Red Centre (15 page)

“
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.

“
Ya right?” Frank broke
the silence.

Chris slowly opened his eyes. Frank was
staring straight at him. Chris rubbed his eyes and gave an awkward
cough. “Just tired.”

Chris searched for conversation to break the
weirdness. Frank continued chomping food again.

“
Ah, nice little ranch you
got here,” Chris said, stabbing a slice of tomato with his fork.
“How long you been here?” He popped the whole piece into his mouth,
not accustomed to eating fried tomato.

Frank didn’t look up. He pushed his mouthful
to one side of his mouth. “Forty.”

“
Forty years?” Chris
questioned.

Frank nodded.

“
A long time to be in one
place. Not too many people do that anymore.” Chris took hold of the
bread, running it around in some of the bacon grease. “This would
have to be your first home. Right?”

“
Me granddad always told
me, ‘Get ya block of land. Take care of the land and it’ll take
care of you.’ And that’s what I did.” Frank looked up at Chris. “It
was one of the smartest things I’ve done in me life.”

***

A thin layer of dust had covered the
Cherokee but you could hardly tell, as the four-by-four was in
desperate need of a wash. Chris stood at the open passenger door,
the cell phone to his ear and its lead connected to the car
charger.

“
... and how are the
girls?” He spoke in a soft, strained voice. Emotionally
exhausted.

It was hard, thinking about his son; it was
even harder talking about him; and it was almost unbearable
updating his fragile wife about him.

To have to tell Kate he still didn’t have
any leads and hadn’t made any progress—that crushed his soul.

During times of stress, he preferred
silence. To cocoon and think. But he also knew his wife needed
support, his support.

At times he almost felt like throwing up. It
would be easier for him if he didn’t have to talk to her. It hurt
too much. It would be easier if he could just phone when the time
came and say, “I’ve found him. He’s safe. We’re coming home.”
That’s what he wanted. That would make everything all right.

“
They miss you,” Kate
said, sitting on the end of her king-size bed, dwarfed and alone in
her room. Dark circles under her eyes. She wasn’t sleeping well.
She dusted non-existent fluff from her pale-pink, silky pajamas as
she talked. The room was fresh and bright. White, linen sheets.
Cream-colored walls, with lacy, white curtains. It looked very
clean, almost clinical.

She paused, closing her eyes. “You should
just come home.” She couldn’t believe she said it, because she knew
it was giving up. Giving up on Shawn. But maybe it was harder with
both of them gone. She needed Chris for support. Maybe the
authorities could find her son without Chris’ help. Life needed to
go on. The girls still had to go to school. She still had to go to
work. The house still had to be cleaned. Food had to be purchased.
She now felt like a single mother, grieving the loss of a child on
her own. She could barely go on. Even eating was a struggle.
Everything forced.

Chris glanced at his watch, looking at the
date more than the time. “Give me two more days … Three tops.”

Kate stared at the ceiling, fighting back
tears. She knew two or three more days wasn’t too much more to ask.
Not for their son. She felt selfish. She needed to be held. She
needed a shoulder to cry on. She needed the only other person that
understood what she was going through to be with her. Her life
partner. Her soul mate.

Wiping tears from her eyes, she sucked in
air—a shuddered breath. No longer holding back, she let the tears
flow freely down her face. She lowered the phone, placing it on her
lap.

Chris could hear the sobbing. Tears welled
up in his eyes. If he could just be there to hold her. Comfort her.
Stroke her blonde hair—to tell her it would be okay. But that
wasn’t going to happen. Not right now anyway. He looked around to
see if anyone was looking. This ... this was what was crushing his
soul. Clouding his mind. The last thing he needed in his vulnerable
state of mind was Roy poking at him with a stick of insults. He
couldn’t handle that. He would probably shoot the fat bastard dead
if that happened and spend the rest of his days behind bars.

***

Metallic clanging echoed from shed one, like
a hammer on metal, immediately grabbing Chris’ attention as he
walked around the side of the house.

The large shed doors were wide open,
welcoming the warm, morning sunshine. He approached curiously. The
clanging grew louder.

With neck craned around the large, open
door, he eyed a huge, mysterious vehicle, partially uncovered.

The heavy-duty, gray canvas tarp had been
folded back to reveal the hood. Judging by the front end, the
vehicle appeared to be a military grade Humvee. Beige and sandy
color—perfect camo when driving around the Middle East. The massive
bullbar, covered in an array of spotlights, looked menacing.

The perfect vehicle for Frank’s own private
war.

As Chris moved in to investigate, he could
see Frank’s legs and feet sticking out from underneath. He banged
around, most likely repairing something on the truck.

Pav, the crazy Russian, circled around the
truck, as though he was an eagle waiting for its prey to make a
move. He ran his two hands through his crazy hair and yelled at
Frank. “Ostanovit’ udariv po nemu!”

Pav yelled again. “Stop hitting it
Mudak!”

“
What’s he doing?” Chris
enquired.

Pav glanced at Chris, ignoring the question.
He bent over, placing his hands on knees to inspect Frank’s work.
After a moment, Frank wriggled his way out from under the truck. He
sat up, wiping his grease-covered hands with an old, oil-stained
rag.

