Red Centre (9 page)

Mogo pointed to the cave, not willing to go
any further. The old Aborigine gave Frank a nod. He had done his
job.

Frank repositioned his fingers around his
double barrel. His eyes traveled along Mogo’s dark, outstretched
arm and dirt-covered finger, gripping the entrance to the dark
cave. Mogo turned and disappeared into the surroundings.

Frank moved to the cave entrance, pushing
back the shrubs. It was a small opening, barely big enough for a
man to get through. It looked as though it went down deep into the
earth, but it was hard to see. They weren’t prepared for
spelunking. They didn’t even have a flashlight. And who knew what
could be in there? There were a thousand things that could kill you
in these parts, excluding aliens.

Roy came over for a closer look at the cave,
his pit-bull leading the way. The dog let out a growl, peeling back
its lips to display large, saliva-coated teeth. It then exploded
into a savage burst of barking, jerking hard against the chain
leash, rising up on its back legs. Saliva sprayed from its
blood-stained mouth. Roy fought to control the rabid-like dog.
Something was definitely in there. He looked over to Frank—what
now?

Chris inched right to the edge to see what
the men were up to, even though he knew he still wouldn’t be able
to hear what they were saying. After a moment, Frank headed back in
the direction they came from, leaving Roy to guard the cave. Chris
stayed low to avoid detection.

Roy looked around, already bored. The hot
sun beat down on him. He spat on the ground, a string of saliva
sticking to his hair-prickled chin, and moved a short distance back
to take cover under a small, leafy tree. He flopped to the ground
to rest. The shotgun rested on his knee, pointed at the cave
entrance. He wasn’t going anywhere.

Chris watched Frank disappear into the
wilderness. He had to make a choice: keep eyes on the fat bastard,
or follow Frank.

***

Frank’s F-250 truck was backed in close to
the Corbin house, right near the front door.

Chris crept along the side of the house,
staying low and out of sight. He moved to the corner, peering
around to see what he could find. Frank came through the front door
juggling an armful of supplies: bottled water, packaged food,
backpack. He made repeated trips in and out, loading his truck with
rope, shovels and other tools.

After Frank finished loading, he removed a
large set of keys and locked his front door. It was
three-inch-thick hardwood and had four locks to secure it. Overkill
for these parts, but considering what he had gone through in the
last two years—justified.

The F-250 sped away, up the dirt trail.

Chris watched on as the truck disappeared
into the distance. He glanced at his watch. The day was starting to
get away from him and he wasn’t sure what these two were up to.
This wasn’t getting him any closer to finding Shawn. All this alien
shit had screwed with his head. He couldn’t lose another day.

He turned to leave, but something caught his
attention: the front window had been blacked out with what looked
like black paint. This man obviously liked his privacy. Maybe it
was all the reporters hounding him when his wife disappeared that
took him to the brink of complete seclusion; or maybe it was just
that his wife was gone.

His eyes moved to another
window, and then another. All the windows in front had been blacked
out. His mind started to race.
Maybe Frank
was crazy and killed his wife. Or maybe she was still alive, but
they didn’t want anyone to see. Lots of thoughts ransacked his
mind. Chris couldn’t help it, he had to know. Was his wife in
there? Was Shawn in there?

Chris pounded on the front door. “Hello?” He
glanced around. “Mrs. Corbin?”

No answer.

He moved around the house, looking. All the
windows were the same—thick, black paint; except for one at the
rear of the house, on which the paint was a little thinner. He must
have been low on paint. Chris glanced around to see if anyone was
watching him. He was alone. There were two large, rust-covered,
corrugated-iron sheds at the back. Big enough to house large
farming equipment or a small plane. They were old and rusted out,
sitting side by side. Both had a chain and lock on their large,
hangar-style doors.

Chris slowly put his eye close to the
window. Peering through some of the streak marks he could just
barely see into the dark house. A dim light was on, maybe a lamp.
Chris repositioned himself to get a better look. Suddenly a shadow
flashed across the wall. Chris stumbled back.

He quickly moved to the back door.

It wasn’t heavy duty like the front door and
had only one lock. He pounded on it. “Mrs. Corbin! Emma Corbin!” He
scratched his head, frustrated. “I saw you, Mrs. Corbin!”

He pounded the door again with the palm of
his hand. This was bullshit! He tried the door handle, twisting it
back and forth. Locked.

“
I’m coming in, Mrs.
Corbin!” He twisted the handle and pushed on the door. It didn’t
budge.

Chris raced over to the window again,
pressing his face against the black glass. He tapped on the window.
“Mrs. Corbin?”

He ran back to the door and thumped on it.
Chris paused, backed up a little and charged the door, shoulder
first. He bounced off it, exhaling. He moved back, repositioned
himself and unleashed several heavy kicks. The door burst open.
Part of the door jamb missiled across the room.

A stale smell of body odor mixed with
mothballs and what smelled like rotting food washed over him,
burning his nose. He covered his face with his shirt.

“
Mrs. Corbin?” he said in
a subdued voice, slowly entering. An old washing machine and
rusted-out tub sat in the corner of the room. He was in the
laundry. A flickering light burned in what was probably the living
room, just up ahead.

He moved further into the house along a
small, dark corridor, toward the lamp. He cautiously entered a
small living room where the flickering lamp rested on a wooden
coffee table. Pictures of people, newspaper clippings and pictures
of UFOs taped around the walls immediately caught his attention.
Hundreds of pictures and articles decorated the room. One picture
froze him in his tracks. His stomach churned.

The picture … his son, Shawn.

“
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.

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.