Red Centre (17 page)

The radio in Roy’s truck was muffled on the
dusty dashboard, Frank’s words unintelligible.

Roy gasped for air, face red. Chris pressed
the shotgun across Roy’s throat, pinning him against the window.
Both men grunted, breathing heavily.

Chris smashed his elbow into Roy’s face. And
again.

The driver door opened. Roy’s body dropped
hard to the ground. The left side of his face bloodied.

Chris threw the shotgun onto the seat next
to him. Key turned. Engine roared.

The shit wagon squealed over to the lifeless
gray. With hammer in hand Chris bashed the spike sideways, knocking
it from the ground. Holding his breath and with shirt pulled over
his nose, he assisted the gray to the bed of the truck.

The radio sparked alive again. “Roy?
Roy!”

Chris reached into the truck, snatching the
hand receiver. “Frank, it’s Chris. All good here.”

“
Why ya
shootin’?”

Chris bit his bottom lip. “Roy’s just
shooting at ... arrr ... a rabbit or something. Maybe he’s getting
a little a nervous or something.” He winced at his poor excuse.

“
Where’s Roy?”

Chris looked back at Roy on the ground. He
moved slightly, as if he was inebriated, trying to recover from
blows to the head. “He’s now taking a piss … or shit … or
something.”

Frank breathed in deeply, not sure what to
make of Chris’ story. “For shit’s sake, just put him on when he
gets back.”

Chris threw the radio into the cab. He
wasn’t sure what he was doing, but he knew one thing: he had to get
away from these guys and find out what was really going on. How
many casualties of their war were there?

The Corbin farm house and sheds sat alone in
the dark night. Eerily quiet.

Dust and sand from the surrounding desert
blew across the small dirt road leading to the house.

The old, rusted gate was closed, secured
with the chain. The old, faded sign wired to the gate—“NO
TRESPASSING, OFFENDERS WILL BE SHOT”—blew gently in the breeze,
banging against the gate.

Soon, truck headlights peaked over the crest
in the road. Dust swirled behind the speeding truck. No sign of
slowing down as it rapidly approached the property. Suddenly, it
veered and blasted through the chained gate, the sign taking a
direct hit, almost folding in half as it hurled into the
ground.

The wheels skidded to a stop just in front
of shed two. Chris climbed out of the truck, shotgun in hand.

Gun trained on the shed, he turned on the
tactical flashlight taped to the barrel. With military instinct he
checked his twelve, his three, then his nine. All clear.

The steel chain and padlock secured the door
as usual. The shotgun exploded as Chris let off a shot. The padlock
shattered; pieces flew in different directions.

He pumped the gun. An empty shell casing,
trailed by smoke, flew into the air.

Chris reefed the heavy, rusty chain to the
ground and pushed the big doors open, shotgun still leveled. The
truck headlights beamed into the dark interior.

Silhouetted by the back lights, Chris moved
slowly into the darkness.

He kicked in the door on the first stall.
Empty.

Row by row, he stormed the stalls. Each
stall empty, except one: an apple core lay in the center of the
room. Browning, decaying—at least two days old.

Chris carefully edged into the room, his
shotgun and light sweeping the dark corners. No other signs of
life.

He reached the last one, readied himself,
breathing in deeply with anticipation. He wiped sweat from his
brow, then stepped back and exploded with the last big kick. The
door gave way with little fight and slapped the hard wall behind
it.

He lowered his gun, letting out a sigh of
defeat. The stall ... empty.

Chris cautiously walked out into the open
space in front of the shed. His eyes moved up to the dark
house.

***

The sound of a shotgun blast ripped through
the farm house. A large chunk of the recently repaired back door
shattered into the house like confetti. The door lock, now a
massive hole.

The flashlight beam cut through floating
shotgun smoke and wood dust as Chris breached the damaged door into
the house.

He wasn’t sure how quickly Frank and Roy
would make it back here, but he knew he had to move quickly. He
wanted to check every square inch of this place. What secrets would
be revealed?

Chris bypassed the ground floor—he’d seen
this part of the house. He wanted to know what was upstairs. The
first step creaked under his weight. He paused, peering up into the
dark, empty space at the top.

Each step creaked, despite a carefully
placed foot. The sound almost seemed deafening.

His senses in high gear. Constantly checking
in front, behind, for any impending danger.

The last time he entered Frank’s house
uninvited he was knocked unconscious and held hostage. This time he
wouldn’t be so unlucky. They had shown their cards and he had shown
his; and it all didn’t match up. These guys weren’t playing
anymore; this was serious shit.

He finally reached the top; gun locked to
his shoulder. He scanned the hall, finger edging on the trigger
guard—safe position, but ready to shoot in a heartbeat.

A bead of sweat ran down the side of his
face.

The flashlight lit up the small, wooden
corridor. It stretched in both directions. Four wooden doors. One
to the right, the other three left.

Chris didn’t really know what he was looking
for up here. He didn’t really know these people. For all he knew he
might find Emma’s body or, God forbid, Shawn’s body.

He was afflicted by the sudden desire to
shoot anything that moved.

He went right first, moving slowly. The old,
wooden floor boards creaked with each slow step.

He twisted the worn, brass door handle. The
master bedroom’s door slowly opened. Moonlight poured through the
large windows. Chris could see the bedroom was in a mess. Papers
littered the floor, the walls covered in pictures. Similar to the
images down in the living room: newspaper clippings, pictures of
UFOs. But this was on a much larger scale than the living room.

