by O.G. Gough
“What the hell?” His fingers touched his chin. Tears filled his eyes.
Chris slowly moved forward, reaching out with stretched fingers to touch his son’s photo. Out of nowhere a crushing blow struck the back of his head, like a brick smashing against his skull. All he saw was a flash of white and black. His body stiffened like a board, went limp and crashed to the floor.
Out cold, twitching momentarily.
Chapter Ten
Ransom
The room was blurry at first. Chris tightly closed his eyes, opening them again, readjusting. His head pounded. Disorientated. Realization set in—he had been struck from behind. Knocked out cold. Probably a concussion.
The hair on the back of his head felt moist. Mostly from blood mingled with sweat. An ice pack would be nice.
He immediately realized his mouth had been taped. A single strip of silver duct tape silenced him.
His wrists were also bound with tape; strapped to the armrests of an old wooden chair in the middle of the room.
Blackness crept into view; his eyes started to close again. He could feel himself slipping into unconsciousness again. Before he could stop it, he was out cold. His head flopped forward. A single drop of sweat ran down his forehead, along his nose and onto the dusty, hardwood floor beside his boot.
***
Muscles in Chris’ cheek twitched. He let out a muted grunt as he became conscious again. His eyes slowly focused; things gradually sharpened. His eyes darted around. He was sitting in a small, dark bedroom. Dust particles floated and danced around in the few beams of sunlight that cut through gaps in the painted, black windows.
The room was sparse; only a small bed behind him against the wall and a wardrobe in the corner.
Sweat beaded on his forehead, running down the sides of his face. It was hot and stuffy in this little room.
Shooting pains stabbed the back of his throbbing head. His mouth felt dry. His body dehydrated. It wasn’t helping being stuck in a sweat box.
He could tell his legs weren’t bound, but he moved them and glanced down anyway, just to make sure. At least part of him was free.
His muscles strained, pulling hard against the thick tape.
Panic roared through his body. He was a hostage. His wife would now be missing a son and a husband. Was Shawn experiencing the same fate? Was he scared? Locked in some room? Not sure where he was or what his captives wanted? Was it Frank and Roy?
He shook off the thoughts. He had to concentrate on his own situation first. He had to get out of there. What the hell were these people planning to do to him?
The pulse in his neck started to pound.
Frantically scanning the room, Chris searched for anything he could use to free himself. Anything!
He used his feet to hop/scoot the chair toward the old, dark, wooden wardrobe. The chair thumped and squeaked loudly as it edged forward inch by inch; wood against wood. With an outstretched boot Chris tried to hook the door handle.
His foot barely grazed the little steel handle. The boot too big to grip.
A key slid into the lock on the other side of the solid bedroom door. Chris froze. It clicked, unlocking.
The door handle slowly turned. Chris breathed in deeply through his nose, anxious to know what was about to happen. A large, silhouetted figure stood motionless in the doorway.
The bedroom light sparked on. Chris squinted, eyes struggling to adjust to the bright light.
“Not so tough now, are ya? Yankee bastard!” said the large figure.
Chris immediately recognized the gruff voice of Roy Lambert. Shit!
Roy lazily strolled into the room. He looked dirtier than normal. Dust covered his baggy jeans and shirt. His nose swollen. Spots of blood were still visible in his half-shaved beard. Two eyes blackened—the damage from the last time these two tangled ass.
Roy scratched his half-shaven face, then interlocked his fingers, giving them a good crack and stretch.
Chris knew an ass whooping was about to go down. He grabbed hold of the arm rests again and frantically pulled and twisted, burning his wrists red. His eyes widened with anticipation. Rapid breathing from his nose spotted warm droplets of moisture on his tape-covered mouth. Soon it would be covered in droplets of his blood.
The tape strained against the pressure.
Chris tried to yell at him, but the tape silenced him. A muffled yell ripped up through his throat; face red with strain. No one but Roy could hear it.
“What’s that? Speak up, I can’t hear you.” Roy laughed at his own useless joke. He hitched up his loose, stained jeans, ready for a beat down.
