by O.G. Gough
Frank yelled back at him in a panic. “TURN IT OVER! AND DON’T STOP!”
Chris jumped back into the truck, twisting the key again, holding it on.
Frank cupped his hand over the air filter, popping it up and down to create suction. With the other hand he grabbed the throttle line, the engine turned over with a roar. He revved the guts out of the old truck, rattling its bones.
A puff of smoke fired out the exhaust.
The engine alive again, idling as usual. The hood slammed shut. Chris pushed the clutch in and jammed the stick in reverse. He hadn’t driven a stick since his days in the Guard. It’s like riding a bike. You never forget.
Frank ran to the passenger side, quickly jumping in. “Drive! Drive!”
The old truck ripped in reverse, spinning a backward one-eighty. Chris popping the clutch to avoid stalling out again. First gear. The truck’s back tires spun on the loose-gravel road. Second gear, then third. The truck was revving high, almost redlining. Chris was pushing it hard. It was up to speed pretty damn quickly for an old piece of shit.
The truck flew along the dirt road, bouncing over small mounds and potholes. The terrain rigorous. Chris and Frank tossed around in the cab. There were too many potholes to avoid—the truck getting thrashed.
Chris was getting used to this kind of abuse every time he was out in the middle of the night.
No matter how hard he pushed the truck, the men couldn’t escape the fireball. It stayed alongside them as they weaved around large rocks, holes and other obstacles. If Chris sped up, the ball of light would speed up; if he slowed, likewise. The craft made no noise. You wouldn’t even know it was there if it didn’t have its high beam lights on.
“We got to lose that thing!” Chris said.
“No shit!”
“No, not that.” He pointed at the oval object on the dash. “That! Toss it out.”
Frank grabbed it off the dash. He stared down at the glowing red lights. Thoughts raced through his mind. This could be a device to help get back Emma. Throwing it out could lose that chance. They didn’t even know what it was.
“Stop the truck!” Frank said.
“Are you crazy?” Chris shot a look at him. “You going to outrun them on foot?”
“Just stop the bloody truck!”
Chris jammed on the brakes. The truck slid in the dirt, partially twisting sideways. Frank grabbed his double barrel and jumped out of the truck. His old flashlight guided the way as he dashed straight into the surrounding scrub.
“Shit!” Chris jumped out behind him, gun in hand.
He ran hard to catch the old man. The red, glowing light followed them into the bushes. Chris got close enough to call to Frank. “Wait.”
Frank spun back to see what Chris’ problem was. The wind blew against his back. The craft started to descend onto the two men. Light engulfing them. Chris pointed to the glowing light above. “Do you really think you can hide among the trees from these things?”
“Better this than my balls out there blowing in the wind.”
Frank looked up into the blinding light. Images of the last time he looked into this thing flashed into his mind. It was just moments after Emma was taken. How did he get to this point? His eyes were drawn to the glowing object in the palm of his hand. After all the years of trying to call these things back with no luck, and now he possessed the power to call them. He wasn’t sure how it worked, but he wasn’t going to it give it up that easily.
A bright, bluish light fired from the craft, illuminating the two men. The craft paused as though it was examining the humans. Chris and Frank frozen like deer in the headlights.
“Toss it, Frank.”
“They’ll have to pry it from me cold dead hands.”
Frank let out a roar of rage, aimed his gun at the craft and opened up with both barrels. Chris ducked for cover. Frank quickly reloaded, letting off another two shots, and then bolted back toward the truck.
Chris watched in frustration. “What now!” He took chase after Frank.
The red, tracking light slowly receded as the men sprinted back to the truck. They hesitated to glance back. The craft ascended into the heavens and disappeared in a flash. The two men slowed their run to a standstill and stared into the sky, thanking their lucky stars.
“You must have scared it,” Chris said.
Frank let out a grunt and walked the short way back to his truck. As he approached he could hear liquid running out of the engine. Moving to the front, he got down on hands and knees to inspect the damage. His flashlight lit up the bright-green coolant running from the engine, making a small pool on the dirt road. Frank shook his head. He knew exactly what had happened. “You blew the gasket, ya dumb son of a bitch!”
