Red Centre (14 page)

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.”

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.

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 coffee 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.