Chris was suddenly entranced. An entire wall
dedicated to Emma. Not your normal dedication. Pictures covered the
entire wall, like wallpaper. Old photos of a younger Emma; more
modern photos right before she vanished.

It was a shrine. It was creepy. It made
Frank appeared to be an obsessive, stalker husband.

Chris moved down the hallway carefully. Each
step carefully placed. He grabbed hold of the next door handle.
Locked. Why? Why was it locked? For now he would leave it and check
the other doors.

He proceeded to the last two doors. Chris
recognized the second last room—he had been a hostage there.

Behind the last door was another bedroom. It
was empty. Even though it was a long shot, he secretly hoped that
maybe Shawn had been caught up in all this and was behind one of
these doors. He had to keep telling himself that he wasn’t
there.

Chris returned to the last door, paused for
a minute, cocked his head to one side to listen; the room silent.
One last check of his surrounds—all clear.

He lunged forward with a powerful front
kick, destroying the door jamb on impact. Pieces of wood flew into
the air.

Gun raised, his light snapped around the
room. The light stopped dead, highlighting four bodies lying in the
center of the floor.

Adrenaline pumped through his solar plexus.
His skin prickled. He held his breath.

He was too late.

Slowly the light moved up towards the female
body’s face. He imagined seeing dead, black eyes staring back at
him. Empty. A white face. He almost dared not look.

Would he be able to look at Shawn’s lifeless
face?

What had these sick bastards done?

Terrified, he had to push past the state of
freezing where he stood.

The bright light met her face. He almost
looked away, a split second before looking.

Suddenly she squinted.

It was Mrs. Baker. And she was alive. The
Baker family was alive!

All four of them huddled together on the
floor. Their hands and feet bound. The father, mother and two
daughters, mouths gagged, completely terrified.

Tears welled up in their eyes.

Chris’ fear that the Baker family had been
taken by Frank and Roy were now confirmed.

He told them it was okay now, calming their
nerves as best he could, as he freed them from bondage.

He was relieved to find the family—God only
knew what the sickos might have done to them— but immediately felt
a pit in his stomach. Shawn wasn’t with them. Even though all the
evidence pointed to an alien abduction, he still had to hope that
his son was a victim of a normal kidnapping, not some
extraterrestrial conspiracy.

He felt sick. Hopeless.

He felt he was getting close, yet had
nothing to show for it. And how would he tell Kate? A family was
saved, one his wife didn’t even know was missing, but his own son
was nowhere to be found.

Chris watched on as the Baker family
embraced, joyous that their nightmare was over. Chris was happy for
them. He just wished it was his family celebrating a reunion.

Chris moved out of the room, letting the
family have their space. After making his way outside to bask in
fresh night, he looked into the night sky, slowly pacing back and
forth.

He removed his cell and toyed with it while
he breathed crisp air. He had to let her know what was happening.
He glanced at his phone—nine missed calls and seven text messages.
Shit! With a lump in his throat, he dialed Kate.

“
Dad! Where have you
been?” Melissa’s—Chris’ oldest daughter—voice blasted through the
phone, almost hysterical. “Mom’s in hospital! I didn’t know what to
do.” Her voice quick and shaky, on the verge of tears. “You got to
come home!”

“
Slow down!” Chris
interrupted. “What happened?”

“
I don’t know! I don’t
know!” Her voice was panicked. “She took too many pills. She’s in
hospital.”

“
Is she okay?”

“
I don’t know. I think
so.”

Chris closed his eyes, rubbing a hand across
his forehead. “Where are you?”

“
Please, Dad, you’ve got
to come home now. Please, please.”

“
Melissa, are you at the
hospital?”

“
Ah-huh.”

“
Have the doctors told you
anything?”

“
Sort of.”

“
What’d they
say?”

“
That she’s stable … I
think.” She stopped, holding back tears. “They’ll know more later
today.”

“
Can you call Grandma to
come get you?”

“
I already did. She’s here
already.”

“
Can I talk to
Grandma?”

“
The doctors are talking
to Grandma. Do you want me to get her? “

“
No, that’s fine. Let me
know when you find out more.”

“
Okay.” Melissa started to
calm down. Talking to her dad was comforting. Adults in her life
were now taking charge and she could be a teenager
again.

“
Okay. Good. How are you
and Sarah?”

“
I don’t know. We’re okay
I guess. I didn’t know what to do.” Her voice cracked. “I couldn’t
reach you. I didn’t know what to do.” Overwhelmed, her chin
quivered. “I called Grandma. You need to come home.”

Chris took a deep breath. “I’m coming home,”
he said in a soft voice. “You did good.”

Chris continued to calm his daughter, to
reassure her that all would be well. If only he could borrow some
of that reassurance for himself and his devastated wife.

***

The red glow of the Cherokee’s tail lights
slowly disappeared into the distance. Chris watched on from the
small front veranda as the Baker family made their way to freedom.
Pacing back and forth, he waited for the new enemy to come. He knew
they were coming and that they’d be here soon.

Running wasn’t an option. The Bakers would
soon tell useless officer Jack McKenzie. Cops would swarm this
place soon enough, but he wanted answers first. And he planned on
getting them. There was no time for due process. If they had his
son he wanted to know. Now.

What other secrets might they have?

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

Whatever it took.

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.