Chris wasn’t sure what he was on about. He didn’t understand cars. He knew how to drive them hard, but any mechanical stuff went over his head.
“Ya pushed her too hard,” Frank continued, shaking his head. “We’ll have to bunk down here for the night.” He slowly got back to his feet, using the hood to help himself up. “Set off at first light. On foot, we shouldn’t be more than a couple hours from the house.”
He walked towards Chris, raising his index finger in chastisement. “Touch me truck again, I’ll make ya bleed.”
Chapter Fourteen
Experiencers
Red hot embers floated into the air, dancing in the night sky. Frank tossed another small branch onto the flames. He squatted just beside the small campfire. They really didn’t need it for warmth; the night had cooled off but not enough for a fire. The orange light and crackle was relaxing and comforting in their time of need. It was light and security.
Chris leaned against the side of the truck, glad to have the fire and hoping it would keep the wildlife at bay. He had heard enough stories about Australia to know you shouldn’t just be out in the middle of nowhere camping, especially in the Northern Territory.
He watched the flames flicker and dance, letting his mind wander. It reminded him of family camping trips to the Rocky Mountain National Park, just north of their home in Denver. They were some of his favorite memories with Kate and the kids. Happier times. They loved the outdoors. The fresh, crisp, clean air. Crystal-clear, mountain-stream water. White water rafting, fishing and hiking in the summer. The exploding yellows, reds and oranges in the fall. Snow-capped mountains in the winter. It was like a postcard. Always beautiful. Some of the most amazing scenery in the world. They loved it, but they didn’t do much of that anymore. Kids lost interest as they got older. Life was too busy to enjoy. For Shawn, Colorado became too small or familiar. He needed the adventure of outback Australia, an unknown land—without his family. He wanted independence.
Chris was beginning to really hate this place. He would rather be back home in the mountains. Instead of this hot, barren desert. This was the place he lost Shawn. The place that was testing him, pushing him. He thought he was losing his mind here. Too much crazy shit going on here. Now he was running away from UFOs and keeping a friggin’ alien hostage. I’m going to need some serious therapy when I get back home, he thought.
His eyes glazed over, bored with his surroundings. He wished he hadn’t left his cell in the Cherokee. He would have loved to talk to Kate right then. Let her know he was okay. Give her strength and support. They needed each other on this wild ride. Not to mention they could call Roy to pick them up.
He looked over at Frank, prodding at the fire with a small stick. His only companion in this twisted adventure. For a person he put so much trust and time into, he didn’t know much about this man.
“Do you have children?” Chris enquired.
Frank looked back at him. He wasn’t sure where this conversation was about to go. After a short pause he answered. “Three.” He turned back to the fire, poking it with the stick.
Chris nodded. “I have three as well,” he said, scratching a half-shaven, brown- and gray-peppered beard. Being his usual clean-cut self was no longer a priority. He didn’t
even give it a thought, until it itched. It had been days since his last shave—and since a decent shower for that matter; fitting right in with the locals. “At your age you must have grandchildren by now?”
Frank grunted. “Just one for now. I don’t see me children much, after what happened.” He scratched the back of his head in thought. “It’s probably for the better right now anyway.”
“It’s hard being a parent. Meeting all your children’s needs and expectations.”
Frank broke the stick, tossing it into the fire. “If ya wanna talk teddy bears and touchy feely shit, go find a woman to philo ... philosophe with.”
Chris raised his eyebrows. “Philosophize.” he said quietly.
“I prefer it quiet.”
***
Chris squirmed on the hard ground. The thick wallet in his back pocket wasn’t doing much justice to his back either.
He removed the well-worn, soft, leather-bound wallet, the one his wife gave him years ago on his thirty-ninth birthday. Laying it on his lap he opened it to a family picture; the same family portrait that hung on the wall in the family kitchen. His eyes were drawn to Shawn. He flipped to the photo of his two infant twin boys. His heart sank. How could this happen? How can one family lose their twin boys eighteen years apart?
