Red Centre

by O.G. Gough

He’d use the shotgun, waterboarding, or whatever else it needed to get the job done before the cops arrived.

  Whatever it took.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Showdown

  The Humvee slowly made its way up the driveway towards the house, the three men squished into the front seats. Frank’s eyes scanned the surroundings, looking for any sign of Chris. The missing Cherokee was a clear sign Chris had been back here; that and also the house’s front door slightly ajar. The small veranda light was on, shining the way.

  All was quiet.

  As the bulky vehicle came to a stop, Roy jumped from the passenger seat, running across the open front yard toward the house. His hulking body pounded the dirt as he ran. One hand held up his dirty jeans. An easy target. If Chris wanted to take him out, he would already be dead.

  Frank was more cautious. Leaving the truck’s spotlights and high beams on for added cover and visibility, he slid out of the truck. Staying close to the vehicle, he used the door as a shield. Shotgun propped between the frame and door, he completely covered the house.

  Pav played on his smartphone, almost oblivious to what was going on, letting the two Aussie fools play their war games.

  Roy made his way slowly along the veranda towards the door. Unarmed and furious, he wanted to make it inside and arm himself.

  Frank repositioned his fingers around his gun. He wasn’t keen on going head to head with a military man—especially one almost twenty years his junior. His eye started to twitch. He had a gut feeling that things were about to go bad, fast.

  Chris had the advantage. He most likely knew they were here. But they didn’t know where he was.

  He was trained. They were not.

  Frank gave a concerned, lowered yell. “ROY!” His voice scratchy. “ROY!”

  Waving a hand, he called for Roy to return to the truck. Roy shook his head, continuing his pursuit to get into the house to at least get a kitchen knife. Frank clenched his teeth. “Fat bastard,” he said under his breath.

  Moving further into the light, Roy squinted, his hand giving a gentle push on the front door. It slowly creaked open. The house dark and still. He glance quickly back to Frank, wary of entering.

  He carefully placed his boot just inside the door. Holding his breath. The last thing he wanted was to be shot by his own gun in the chest.

  Frank quickly surveyed the surroundings, making sure Chris wasn’t sneaking up on them. His eyes snapped back as Roy disappeared into the darkness.

  Cautious steps—slowly—one after the other, Roy walked. The veranda light had jacked his natural night vision. He was moving in blind. He took another step—directly into a set fox trap. Sharp pain ripped up his foot and through his body. Roy’s scream echoed out into the front yard, startling Frank. Frank’s small fox trap had captured a new victim. Its rusty, razor sharp teeth clamped around Roy’s foot like a powerful dog bite with lockjaw. The side of his boot was pierced. Blood trickled inside it, soaking his sock.

  We’re under attack! A panicked thought filled Frank’s mind. He had to do something. Crouching low, he scuffled towards the house, gun locked to his shoulder, itching to fire.

  Suddenly Roy crashed through the front doorway landing on his back, rolling in agony—both hands attempted to pry open the trap’s jaws.

  Frank snapped his gun into position, taking aim at the door, ready to shoot at anything following Roy.

  He watched as Roy winced and struggled with the fox trap. Frank hadn’t used the trap in years, and now Chris was using it against them.

  A cell phone alarm rang out to Frank’s right, somewhere in the dark yard.

  He didn’t wait to see what it was. Hyped up and ready to shoot, he blasted both barrels in the general direction, without aiming.

  Frank quickly cracked open the gun to reload. His old hands shook, desperately trying to jam in two new shells.

  Then the distant sound of a gunshot echoed through the air. Frank’s left thigh blasted sideways with the impact of the shot. Severe pain ran through his leg as hot pieces of metal pierced it.

  He crashed to the ground on his back, wrenched in pain, wounded leg outstretched. Trying to ignore the pain, his only thought was to re-arm himself and return fire.

  Hands shaking more than ever now, he was unable to chamber the shells.

  The pain too much, he let the gun lie in the dirt, grabbing his leg to ease his wound, slow the bleeding.

  Soon, Chris’ black, boot-polished face came into view. The whites of his eyes looked pure white against the black. His eyes wild and crazy. He closed one, bringing the shotgun level against his shoulder, taking aim at Frank’s face.

