Red Centre (2 page)

He spun back to see Roy holding up his
camera phone.

The photo overexposed, Roy frantically
navigated the menu trying to work out how to turn off the
flash.

Frank clenched his teeth in frustration and
turned back, focusing on the craft. Before he could move another
inch an eerie, piercing, bright-bluish spotlight burst from the
object, bathing him in pure, glowing light. He froze. Not by force,
but by fear. The beam of light caused him no harm, but it sent a
shiver down his spine. His heart skipped a few beats. Their
presence no longer a secret. The light a clear indication of
intelligence. But what was on the other side?

The two men scrambled, running back down the
rocky hill as fast as they could go. They didn’t want to know the
answer to that question. They twisted, climbed and jumped over
rocks and mounds as they went.

At the base, the two men split. Frank headed
right. Roy veered left, holding up his jeans with one hand, and
shone the flashlight with the other.

Panicked, he slipped, his large body
thudding hard to the ground. His face smashed into the dirt and
mud. Dazed for a moment, he quickly stumbled back to his feet. Wet,
muddy clothes stuck to his bulging, bruised body.

Spinning around frantically he checked to
see if anything was chasing him, flashlight waving in the darkness.
He didn’t know what might be chasing him, but Roy was sure running
for dear life. Mud and dirt partially blinded him; he sucked in
sharp, short breaths of air. He wiped at his stinging eyes.

***

Frank barged through the front door. The
wind howling, rain beating on the iron roof. He bolted it locked
behind him. He leant his back against the door, closing his eyes
for a moment, taking in what he had witnessed. He heard Emma doing
the dishes in the other room, completely unaware of what had just
happened. Water dripped off every part of him onto the worn,
hardwood floors. Soaked clothes stuck to his body. His boots
covered in mud. No time to relax. He rushed past the kitchen and up
the stairs.

Emma heard his boots thump by. Her eyes
followed his dirty trail of mud and water along the clean floors
and up the steps. She dried her hands on her apron, staring up the
stairwell. Something was amiss. Lightning flashed through the
window, followed by a crash of thunder. Deafening.

The bedroom door flew open with a squeak.
Wind and rain rushed in the open window. The long, white, lacy
curtains whipped about fiercely. An old, antique wardrobe sat in
the corner of the room. Frank tapped along the very top. Searching.
His fingertips finally came into contact with a carefully wrapped
double-barrel shotgun. Stripping the fine cloth from the gun, he
cracked it open. Empty.

Balancing the gun butt on his left forearm
and secured with his hand, he searched in the wardrobe with his
free hand. He threw items from the top shelf—books, bits of
clothing. A box of shotgun cartridges fell to the ground; shells
bounced off the hardwood floor, rolling in different directions.
“Son-a-bitch,” he muttered to himself through clenched teeth, as he
got down on all fours. Grabbing at scattered shells, he frantically
loaded the two barrels. He stuffed a few more into his pockets,
getting to his feet.

The beating rain, suddenly quiet; as though
an umbrella had been placed over the house. Frank slowly looked
toward the ceiling. His heavy, thumping heart was about to burst
through his chest. Water still dripped from his wet hair.

A red glow crept along the floor, filling
the space. Behind him a sharp, blinding-white light burst through
the open windows, illuminating the entire room. It was as though
someone just turned on the sun. It was surreal. He had never
experienced anything like it before, but he knew he couldn’t sit by
and watch.

Frank snapped the gun closed. Go time.

He moved to the window to secure a better
look. A large, red-glowing craft floated roughly ten feet above the
Corbin’s house. No sound or thrust emitted from the craft. Gravity
didn’t appear to affect it.

Several large beams shot down at the house,
engulfing it in bluish-white light. This felt like a dream or more
like a nightmare than something happening to him right now.

Two steps at a time, Frank bounded down the
stairs. The old guy still agile. As he reached the bottom of the
stairs he was met by the wide-open front door. The bright light and
wind rushed into his home.

