Red Centre (16 page)

Frank simply grunted.

The creature was wounded. Chris could see
that. He edged closer to examine it.

It lay motionless. Its eyes looked closed,
although it was hard to tell without moving in even closer.

He couldn’t be sure if it was dead or alive.
A crease formed on his forehead as he grew more concerned for its
welfare. He squatted down a few feet from the gray. He looked back
at Frank, who stayed close to the door. “Is it dead?”

Frank shook his head.

“
We need to get this thing
help,” Chris said. “Professional, government help.”

“
We’ll lose all bargaining
power if ya hand it over to the feds.”

“
If it dies, we lose
everything.”

Frank raised his chin, partially folding his
arms with the double barrel in hand. He didn’t want government
involvement. They had their chance to help when Emma was taken. But
they didn’t want to listen. They thought he was crazy. He had to do
it on his own, and they weren’t going to get their filthy hands on
his new prized possession.

Chris got back to his feet. He moved around
the gray, watching it carefully. He gave it a small shove with his
boot. No response. Chris placed his hands in his pockets. Frozen.
Trying to think of the best course of action. This creature was the
only connection or lead to his son, and it was about to die, if it
wasn’t already dead. How to take control of this operation? That’s
what he had to figure out. Right now, it was all in the hands of
the useless Australian hillbillies.

“
Stand back!” The
immediately recognizable Russian accent broke Chris out of his
trance.

Pav marched toward the creature, holding a
bucket of liquid. A large handkerchief covered half his face. Chris
cleared the path, not sure what the crazy Russian was about to
do.

Pav began pouring the bucket. A watery
substance washed over the gray. Its large, black eyes jerked open.
In desperation it tried to scurry away into a corner. Bound limbs
stalled its efforts. Liquid soaked its body.

Chris glared at Pav, who seemed to be
enjoying the act. “What is it?”

Pav, too focused and in the zone, didn’t
even realize Chris was talking to him.

Chris’ eyes snapped back down to the
helpless creature.

For an instant its black eyes met Chris’,
then closed as Pav poured liquid over its face and head.

Chris felt something. A connection. Maybe
these creatures had a soul. Maybe they were like us, just trying to
work shit out. Chris felt a degree of sympathy for the strange
being. “That’s enough!”

The liquid continued to flow. This must be
the test. The torture. Could it be drain cleaner, bleach? He didn’t
know. The gray didn’t appear to be in visible pain, but it didn’t
seem right.

Chris rushed forward, grabbing Pav by the
collar, pulling him off balance. “That’s enough!”

Pav shoved back, trying to shake him
off.

Chris slammed the crazy old Russian against
the dirty stall wall. Dust burst into the air.

He pinned the old scientist with force. “I
said, that’s enough!” He spoke through clenched teeth.

“
Crazy American. Tough
cowboy.” The Russian let out a chuckle. “You so tough to beat up
old man.”

Chris pulled Pav off the wall, and then
smashed him back against the old, wooden slats.

“
It only salt water,” the
Russian said in defense.

“
It’s not happening like
this.”

Then Chris suddenly froze.

Cold, hard steel from a double barrel press
against the back of his neck. “Ya right, it’s not happening like
this,” Frank said in his gruff voice.

“
Have you even tried to
communicate with it?” Chris didn’t budge, keeping a tight grip on
the Russian’s shirt.

Pav chuckled again. “I don’t think it speak
American.”

Chris released his grip, stepping back.
Frank lowered his gun.

The tension in the room eased.

“
Now that we have bait,
it’s time to go fishin’.” Frank slung the shotgun over his shoulder
as he turned to leave. “Get some rest, Yankee. We roll out
tonight.”

Clanging echoed through the vast wilderness.
Metal on metal. Repeated banging over and over. In a small clearing
amongst the trees, truck headlights highlighted Roy as he stood
over a two-foot metal spike. Old hammer in hand, he drove the spike
into the hard, rocky ground. Attached to the spike, a short chain,
about four feet long. On the other end, the gray, which had a
large, leather collar around its neck, tethered like a mongrel dog
to a chain, its slim limbs still bound with the tape. It lay
motionless in the dirt, watching as Roy finished his job.