Like a raging ox Roy rushed Chris, fist raised. His full weight behind him.
Chris tucked his head, sucked as much air as he could through his nose and prepared for impact. At the same time he thrust his boot up with as much force as possible; a single attempt to block the attack.
The boot bounced off Roy’s pudgy stomach. Roy connected with a powerful, straight punch to Chris’ sternum. The punch hard enough to make a man cough blood.
The chair tipped over backwards, Chris’ head inches from bouncing off the hardwood floor like a bowling ball.
Face red and contorted, Chris gasped for air. The wind knocked out of him, unable to catch a breath.
Roy grabbed Chris’ leg, pulling him back up. Chris flopped forward in the chair. Roy followed up the attack with a backhanded hammer fist to the side of his face. Chris’ face snapped back—a purple bruise immediately formed on his cheek.
A sloppy right hook followed, hitting Chris in the nose. Blood burst from his nose over the silver tape. Deep pain shot up his nose into his forehead. His eyes instantly filled with tears. Small drops of blood dripped onto the hardwood floor. His face numb.
Roy breathed hard. Out of shape, all of this was working him too hard. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Sweat dripped from his sun-tanned forehead. “Frank!” he called. “He’s awake.” He slapped Chris across the top of the head with an open hand.
Soon a dust-covered Frank appeared at the door—the thick, red dust likely coming from the caving. In his right hand, a large kitchen knife.
Chris eyed the knife. His nasal, hyperventilating and silenced scream kicked into overdrive. He could only imagine what these psychos were going to do to him now. They probably killed whoever went missing in these parts. Frank probably killed his own wife and Shawn. Now Chris would taste the sting of the blade and never be seen again. His heart cried out for the pain his wife would feel. This one thought traumatized him more than the blood he was about to taste. Husband and son, gone.
Frank moved briskly forward. Chris’ eyes widened with fear.
The blade squeezed between the tape and Chris’ arm. The sharp knife easily sliced the tape, freeing him. Instantly relieved and in disbelief, Chris slowly peeled the tape from his mouth. He rubbed his mouth to ease the pain.
Frank looked Chris over. “I told ya to wake him, not beat the piss outta him.”
Chris rubbed his bruised face. “You’re pretty tough, attacking a restrained man.” His hand moved to the back of his head, feeling a gash and slightly dried blood.
Roy laughed. He didn’t care; he was a coward.
“Whatta ya doin’ here?” Frank said.
“I don’t know what kind of sick game you’re playing here, but if you’ve done anything with my son”—Chris clenched his teeth—”I’ll kill you ... The both of you.”
Frank looked over at Roy, a little confused. “Calm down, nancy. I didn’t do anythin’ with ya son, ya dumb son-of-a-bitch.” He walked over and sat on the bed behind Chris.
Chris scooted his chair back so Frank wasn’t directly behind him.
Frank slowly played with the knife in his hand. “Ya know that around thirty-five thousand people go missin’ in Australia each year? A hundred and seventy-five, give or take a few—never seen again.” His eyes looked to Roy, then back to Chris again. “Take out runaways, criminal activity, murders and
so on.” He pointed the blade at Chris. “I could slit ya throat and dump your arse in the desert and no one would ever find you. Not out here.”
Chris’ gaze locked Frank’s; on edge, still unsure of his immediate fate.
Frank continued, his voice slightly raised, frustrated. “But there are a handful of people that are never found. They remain a mystery. Not connected to any criminal activity.” He snapped his fingers together. “They just disappear. Cold cases. No one can explain it. No one wants to explain it.” Frank got to his feet. “I saw it. With me own damn eyes. It’s no longer a mystery.” Frank looked to the ceiling. “They took my Emma.”
Chris felt a lump in his throat. His eyes glanced around the room. Was he going to get out alive?
“What do you want with me?” Chris said in a slow, calculated voice.
Frank let out a chuckle as he sat back on the bed. “You’re an itch that won’t leave me alone.” He turned his knife over, lightly rubbing the blade with his thumb to determine its sharpness. “So what do I do with ya? Dump your arse in the desert or …” His eyes looked up at Roy.