Chris walked past the two men, pulling back
part of the tarp to confirm his assumption. “You were serious when
you said we’re at war.” He pointed to the unusually shaped rooftop.
“Is that a mounted fifty cal?”

Frank shook his head as he strained to push
himself up using both hands on the oil-stained cement floor. He
wobbled a little, grabbed his hip and propped himself against the
Humvee, clearing his throat to speak—

“
Not gun,” Pav interrupted
with a thick, Russian accent and waving his arms. “EMP.”

“
That’s enough, Pavlova!”
Frank chastised.

“
PAVLOVICH!”

Frank waved his hand at him, dismissing his
correction. “Nah.”

“
Mudak.”
(“asshole”)

Chris looked back and forth between the two
men, waiting for an explanation. None was forthcoming. He grabbed
the large tarp and dragged it off, revealing the rest of the
armored vehicle.

Along the roof was another row of
spotlights, mounted on a metal bar. In the center of the roof,
lying flat, was a large, gray, metal dish, which resembled an
upside-down satellite dish.

He moved around the outside, examining the
exterior for any other modifications. He was used to this
vehicle—driving one many times during his service in the Guard.
However, he was not familiar with the mounted dish.
“Electromagnetic pulse?” he questioned.

“
Directed-energy weapon.”
Pav folded his arms. He stared at Frank. This was his project. His
work. And he wanted Chris to know it. “Big microwave. Cook
circuits. Lights out. Goodbye.” He chuckled at his
analogy.

“
You’re going to shoot
them down?” Chris said. “With that!”

Frank tossed his oily cloth onto the hood.
“We stole the idea from your mob.”

“
I not steal!” Pav pounded
his chest. “US government stole from Russia first.”

“
The US government still
hasn’t perfected it. Why do you think yours will work?” Chris
questioned. “How are you even going to power it?”

“
Compression generator.”
Pav scratched the back of his head. “Using high
explosives.”

Chris wasn’t buying it. “What are you going
to do when you shoot it down? You do realize there’ll be more than
one? It’s not like it’s you versus one of them.”

Pav looked over at Frank for reassurance.
Frank shifted his weight.

“
It’s a work in progress,”
Frank said.

“
What’s that even mean?”
Chris scratched his freshly shaven, raw face. “Shouldn’t we focus
our efforts on getting Emma and Shawn back, rather than trying to
blow these things out of the air with something that won’t even
work?”

“
We’ll be running tests,”
Pav interjected.

“
What tests?” Chris
pressed.

“
On the creature.” Pav
looked directly at Chris. “See its weaknesses.”

“
So you’re torturing it?”
Chris shook his head in disbelief. “I want to see it.”

“
Not now,” Frank
said.

“
If you want your money,
you need to make me an equal around here.”

Frank pressed his thin lips firmly together,
not wanting to budge on his decision.

“
Frank! I want to see
it.”

The old man shook his head.

“
That’s not a
request.”

***

The old shed was dark and dingy. Like a
dungeon. Damp. Moldy.

A few dust- and cobweb-covered incandescent
light bulbs hung from the high ceiling. They sparked to life,
providing very little light. Frank carried his trusted double
barrel as he led Chris down a large passageway straight down the
middle. Old farm tools—pitchfork, rakes, shovels—decorated the
interior.

Large cracks patterned the stain-covered
cement floor. The layout was more like a barn, with different
stalls lining the outer walls, used for housing animals and storage
years ago.

The stalls were made from crude wood,
splitting from age. Large gaps between each wooden slat provided
minor ventilation. The walls only stood about six feet and didn’t
reach the very high, cathedral-like iron roof. The years of animals
shitting all over the place and walking over the floor had made it
a disgusting place. Sunlight crept in through holes and gaps in the
walls and roof.

The shed moaned in the gentle wind. The old,
rusted iron and rotting wood was barely holding itself together. A
sound drifted through the air above the moan of the shed. Maybe a
distant cough. It was too faint and muffled to tell for sure what
it was, but it could have been a woman’s cough or maybe even a
child. Frank didn’t seem to flinch. Maybe it was just the moan of
the shed.

Chris proceeded with
caution.
He
glanced around, trying to take everything in. His gut was
telling him something wasn’t right. The hair on his arms prickled.
High alert.

The pair finally reached a stall at the
middle of the passageway. A makeshift door blocked the entrance.
Two simple, white, sanding respirators hung from an old, rusty nail
in the center of the door. Covered in dirt and sweat stains, they
looked well worn. Chris hesitated to put the mask on, before
snapping it tightly to his face.

It smelled how it looked—old socks in a
locker. But, it was either get grossed out by thoughts of the
previous wearer, or be subject to whatever disease the alien
creature could be carrying.

The door slowly opened. Chris surveyed the
room. The gray creature lay motionless in the corner. Its hands and
feet were bound with duct tape. A situation he had found himself in
not too long ago.

Bits of fruit were scattered on the floor.
Pieces of apple and banana were browning as they decayed.

Frank let Chris enter first. First step
cautious. His eyes moved around the crude, unsanitary room.

Chris glanced back at Frank. “I hope Emma
and Shawn are being held under better conditions.”