The night was dark, quiet. Only the sound of
the leaves blowing in the gentle breeze. Roy wiped his brow. He had
worked up a sweat and was out of energy. Hitching up sagging jeans,
he made his way back to the truck.

Chris sat in the passenger seat of Roy’s
truck. The bench seat was well worn, springs starting to protrude
through the vinyl cover. Old take-out containers littered the
interior, crowding his foot space. He kicked at them to make some
room. Filthy animal.

Roy’s 12-gauge shotgun hung behind him in
the rear window, ready for action.

Displeased with the current plan, Chris
decided to go along with it anyway to see what happened. His son’s
rescue was more important than the gray.

Roy threw the hammer onto the bench seat as
he squeezed into his seat, using the steering wheel to lower his
girth. His sweaty, fat-ass odor filled the truck as he flopped into
position. Chris gagged, instinctively shielding his nose with the
back of his hand. Holy shit. He would have wound down the window to
save his faculties, if it wasn’t broken. His eyes watered. A cough
expelled the feces-filled air from his lungs.

“
Ever thought of taking a
shower?”

“
Whatta you, a
faggot?”

Roy fumbled around on the seat, tossing
papers and empty beer bottles on the floor as he looked for his
hand-held radio. He brought it up to his cracked, dried lips.
“Cedar? This is Seagull ... Ya there Frank?”

Chris looked over at Roy. He was amused by
his piss-poor attempt to use correct radio communication.

The radio crackled back. “Seagull, this is
Cedar.” Frank’s barely recognizable voice muffled through the tiny
speaker. “Go ahead.”

“
The sparrow is in the
nest. Repeat. The sparrow is in the nest.” Roy killed the
headlights.

“
Roger that, Seagull.”
Frank laid his radio on the Humvee’s hood. The Humvee silently
parked up on a small ridge overlooking the clearing where the gray
lay. Pav was on the roof. He had erected the large satellite dish
and plugged different cables into it, a small, hands-free
flashlight attached to his head, lighting the technical work.
Everything was almost in place.

A clear night. No clouds. Frank peered into
the night sky. His eyes moved from star to star, as though he was
looking at suspects. They could have come from anyone of these—and
there were millions, many light years away.

He felt his insignificance.

Frank gripped his double barrel, holding it
close to his body. His eyes wandered back to Pav working on the
truck’s roof. This was the night he had been preparing for, for the
last two years. Finally, everything in place. This was his best
chance to get Emma back, or at least avenge her.

Pav moved around on the roof, like a skinny,
white monkey. Grabbing onto the support bars holding up the dish,
weaving in and out, hooking things together—moving around to the
back, then finally making it down to the ground.

Pausing for a quick, once-over glance at his
work, he then climbed into the back of the Humvee through the rear
door.

The bluish light from the hands-free
flashlight moved around inside the truck. It was crowded with all
kinds of techy gadgets and equipment. Pav took his position on an
old, wooden crate. A makeshift seat in the center of the equipment.
Flicking a few toggle switches, he brought the gear to life. Lights
of all different colors flashed as it powered up. Greenish lights
from a few small computer monitors flickered and flashed,
illuminating the interior. Exposed wires ran all over the place,
connecting the monitors to case-less motherboards and cooling fans.
An improvised computer farm.

He pulled an old computer keyboard onto his
lap, punching in commands. All in Russian. The monitors flickered;
computer code ran across the screen. Pausing for a moment, he took
hold of what looked like an old PC gamer’s joystick.

He cracked his fingers to loosen them
up—ready for the big moment. His fingers wrapped around the
joystick and slowly moved it to the right. Little servo motors on
the truck’s roof kicked in, turning the large dish to the right.
The crazy Russian gave a squeal of joy. Everything seemed to be
working. He moved the stick to the left; the dish complied.

Frank watched from the outside. A crooked
smile grew across his old face. It was payback, bitches. He climbed
into the passenger seat, staring back, giving a nod of approval to
Pav.