He wiped his tear-filled eyes. Flipping back to the family portrait, he stared at his three teenage children. It had only been a couple of weeks since he dropped Shawn off at the airport, but it seemed like a lifetime ago. So much had happened in that time. Police reports, working with a foreign country, research, flying to this godforsaken place, the crazy locals. His eyes glanced over at Frank, who seemed hypnotized by the flickering fire.
Resting his aching back and tired head against the cold, steel truck door, Chris longed for some shut-eye. He tried to slow his breathing; get thoughts out of his head. He needed rest. It was hard though in this environment. Every little noise put him on edge—had to let his guard down.
Sleep wasn’t coming easily. He twisted and turned. His eyes felt as though sand had found its way under his lids. Again he questioned himself. Was following Frank on this crazy, wild-goose chase the only way to get Shawn back?
Slowly his eyes moved back to the open wallet. Pulling the photo from its clear sleeve he lightly rubbed his thumb over family faces. Pausing for only a second, he flipped the photo over and slid it back in, the photo’s white back facing him.
It now represented pain, instead of a happy family.
A memory he once had, but may never have again. He knew what it felt like to have lost a son. Not sure if he could handle or even wanted to handle losing another. He knew Kate wouldn’t cope.
“Ya won’t get him back,” Frank said, observing the ritual. “This ain’t a rescue mission anymore.”
Chris placed his hand over the wallet, dragging it closer to himself. “It is for me.”
Frank’s attention turned back to the fire. “You’ll learn soon enough.”
“Are there any connections, similarities, between people that are taken?”
“They call ’em abductees or experiencers.” Frank looked back at Chris. “People that get taken. And na, there’s none. No connection.”
“So it’s random then?” Chris pressed for more information.
Frank nodded.
“Surely it has to be more than random,” Chris continued.
“I’ve looked through hundreds of accounts. Doctors have been tryin’ to find that out for years. Ever since the first reported abductees back in the sixties.”
“The sixties?”
Frank nodded his head. “Some even earlier. And if you believe all the ancient alien stories, it’s been happenin’ for thousands of years.”
“What do they experience?”
Frank looked back into the fire, the flames burning in his eyes. “Experiments, crossbreeding … I don’t like to think about it.” He paused, not sure whether he wanted to say any more. “It would break me.” Frank cleared his throat, turning to look at Chris again. “They take who they want, when they want. Doesn’t matter. Gender, age—even children have been taken.”
“Like the Baker family.”
Frank felt a lump in his throat. He swallowed, staring at the ground, not able to look at Chris. “A casualty of this war. That’s all.” His voice wavered as he thought of the family.
Chris pushed his head back against the truck door, looking into the night sky. His mind had been focused so much on where Shawn was and getting him back, he hadn’t really thought about what his son would be experiencing. He closed his eyes. Then his mind started to get away from him. The image of the gray alien crept into his mind. Its large, black, almond-shaped eyes. Futuristic syringes stabbing into his son’s flesh—into his eyes. Knives cutting him. His son in pain. Every horror he could conjure up flashed into mind. Chris’ eyes burst open—open eyes were the only way to get horrific images out of his mind. He could only imagine how scared Shawn must be right now.
“They think they can do whatever they want.” Frank got to his feet, visibly upset. “Not anymore.”
“If we work out any connections, we can probably work out what they want.”
“I don’t care what they want!”
“If you visited an alien planet, what would you want?”
Frank spat into the fire. “I’d stay on me own damn planet!”
Chris interlocked his fingers, placing his hands behind his head for support. “You were there when they took Emma.” Chris swallowed, not sure whether this was a good time to talk about it. Frank was already getting grumpy, but he was grumpy all the time anyway, and he needed answers. “How did they take her? What happened?”
Frank looked down at Chris. Tears crept into his eyes. “I went to hell that night … and I haven’t come back. Don’t know that I want to. Not now.” He rubbed his eyes with his leathery hands. “I’ve done things. Things I’m not proud of. Emma wouldn’t approve. But I didn’t have a choice.”