Gun trained—securing the house from an
unknown enemy. He wiped the water and sweat from his face with an
open hand. Don’t make a friggin’ noise. He cautiously moved toward
the kitchen to rescue Emma.

His eyes carefully scanned the kitchen.
Empty.

He frantically blinked his eyes to clear
them of any excess moisture. His eyes were drawn to the wet dish
cloth that lay on the floor by the sink. Fingers gripped the gun a
little more tightly. With realization, panic filled his face, his
eye twitched—Emma was gone. Taken.

Attention turned to the front door, he
watched as the bright light began to creep back out, drifting away
from his house. His beautiful wife drifting away with it. Rain
started to ping the iron roof again.

Taking no care for his own safety, he ran
through the front door into the middle of his front yard. Rain and
debris blew into his eyes. Red light engulfed his body. He looked
up into the fireball as it ascended into the sky.

Frank took aim. Both barrels exploded at the
craft. The craft didn’t change direction or speed. He quickly
reloaded, wiped heavy rain from his eyes, and fired again. The
12-gauge recoiled hard into his shoulder. Water sprayed from the
barrel. He repeated the process over and over until his pockets
were empty.

The red glow was soon gone, fading into the
night sky.

He fell to his knees in a pool of water and
mud. Helpless. Defeated and alone. There was nothing more he could
do. The rain covered his face as he looked into the air, like a
statue looking at the gods.

He blinked fast to clear his vision.

Lightning flashed across the angry,
cloud-covered night sky.

Two Years Later

The hot, desert, midday sun beat down on a
two-lane highway which divided the desert in two. The highway
stretched as far as the eye could see in both directions. Heat
waves rose off the black asphalt. Everything still. Not even a
breeze. Barren land. Two ugly crows perched on a dead tree a little
way off, their awful screech shattering the silence.

A bright red Jeep Grand Cherokee sped past.
Not your standard issue. The limited edition, luxury kind, with
twenty-inch wheels and leather trim. Covered in dust, it looked as
though it had been pounding the road for a while.

The Cherokee hugged the road tightly, doing
at least ninety-five, probably more.

Chris Marshall sat behind the wheel. An
American. Rugged forty-four-year-old. He was dressed in a polo tee
and tan pants, as though he was going golfing, not driving through
the outback of Australia. A large map lay sprawled on the passenger
seat. He had one eye on the road and one on his GPS. Not that it
did him any good. He couldn’t figure out the GPS and he was on the
wrong side of the road. In the land Down Under you drive on the
left. He knew that, but was yet to realize it. He sped down the
lonely highway going the wrong way. Lucky for him cars (and people)
are few and far between out here.

Chris peered over the steering wheel. The
road lasted forever. He wasn’t used to such an uninhabited place;
the surroundings alien. To him, this sparse, ancient land had
turned to powdered rust—everywhere, rusty, red dirt.

Jetlag had well and truly set in. He palmed
tired, bloodshot eyes. Being in the air for over twenty-two hours
and another fifteen hours on the road had taken its toll. He hated
traveling. Traveling for work all the time had almost made him feel
like a vagabond. The company would fly him all over stateside for
meetings and at times meaningless business decisions. If he had to
drive more than twenty minutes, it was too far.

But this time it wasn’t business or
pleasure.

The task ahead of him was daunting in this
sparse, foreign land. His body was also struggling to adjust to the
hot climate. He had just come from Denver, where there was snow on
the ground, to this—a barren wasteland. Hell was cooler than this
place.

Out of the hazy horizon, a large road train
came into focus. A two-hundred-ton truck, pulling four trailers. A
lot bigger than a standard Rocky Mountain double. It was heading
straight for him—head on.

Chris flashed his lights and honked his
horn. “Crazy son-of-a-bitch!”

The truck replied, blasting its large horn
and flashing all its lights. The two vehicles closed in on each
other. Chris eased off the gas, double guessing himself. The large
truck wasn’t budging, holding its lane.

Within seconds the truck
was so close he could almost read its number plate. The truck was
massive, its large, steel bull bar covered by large spotlights,
ready to smash anything and everything out of its way. The rough
driver waved his arm to get Chris to move aside. He wasn’t moving
for
anybody
. With
his load and weight he couldn’t move even if he wanted to. The
truck horn blared again.