  Frank winced, his breathing labored—cursing himself how foolish it was to unload the double barrel at an unseen enemy. Son of a bitch.

  He raised his arms in surrender.

  Chris kicked Frank’s gun away.

  He glanced up to the sound of Roy freeing himself from his entanglement. Roy quickly got to his feet and hobbled off the veranda towards the truck. He was so preoccupied with pain he hadn’t seen Chris holding Frank at gunpoint near the truck.

  He halted in his tracks. Red dust swirled in front of his feet. He had almost made it back to the front of the truck when he saw Frank lying in the dark, then Chris, barely recognizable. He froze, not sure whether to try to help Frank or make a run for it. The selfish bastard chose the latter.

  Chris snapped the gun directly on him. “Eat the dirt, fat bastard.”

  Roy didn’t want to comply, but he didn’t want to take a bullet in the back. He knew Chris wasn’t playing.

  Chris leveled the gun site with his eye, yelling another order. “Get your ass on the ground.”

  Dropping to one knee first, jeans slipping halfway around his ass, Roy slowly lay face down in the dirt, highlighted by the Humvee’s spotlights. “Bloody wanker,” he mumbled under his foul breath, his wounded foot killing him. If he had his gun he would start shooting, regardless of who was in the way. He hated Chris that much.

  “What have ya done? Ya dumb shit!” Frank grabbed at his wounded leg again.

  Chris moved out of the blinding bright Humvee headlights now that Frank and Roy were both on the ground. The Russian sat still in the front seat, after watching the entire saga unfold. “Stay in the truck, Pavlova.” Chris yelled to him. “You move and I’ll cap your Russian ass.”

  Pav rolled his eyes. He quietly corrected Chris. “Pavlovich.”

  “Ya wrecked everything,” Frank continued his verbal attack.

  Chris pushed on Frank with his foot to roll him onto his stomach. He pressed his foot hard on the back of Frank’s neck. Frank drooled onto the red dirt.

  The shotgun targeted Frank’s head, the bright barrel flashlight highlighting the side of his face.

  “Where’s my son, you son of a bitch,” Chris said.

  “We’re so close to getting back ya boy.” The side of Frank’s face was pinned hard against the rough ground. Gravel prints marked his weathered face.

  Chris pushed his boot down harder onto Frank’s neck. At that moment he felt the desire to snap the old man’s neck right where he lay. “Where’s Shawn?” he said through clenched teeth.

  “We don’t have ya boy,” Roy spoke up.

  With a final shove on Frank’s neck Chris turned his attention to Roy, marching toward him. Raising the butt of his shotgun, he whipped it down hard, smashing Roy’s face, almost knocking him out cold. Blood pissed from a deep cut on his face and nose.

  Chris moved back to Frank, pressing the cold barrel into Frank’s cheek.

  Frank pleaded. “If we hadn’t done what we done, we wouldn’t have the device or the creature.” He paused. “We didn’t have a choice.”

  ***

  Three Days Earlier

  “Are ya sure they’re here?” Frank leaned in the truck window to talk to Pav in the passenger seat.

  Pav balanced the laptop on his lap, staring intently at the computer screen. He nodded his head slightly
. “They’re here ... somewhere.” He tapped buttons on the keyboard. “Move it to your left,” he yelled out in his thick, Russian accent.

  A cable ran from his computer out the window and up to the roof of Frank’s truck, connected to a large satellite dish. Roy stood in the truck bed and wrestled with the dish to turn it slightly to the left. It was late afternoon and the boys were out in the wilderness, close to

  Boggy Hole campgrounds. They were slightly elevated, trees hiding their location. They knew these parts like the back of their hand. Frank had taken his children into the national park many times. This was his home. His family had lived in these parts for generations.

  Frank stepped back from the truck, looking into the bright blue sky, his double-barrel shotgun in hand. Scratching his nose with the back of his index finger, he squinted to see if he could see anything above.

  “Tilt up!” Pav yelled again. “UP!”

  Roy struggled to tilt the large dish up into the sky, doing his best to do as ordered. The sun was hot and sweat beaded his forehead; sweat soaked around his armpits and down the back of his shirt. A warm, southerly breeze blew gently, providing little relief. He strained to point the dish further into the sky.

