous to Australia. Navigating the land and tracking were instinctual. He knew this area like the back of his hand, being one with the land. His tracking ability like no other: heightened sight, smell and hearing. Trackers like him were called “Black Trackers” by the white man, able to track when others couldn’t. People out here knew Australian Aborigines were some of the best native trackers in the world. “Track or die” was their way to survive. If you didn’t track your food, you didn’t eat.
Mogo’s eyes traced over the area, looking for anything out of place. A misplaced twig, rock or maybe animal tracks in the soft dirt. Animals leave all kinds of clues.
***
Chris watched from a distance, trying not to get noticed. What were these three men doing out here? Surely they couldn’t have heard about last night already. Were they already out looking for the Baker family? Not likely. The cops weren’t even out here yet. Locals wouldn’t go looking for tourists without any encouragement from law enforcement. Where were they when Shawn first went missing? Something didn’t seem right about the three men. Frank and Roy couldn’t be trusted. Especially Roy. Redneck.
Mogo poked around scuffed footprints in the sand; prints not of a man. These weren’t trails he had seen before. They were tracking something unearthly—a wounded creature. A small, liquid trail followed the footprints, maybe blood in the sandy dirt. Mogo moved swiftly, following the trail. Frank and Roy followed closely behind.
The group of three travelled further into rocky terrain, their movement slowed by rocks and a growing lack of clues. Mogo softly dusted rocks in his hands and crouched motionless for a couple of minutes—as if he was rehearsing movements in his mind. He moved in circles, looking for anything that would provide the creature’s whereabouts. The other two watched on, letting the tracker do his work.
Chris continued to observe from afar.
Mogo let the wind hit him the face. He breathed in deeply, trying to see what smells were in the air, looking for anything out of the ordinary. However, only the native fauna aroma was present. He closed his eyes to listen to the things around him. Nothing. The trail was lost, for now.
Roy glanced over at Frank. He wasn’t too keen on the tracker, and Frank knew it. Mogo was Frank’s friend after all.
Roy had his dog. That was all he needed to track this animal.
Suddenly something caught Mogo’s attention, maybe a sound or a smell. Whatever it was he was on the trail again. They followed Mogo, traveling a short distance, further into the rocky terrain, finally reaching a hidden cave behind some dry shrubs. Chris edged a little further along the ridge, trying to get a better look and not blow his cover.
Mogo pointed to the cave, not willing to go any further. The old Aborigine gave Frank a nod. He had done his job.
Frank repositioned his fingers around his double barrel. His eyes traveled along Mogo’s dark, outstretched arm and dirt-covered finger, gripping the entrance to the dark cave. Mogo turned and disappeared into the surroundings.
Frank moved to the cave entrance, pushing back the shrubs. It was a small opening, barely big enough for a man to get through. It looked as though it went down deep into the earth, but it was hard to see. They weren’t prepared for spelunking. They didn’t even have a flashlight. And who knew what could be in there? There were a thousand things that could kill you in these parts, excluding aliens.
Roy came over for a closer look at the cave, his pit-bull leading the way. The dog let out a growl, peeling back its lips to display large, saliva-coated teeth. It then exploded into a savage burst of barking, jerking hard against the chain leash, rising up on its back legs. Saliva sprayed from its blood-stained mouth. Roy fought to control the rabid-like dog. Something was definitely in there. He looked over to Frank—what now?
Chris inched right to the edge to see what the men were up to, even though he knew he still wouldn’t be able to hear what they were saying. After a moment, Frank headed back in the direction they came from, leaving Roy to guard the cave. Chris stayed low to avoid detection.
Roy looked around, already bored. The hot sun beat down on him. He spat on the ground, a string of saliva sticking to his hair-prickled chin, and moved a short distance back to take cover under a small, leafy tree. He flopped to the ground to rest. The shotgun rested on his knee, pointed at the cave entrance. He wasn’t going anywhere.
Chris watched Frank disappear into the wilderness. He had to make a choice: keep eyes on the fat bastard, or follow Frank.
***
Frank’s F-250 truck was backed in close to the Corbin house, right near the front door.
Chris crept along the side of the house, staying low and out of sight. He moved to the corner, peering around to see what he could find. Frank came through the front door juggling an armful of supplies: bottled water, packaged food, backpack. He made repeated trips in and out, loading his truck with rope, shovels and other tools.
After Frank finished loading, he removed a large set of keys and locked his front door. It was three-inch-thick hardwood and had four locks to secure it. Overkill for these parts, but considering what he had gone through in the last two years—justified.
The F-250 sped away, up the dirt trail.
Chris watched on as the truck disappeared into the distance. He glanced at his watch. The day was starting to get away from him and he wasn’t sure what these two were up to. This wasn’t getting him any closer to finding Shawn. All this alien shit had screwed with his head. He couldn’t lose another day.
He turned to leave, but something caught his attention: the front window had been blacked out with what looked like black paint. This man obviously liked his privacy. Maybe it was all the reporters hounding him when his wife disappeared that took him to the brink of complete seclusion; or maybe it was just that his wife was gone.
His eyes moved to another window, and then another. All the windows in front had been blacked out. His mind started to race. Maybe Frank was crazy and killed his wife. Or maybe she was still alive, but they didn’t want anyone to see. Lots of thoughts ransacked his mind. Chris couldn’t help it, he had to know. Was his wife in there? Was Shawn in there?
Chris pounded on the front door. “Hello?” He glanced around. “Mrs. Corbin?”
No answer.
He moved around the house, looking. All the windows were the same—thick, black paint; except for one at the rear of the house, on which the paint was a little thinner. He must have been low on paint. Chris glanced around to see if anyone was watching him. He was alone. There were two large, rust-covered, corrugated-iron sheds at the back. Big enough to house large farming equipment or a small plane. They were old and rusted out, sitting side by side. Both had a chain and lock on their large, hangar-style doors.
Chris slowly put his eye
close to the window. Peering through some of the streak marks he could just barely see into the dark house. A dim light was on, maybe a lamp. Chris repositioned himself to get a better look. Suddenly a shadow flashed across the wall. Chris stumbled back.
He quickly moved to the back door.
It wasn’t heavy duty like the front door and had only one lock. He pounded on it. “Mrs. Corbin! Emma Corbin!” He scratched his head, frustrated. “I saw you, Mrs. Corbin!”
He pounded the door again with the palm of his hand. This was bullshit! He tried the door handle, twisting it back and forth. Locked.
“I’m coming in, Mrs. Corbin!” He twisted the handle and pushed on the door. It didn’t budge.
Chris raced over to the window again, pressing his face against the black glass. He tapped on the window. “Mrs. Corbin?”
He ran back to the door and thumped on it. Chris paused, backed up a little and charged the door, shoulder first. He bounced off it, exhaling. He moved back, repositioned himself and unleashed several heavy kicks. The door burst open. Part of the door jamb missiled across the room.
A stale smell of body odor mixed with mothballs and what smelled like rotting food washed over him, burning his nose. He covered his face with his shirt.
“Mrs. Corbin?” he said in a subdued voice, slowly entering. An old washing machine and rusted-out tub sat in the corner of the room. He was in the laundry. A flickering light burned in what was probably the living room, just up ahead.
He moved further into the house along a small, dark corridor, toward the lamp. He cautiously entered a small living room where the flickering lamp rested on a wooden coffee table. Pictures of people, newspaper clippings and pictures of UFOs taped around the walls immediately caught his attention. Hundreds of pictures and articles decorated the room. One picture froze him in his tracks. His stomach churned.
The picture … his son, Shawn.