Chris jerked the steering wheel, pulling
into the left lane, his wheels catching the edge of the road,
sending dust into the air. Not a moment too soon. The truck barely
missed the Cherokee, shaking it violently as it blew past.

Chris slammed the brakes, pulling over onto
the dirt shoulder to take a breather.

Both hands covered his
face, rubbing his weary eyes and cheeks.
What a day.
He closed his eyes and
flopped his head against the seat rest. It felt good to close his
eyes for a moment, but when he did all he saw was the black road
imprinted on his brain.

A sudden knock on his window jolted his
body. Chris slid his hands from his face, expecting to see a
disgruntled truck driver—ready to kick his ass. Instead a young
women in her mid twenties indicated for him to wind down the
window. The first thing he noticed was her khaki uniform.

What could she
want?
he thought, while lowering the
window.

The young woman was plain and earthy—no
makeup, hair in a ponytail to keep it out of her way.

“
Ya right, mate?!” she
said in a strong Aussie accent.

Chris squinted at her, trying to understand
her foreign lingo.

“
Whatta ya think ya doin’?
You almost got wiped out back there! You could kill someone! You
gotta be more careful!”

Her voice was loud and quick. Chris could
barely catch what she was saying, but he knew from her tone that
she wasn’t happy. He eyed her uniform, trying to figure out if she
was a cop. Her name badge read, “Ranger Lisa.” Luckily, she was
only a park ranger.

Lisa’s eyes wandered around the inside of
the Cherokee: the leather seats, map sprawled out. She looked him
up and down. His fine attire, his short, military-style hair.
“Where ya heading in such a fancy car?”

“
I’m looking for the town
of Hermannsburg,” Chris said in his rich, American
accent.

“
Canadian, eh? No wonder
you were on the wrong side of the road. Bloody hell.”

“
Can you help
me?”

“
Yeah, yeah. It’s just
down the road.” Lisa pointed in the direction he was already
facing. “Keep heading the way you’re going. You’ll see the
sign.”

“
Thanks … arrr,
mate.”

Lisa turned to make her way back to her
well-used, beat-up old Toyota truck. “Stay to the left, remember,”
she yelled back at him.

Chris hung his head out the window and
shouted, “Hey! You wouldn’t happen to know a Frank Corbin, would
you?”

Lisa stopped, turning back to Chris. “He
know you’re coming?”

“
No. He doesn’t know
me.”

“
You a
reporter?”

“
No, ma’am.”

“
He doesn’t like people
just dropping by.”

***

“
As I told you and your
wife on the phone, there was no point coming out here,” said
Sergeant Jack MacKenzie of the Hermannsburg Police Station. “Your
son’s disappearance has been turned over to the Missing Persons
Unit.”

Chris sat across the desk from MacKenzie.
They were in a small, rundown office with faded, white walls. An
old, pale-blue filing cabinet that looked fifty years old sat in
the corner. Backed up paperwork lay everywhere. The old furniture
matched the setting. MacKenzie was a country cop, in his mid
fifties; a little overweight. He was in charge around here. The
town only had around six hundred people. It was a small, outback
Australian country town. Where lawns should be, dirt and dust
decorated home fronts. Harsh conditions.

Chris slid a small photo of Shawn, his
teenage son, across the desk towards MacKenzie. “This is a recent
photo of Shawn.”

MacKenzie reached forward, retrieving the
photo. “The one you emailed me was sufficient ...”

Chris looked on with hope. MacKenzie tapped
his fingers on the desk, staring down at the photo of the young
man. He looked back into Chris’ desperate eyes. “Thank you. I’ll
add this to his file and let you know if we find out anything
else.” MacKenzie locked his fingers together, resting them on his
gut. He swayed back and forth on his chair, very relaxed.

Anger consumed Chris. His body tensed and
for a moment he tried to speak but couldn’t. Were they taking his
son’s disappearance seriously?