Roy winced. He knew what he was going to say.
“... use you as an ally.” Frank finished his sentence.
“I say we dump his arse in the desert, Frank.” Roy sucked snot out of his nose into his mouth, spitting it onto the floor. “We don’t need this Yankee piece of shit.”
Frank looked down at the green booger on his floor. “Ya better clean that shit up.”
“Sorry, Frank.”
Frank turned his attention back to Chris. He pointed the knife. “I think it would be easier to dump your arse … but …”
“Can we talk about this, Frank?” Roy interrupted.
Frank dropped his arms down by his sides. He gave a look of “what do we have to talk about?”
Roy motioned with his head to step out of the room for a moment. Frank grunted, getting to his feet.
Chris’ eyes darted around. He focused his attention on the wardrobe in the corner. Wardrobe in front of the door. Chair through the window. One minute to get to my car. He grabbed the armrests, ready to make a move. He watched as Roy stepped just outside the door. Frank was smarter. He stood side on, his back against the open door, glancing over at Chris—to ensure he didn’t try any crazy shit.
Chris didn’t know what to do. Use the chair as a weapon? Maybe not so good against two men and a knife. He stayed, not wanting to risk another beat down or being stabbed. They may slit his throat anyway.
After a short moment of indistinct dialogue, Frank returned to the bed and Roy stood back by the door.
Damn it! Opportunity gone, Chris thought to himself.
“What if ya knew who took your son?” Frank sat on the edge of the bed. “But ya couldn’t call the cops. What would ya do?”
Chris sat forward, fear turning to anger. “I would hunt down whoever has him.”
“To get your boy back, you’re gonna need to do things.” He looked up at Chris under his old, bushy eyebrows. “Things you may not wanna do.”
“I’ll do whatever it takes.”
“If ya want in on our little operation here, ya have to buy your way in.”
“Buy my way in?” Chris squinted his eyes. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“Fifty grand. Cash!”
Chris looked at the two men. Roy had a smug look on his face. One that Chris would like to knock right off. “If I give you the money, will you give me back my son?”
Frank dropped his head. Holy shit, does this guy listen?
“Cut ’im Frank! Cut his dumb arse.” Roy had an evil twinkle in his eye, eager to inflict more pain on Chris.
“We’re at war”—he pointed the knife up—“with them. And war costs a lot of money and I’m all out.” Frank got back to his feet to leave. “I don’t have your son. So if ya want him back, we’re the only ones that can help you.”
Frank waited for a response from Chris, but he was silent. Dumbfounded.
“I’m not gonna offer again. So either get ya arse outta me house, or cut me a check.” Frank lingered for a moment, waiting again for Chris’ response.
Chris still tried to process the information, not sure what to do or what to make of these two rednecks. His mind ticking over, trying to find the right words. “Are you yanking my chain? Trying to shake me down, Frank?”
Frank looked over at Roy, not sure what Chris was on about.
“This is bullshit. You and your fat boyfriend need to let me go,” Chris said.
“This is no bullshit. If ya want in, you gotta pay.”
Chris looked back and forth between the two very serious men. “You’re serious?”
Frank stood firm.
“You need to show me first,” Chris continued.
Frank looked over at Roy, who shook his head.
Chris looked over at Roy. “I don’t know what kind of freak show you hillbillies are running here. If you want cash, you need to open the door and let me take a look.” Chris looked back at Frank. “I don’t even know if what you’re doing can deliver results.”
Frank rubbed his chin. He had a good point. He took a deep breath. He looked over at Roy and then back to Chris. “What I’m about to tell ya is classified.”
Chris frowned. “Who classified it?”
Frank and Roy just stared at him, not sure what the question meant.
Chris continued. “What government agency classified it, US or Australian?”
“No, stupid! It’s me own damn classification. What I tell ya doesn’t leave the room.”
Chapter Eleven
METI
Newspaper clippings, photos of aliens and UFOs plastered the living room walls. Some were believable and others not so much. Some were just artist impressions. Chris moved around the room examining the photos. Frank stood in the middle of the room observing. Roy stayed back, standing in the doorway.