Frank took to the radio. “Seagull. We are
go!”

Pav removed the black, alien, oval object
from his top pocket and took a deep breath. The two men stared at
each other with anticipation. A creepy, childlike smile covered
Pav’s pitted face.

This was it.

He positioned his three fingers over the
strange, foreign symbols, pressing them gently.

Nothing.

He was expecting the item to come to life
and to shine its red lights. To make the call. But nothing.
Dead.

He pressed again.

Nothing.

Their anticipation quickly dissipated as the
oval object failed to respond.

Pav scratched the side of his head,
frustrated. He quickly tried again, pressing harder.

Nothing. Shit.

Frank rested his double barrel on the seat
next to him and leaned in closer to see what was happening. “What’s
the problem?”

“
It not
working.”

“
I thought ya knew how to
work it.”

Sweat broke out across Pav’s forehead. He
violently scratched his head again, shook the object up and down,
and then beat it with the palm of his hand. “Ublyudok.”
(bastard).

“
Standby, Seagull.” Frank
said into the radio.

Roy tossed his radio onto his dusty
dashboard. “Son of a bitch!” He bashed the steering wheel with a
restrained hammer fist. “I thought it would be different this
time.”

“
This time?” Chris said.
“How many times have you tried this?”

Roy rested his head against the headrest. “A
few.” He turned his head back and forth, trying to crack his neck
and loosen up. “It’s like fishing. You just have to use the right
bait.” He leant slightly on his right ass cheek and let rip what
sounded like a sloppy fart. Chris closed his eyes and shook his
head slightly, not believing his luck being stuck with this uncouth
idiot.

Chris flung the passenger door open and made
his escape to fresh air.

His foot caught a chunk of trash. He stepped
out and pulled it onto the ground. Frustrated, he squatted down to
collect the crap. Amongst the burger wrappers, soda cups and other
odds and ends, lay a baseball cap, upside down in the dirt.

He quickly threw the trash back into the
truck. As he grabbed the cap to toss it back in, he saw the word
“BAKER” written across the front.

Dusting dirt off it, he examined the word
with his fingers.

Images from only a few days ago of the Baker
family standing in front of the ranger station talking to Lisa
flashed into his mind—the mother, father and their two young
daughters, their matching baby-blue, colored tee-shirts and
baseball caps. Baseball caps with “BAKER” embroidered in yellow
across the front. Each of them.

The Baker’s barren and torn up campsite
flashed into his mind: the camping table on its side, plastic
plates and cups littering the ground.

Chris kept the cap low, out of sight.

He looked up at Roy, who was lost in his own
world, then back at the cap. “What’d you say you used for bait
before?”

“
I didn’t.”

“
What’d you use
then?”

Roy slowly turned to look at Chris. His eyes
suddenly creepy and sinister. He clamped his teeth together, as
though he was taking a bite of something. The two men locked in a
death stare. Chris closed his fist tight.

“
Humans.” Roy let the word
escape his lips slowly and arrogantly. Unnerving.

Roy’s sinister voice echoed in Chris’ ears.
He wasn’t sure if what he was thinking was true, but it scared the
hell out of him if it was. He had been associated with these guys
and that would make him an accomplice to whatever twisted world
Frank, Roy and the Russian had created.

The two men moved at the same time. Roy for
his shotgun. Chris towards Roy.

Chris threw the cap at him. A distraction.
Then dove headfirst through the truck, punching Roy in the face,
pinning him against the window and door.

In the struggle Roy snatched the shotgun
from its rack.

Chris wrestled, controlling the gun’s
aim.

Suddenly the deadly sound of the shotgun
discharged. The rear window exploded. The truck cabin rocked. The
sound echoed through the outback national park for miles.

Then silence.

Frank jolted in his seat. He jumped out of
the Humvee, moving in the direction of the gunshot blast. A deep
look of concern crossed his face.

“
Seagull?” he said into
the walkie-talkie. “Everything okay down there, Roy? What the
bloody hell was that?”