Frank turned away, paused and looked up into the night sky. “May the Good Lord have mercy on me soul. I’m gonna kill every last one of those sons-a-bitches.”
***
A sharp kick to his boot jolted Chris awake. “Get up, Yankee! Time to hit the road,” Frank said in a gruff, morning voice as he stood over him, the shotgun slung over his shoulder.
Chris didn’t remember falling asleep and it had only felt like a few minutes, but a quick check of the watch showed he had drifted off for a couple of hours. Still sleep deprived, a couple of hours was still like a chilled glass of water on a hot day.
Chapter Fifteen
Preparation
Water washed over Chris’ face as he stood in the shower, the warm water refreshing and rejuvenating. His soap-lathered hands scrubbed a dirt-stained body. Pools of soapy, muddy water gathered at his feet, before being sucked down the drain.
The bathroom was dark and rundown. Paint faded and pale green. Mold was starting to creep along the ceiling above the shower. This room didn’t get aired out very often. The small, painted-black window was always closed for security.
Chris toweled his wet hair and looked up at the misted mirror. A new man looked back at him: freshly shaven, clean clothes and polished boots. The bathroom was just off to the side from the laundry near the backdoor. The smell of bacon cooking floated through the air.
***
Four pieces of bacon sizzled in the skillet. Oil bubbles burst on each piece. Nice and crispy, and they looked and smelt mouth watering. Just how Emma used to make them. Frank slid them onto two mismatched plates, pouring the remaining, fatty oil from the pan over each serve of yellow, butter-filled, scrambled eggs. A chunk of crusty bread and two thick slices of fried tomatoes sat on the plate to round out the breakfast.
Frank placed five heaped spoonfuls of instant coffee into a large mug and poured boiling water to the top. No milk or sugar. Straight black coffee. Strong enough to stand you straight up in the morning.
Carrying cof
fee in one hand and juggling his plate and butter dish in the other, Frank took his regular seat at the small kitchen table. The kitchen looked the same as the day Emma was taken. Everything in the exact same position.
He grabbed a butter knife and placed lashings of butter on his crusty bread.
Fork in one hand, bread in the other, Frank wasted no time starting on the delicious meal. He heard Chris approaching from the hallway. No doubt following the aroma of a freshly cooked breakfast.
“This for me?” Chris pointed to the second plate on the counter.
Mouth full of crusty bread, Frank only nodded.
With plate in hand, Chris pulled out Emma’s chair to sit at the small table. Frank grunted, waving his fork at him.
Wrong chair. Emma’s chair. Frank hooked his foot around the chair leg, immediately pulling it back against the table with a clunk. Locked out.
Chris looked around, there were no other chairs. What was this guy’s problem? He cooked him breakfast, but didn’t want his company? Chris moved back to the counter, leaning against it to eat.
The warm meal was a welcome treat. Bacon and eggs, crusty bread. If he was here under different circumstances, it could actually be a nice little bed-and-breakfast retreat. Take the kids to the outback to experience culture, the beautiful palms, wildlife; the hot, humid days. The red hot sun, the sweaty, sticky, smelly feeling. On second thoughts this wasn’t as good as he first thought. In fact, this place was a friggin’ hell hole. The sun’s surface was probably cooler than this dusty-ass place.
His eyes surveyed the small, quaint kitchen. A humble home, but well kept. Faded, lemon-colored walls. Simple wood cabinetry. An old stove. Simple living.
Frank’s fork scraped his plate as he scooped up a mouthful of eggs. The food rolled around in his mouth. The sound of his chewing made Chris cringe. He wasn’t used to the awkward silence. Breakfast time back home with three teenagers and everyone trying to get off to work and school was a hectic mad house. This was relaxing, but awkward.
Chris closed his eyes, trying to picture home. What would his kids be doing right now? It must be night time about now. He wasn’t sure of the time difference. Maybe they were eating dinner, or in bed. His heart sank as he realized how the three women left at home must be missing Shawn and himself.