Chris reached the photo of Shawn. It was accompanied by a photo of Emma and what appeared to be other missing persons.
“What is all this?” Chris said.
“Research.” Frank adjusted his dusty jeans. “Know your enemy.”
Chris pointed to the picture of Shawn. “What about this?”
“Prisoner of war.”
Chris looked back at Frank. Had this guy completely lost his shit? His eyes reexamined the room. All the furniture had been removed except for the coffee table, lamp, a wooden desk and chair, which sat against the wall. Books on aliens and UFOs piled up high. Papers scattered everywhere. An old computer, with an old CRT monitor, sat in the middle of the chaos. Above the computer hung a large world map, dotted with little red pins.
Chris moved over to the desk, retrieving one of the books. He carelessly flipped through it, viewing pictures and text about UFOs and aliens. All seemed made up. His eyes wandered up to the map. Hundreds of the little red pins dotted every country. Chris shot a look back at Frank.
“Sightings.” Frank cleared his throat. “Every country has ’em.”
Chris threw the book back onto the pile. “This is it? Any whack job can get all of this off the net!”
Frank folded his arms. He looked back at Roy, who said, “Don’t do it, Frank. We don’t know this arsehole.”
Chris stayed quiet, observing the two men, not wanting to break Frank’s flow.
“There’s more,” Frank mumbled.
***
The bright afternoon sun hit the three men in the face as they exited through the back door. Frank lead the group behind the two sheds. The vast land stretched out as far as the eye could see: rolling dirt hills, scattered trees, birds soaring in the open blue sky. It would be beautiful if it wasn’t so friggin’ hot. Close to the sheds lay a huge bank of solar panels, all running back to the sheds. Beside the panels were twenty, ten-inch satellite dishes, all of their cabling running back to one of the sheds.
“As ya can see”—Frank pointed to all the fancy gear—“I’ve had expenses.”
&
nbsp; “What’s it for?” Chris asked.
***
The heavy chain slid down, dropping into the dirt as Frank removed the padlock from the first shed’s doors. The door opened. Light spilled into the darkened shed. Two old cars, partly pulled apart, lay near the entrance. Behind the cars, toward the back, a large vehicle was parked. A heavy-duty, gray canvas tarp covered most of it. Only the large, four-by-four styled tires were exposed. The rooftop had something extra attached, protruding from the top; an odd, circular shape. Chris’ eyes were drawn to it.
He continued to take in his surroundings: a workbench to the right with an array of tools. Two small, rusty fox traps hung from the wall above, the metal jaws blunt and well used. To the left, some steel stairs led to a mezzanine. A greenish glow emanated from there. Desks lined the outer railing, making it hard to see what was actually up there.
The three men climbed the stairs. Their boots on the steel-grid stairs echoed through the expansive shed.
The desks circled the small room, which included what looked like high-tech equipment: lights blinking and little beeps emitting from black and gray units. Chris didn’t recognize any of this stuff. Large computer monitors, power cables and network cables running everywhere filled out the rest of the space.
Programming code populated several monitors. Another had a weather map—at least that was what it looked like. At one of the workstations sat a small-framed man, in his late sixties. He wore full-length, blue pajamas with moons all over them. He didn’t break his concentration, his face inches from the screen, except to adjust the thick glasses which sat on the end of his nose. As the three men approached he held up his index finger, indicating no one speak. His hair was spiked. He looked like a crazy person.
“Touch nothing!” the crazy man said in a thick, Russian accent.
The Russian scooted his wheeled chair across the room to another workstation. His fingers danced on the keyboard, typing a hundred words a minute. He paused, looking up at Chris. “Is your head okay?” He pointed to the back of his own head, and immediately returned to frantic typing. “You didn’t give me a choice.” He let out a quiet chuckle to himself.
Chris rubbed the back of his head. The blood had clotted and dried in his short hair.
“This is Dr. Sargy Pavlova,” Frank interrupted. “Space scientist.”