  “More!” Pav yelled again.

  Sweat ran the creases of Roy’s forehead, into his eyes. He blinked rapidly. Wiping his forehead only seemed to merge the beads into more trickles of stinging, salty water.

  “More, more, more—”

  “Shut your whore mouth,” Roy snapped at the constant nagging, dropping the dish back to the roof. He banged the truck roof with open palm. “Just shut the frig up! Nazi bitch.”

  “I not German ... bitch!” Pav said insulted.

  Frank shook his head slightly. He lifted his chin and breathed in deeply. The hot wind began to blow against his back. This wasn’t working. There had to be a better way.

  “This ain’t workin’, Frank.” Roy was exasperated. “Ya need bait if you’re gonna catch a fish ... or a lizard or whatever the frig these fuckers are.”

  Frank turned back to look at Roy. He knew exactly what he was thinking. He rubbed his half-shaven face. He wasn’t sure if he could go through with what Roy was suggesting. But what about Emma? It hurt to think about her, what they might have done to her.

  Experiments and shit.

  He had to get Emma back, whatever it took, whatever the cost. If she was even alive; if she was the same.

  He was done. Done with life, done with bullshit. He wanted her back. He wanted life/retirement to be normal. The way it was. He had worked hard all his life. Fixing cars, working the farm. It wasn’t meant to be like this. Life owed him. God owed him. God owed Emma.

  They lived in the quiet farm house, away from any cities and most civilization and technology. Just a small, close-knit community. They stayed out of trouble all their lives, apart from the odd pub brawl in his youth.

  That’s how they liked it. He didn’t need much: a block of land, shelter, food ... Emma.

  He needed her.

  Otherwise, what was the point? He might as well point the shotgun to his head right now, squeeze the trigger.

  ***

  “We called them that night,” Frank said with some anger in his voice. “Ya ungrateful son of a bitch. Ya wouldn’t even be here, if it wasn’t for us.”

  “I wouldn’t be here if you didn’t take my son!” Chris yelled back.

  “We didn’t take ya son! Why would we take your son?” Frank let out a cough, the pressure on the back of his neck slowly wearing him down. “The gray in me shed proves it wasn’t us.”

  Chris glanced up at Roy’s shit wagon. “You brought those poor people in on your twisted, sick game. How do I know you didn’t use Shawn as bait?”

  Frank turned his head to the other side, half his face covered in dirt, small pebbles stuck to his face like thorns. He knew he wasn’t getting through to Chris. “What’s ya move now, city boy?”

  Chris pushed off from Frank, moving back towards the Humvee. He leaned in to look at Pav. “Give it to me.”

  Pav shook his head.

  Suddenly Pav’s head jerked sideways as Chris grabbed a fistful of his hair and pulled it. The Russian slowly removed the oval object from his pocket, holding it out for Chris to take.

  “Don’t try to follow me,” Chris said as he removed the keys from the Humvee. He pocketed them and the oval object. “I’ll use deadly force if I have to.”

  “Ya have no idea what you’re doin’.” Frank gave a last ditch effort to stop Chris.

  The men watched as Roy’s shit wagon fishtailed as it tore out the driveway, heading into the dark wilderness. Chris glanced back at the gray, lying motionless in the bed. He hoped it wasn’t too late.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Call Out

  Chris stood alone on a small dirt road in the middle of Finke Gorge National Park, clumps of trees sparsely scattered around him. The wind blew hard against his back, wrapping loose clothes around his body. Dust flew into the cool night air. The temperature dropping. Chain lightning speared across the night sky, highlighting thick, dark clouds.

  The truck’s headlights shone from behind, encompassing Chris. His right arm stretched to the heavens above, the oval object nestled in the palm of his hand. His fingers danced around on top, pressing different symbols, trying to activate it.

  After a moment of nothing, Chris slowly brought the object level to his mouth. His eyes darted around. He ran his tongue over his dry lips. “Hello?” He glanced around to see if anyone was watching. “Anyone there?”

  Silence. Only the howl of the wind and distant thunder.

  Discouraged, he dropped his arm by his side, breathed in deeply and peered into the night sky. Tapping a thumb on the alien device, he looked down at it with frustration. This is crazy shit. What am I doing here? Where the hell is Shawn? His mind was racing. He glanced back at the truck and squinted, the truck’s lights blinding.

  All the answers to his questions lay in the back of the truck. He just had to work out how to get them out of it.

  The tailgate dropped down. Chris looked over the gray's lifeless body in the back of the dark truck. He opened the blade of a small pocketknife he had commandeered from Roy’s glove compartment. Slowly he slid the blade under the thickly bound tape wrapped around its legs. He paused, hesitating to free this thing. Lightning flashed, lighting up the creature’s face from the darkness—for just a moment. A shiver rippled down his spine and up over his head. He shuddered, shaking off the shiver.

  He took a deep breath. He had to do this. He had no other options.

  The blade sliced the tape, freeing the creature’s legs.

  Cautiously he climbed up into the truck bed, pulling his shirt over his nose. With legs split to either side, the creature centered beneath, he hobbled over it to reach its bound hands.

  With the knife carefully positioned between the tape and its rubbery flesh, he paused one last time, looking directly at the creature’s closed, motionless eyes.

  Was it still out cold? He hoped.

  The knife sliced the tape. Its limbs dropped.

  Chris leaped off the side of the truck as fast as he could and shivered.

  For all he knew, if the creature suddenly woke, it could tear him limb from limb. It was the enemy, an enemy he didn’t know. It was also his only link to Shawn. Perhaps his only chance at getting him back. If he had to defend himself and butcher it with his knife, he would. But what would he have left? He might as well pack up and go home, tell Kate and the girls the devastating news that Shawn was never coming home. Ever.

  Chris edged closer to the side of the truck, slightly crouched, holding the knife in a reverse grip.

  Moving to the open tailgate, he figured the feet was the safest place to be when encountering a live alien, if it was still alive.

  “Hey?” he yelled at it, readjusting his grip on the knife.

  It lay motionless. He observed its long, slender, rubbery leg. Touching it would be like
touching a gray toad. He hesitated.

  With hand hovering just above its ankle, he considered just poking it with a stick. After all, that’s what you’d do with a dead animal, a dead toad.

  He grabbed its leg and shook it. “Wake up!”

  Its black, almond-shaped eyes snapped open like a shutter on a camera. Eyelids blinking multiple times. With a tilted head it looked directly at Chris. His own reflection gazed back at him in its glassy eyes. The blank stare unnerving. Confronting.

  When it was unconscious it just seemed like a life-sized rubber doll, but when it stared—Chris realized what he was looking at—something not from this world. There was something behind those eyes: intelligence. Most likely far more advanced than anyone on this planet.

  Chris took a step back to give it some room, his footing unsure as he moved away. He feared this thing. He was by himself. Alone. No backup. No one would hear him scream out here, if it attacked.

  Suddenly he realized how foolish it was to leave his shotgun in the cab of the truck. Now his only defense—the small pocketknife.

  Wounded, the gray struggled to sit up. It held its left arm close to its body, nursing a large, black-colored wound, the dog collar and chain still fastened around its neck. Its unfamiliar movements and freakish appearance ran shivers up Chris’ spine.

  With the blade still open, he tucked the pocketknife into his pants pocket and tugged the shirt, uncovering his nose. It probably didn’t do any good anyway. It wasn’t as if it was filtering the air for him.

  He raised his hand, a sign of non-aggression, stepped back a little and fished for his wallet. Holding up a wallet-sized photo of his son, he slowly extended it out to the creature and carefully edged forward.

  Not sure what Chris was trying to do, the creature turned its head slightly. Its black eyes moved to the oval object partly hidden in Chris’ left hand.

  Chris looked down at the object, moving it behind his leg partially to conceal it. He moved the photo into its line of sight. “This is my son.”

  The creature slid its frail body to the edge, slowing climbing out of the truck. It stood tall. Tall and thin. The chain dangling from the collar locked around its pencil neck.

  It stumbled forward.

  “Hey!” Chris raised his right hand to stop its advance. Fear of the unknown insisted he prepare for combat, if required. “This is my son, Shawn. Have you seen him?”