Red Centre (20 page)

After a quick wind up, smoke began to rise
from some of the CPUs, filling the cab. The smell of melting
plastic filled the space.

As fast as it started, the hum wound down.
Lights flickered and monitors shut down. Pav grabbed at the toggle
switches, flicking them off and on. “Der’mo! Der’mo!” (“Shit!
Shit!”) he screamed. He thrashed the joystick up and down, pulling
on the wire.

The weapon was done. Fried. They didn’t have
the power to run it. It sucked the vehicle dry, leaving it
dead.

Frank bashed the steering wheel as the
vehicle died. The headlights went out; the dash blacked out.
“Useless bloody Russian!”

“
It’s not my fault,” Pav
yelled back at him, tossing his arms into the air. “Cheap shit!”.
He tossed the keyboard and joystick from his lap, getting to his
feet.

Using his boot he pushed computer gear off a
large, military-style, pale-green case, with white Russian writing
decorating the outside. A creepy smile crossed his face. “Plan B,”
he said to himself softly.

As he exited the truck Frank grabbed his
gun, taking cover behind the door. Trying to work out who to shoot
first, he shifted his gun from side to side. Blinding light from
the craft and dust blowing into his eyes from the pounding wind
didn’t make aiming easy.

Roy ducked down, getting
on the floor of the truck.
A coward move.
He cracked under the pressure of coming face to face with the
creatures.

Pav exited the back of the truck, an old
1949 RPG-2 shoulder-mounted, anti-tank grenade launcher glued to
his shoulder. The grenade on top, missile shaped.

Chris did a double take on Pav armed with
the rocket launcher. Not wanting to wait around to see what was
going to happen next he bolted for cover. He slid across the dirt,
hiding behind the shit wagon’s hood. This had become a war
zone.

Pav re-positioned the weapon on his left
shoulder. Closing his right eye he lined up the iron sight on the
alien craft. “Do svidaniya, asshole,” (Goodbye asshole) he
whispered to himself. He squeezed the trigger. A blast of fire and
smoke blew out the back of the launcher as the rocket fired. Six
little stabilizer fins unfolded from the rocket grenade as it
hurled towards its intended target.

The rocket whizzed past Chris and the truck
toward the craft. Everything happened so fast—but for Chris
everything seemed to slow down: the noise of the rocket echoing in
his ears, the sudden surge of heat, the trailing line of smoke.

The three gray beings stood firm, seemingly
unaware of the damage that was about to be unleashed on them.

The projectile flew past, flying into the
nearby trees, into darkness—it missed. Seconds later an orange
fireball erupted from surrounding trees, along with a massive
boom.

Chris covered his ears. “Holy shit!”

Black smoke drifted into
the air. A wave of heat from the explosion
stabbed at the men’s faces. Each shielded his face with a
raised arm.
For a moment dark night seemed
like day.

Bits of trees—branches and leaves—slowly hit
the ground around the vehicles and the craft.

The RPG-2 was old, not known for accuracy.
But it was all Pav could get his hands on.

A second grenade whizzed
through the air. More trees exploded in a flash of orange
light.

“
Fuck.
Shit.”
Pav threw the useless
launcher to the ground and scurried for cover in the
thick trees and shrubs behind him.

The shock of two blasts
left everyone stunned, except the unfazed aliens. The crack of a
single shot suddenly ruptured the silence,
its echo heard for miles. Frank lifted his head from the gun
sights.
Smoke curled from the
barrel.
He squinted, checking the intended
target.

Chris turned his head. What had the old fool
shot? A sentinel dropped to its knees, a large, gaping wound
pumping purple liquid from its chest.

Chris’ eyes grew wide. His
heartbeat slowed. Every beat thumped his chest. A silent calm
drifted over the road, as though everyone was holding their breath.
The wind even seemed to be still. The other aliens, still. This was
a whole new level.
What had Frank
done?

The sentinel’s body fell to the hard ground.
Its head smashed into dirt, bouncing slightly. Dust covered its
lifeless face.

Dead.

Frank cracked open the
double barrel to reload. Unexpectedly and from out of the shadows
burst a figure, diving at him, sliding across the hood and kicking
the door into him. The old man stumbled, regaining his
balance.
“Son-a-bitch!” he
grunted.

Chris slid off the hood and grabbed at
Frank’s gun. The two men locked up in close-quarter combat, the
empty, open double barrel tossed aside. They crashed to the ground,
wrestling for control. They grunted, struggling for dominance. A
raw brawl.

Loose grass and mud
covered their bodies. Shirts ripped.
Adrenaline pumped.

Frank was one tough old bastard, even with a
wounded leg. He liked to brawl and he wasn’t going to let Chris get
in the way of his war.

Luck had insisted Frank land on top in the
struggle. Rain continued to fall; large, heavy droplets covered the
men. He pinned Chris to the ground and threw a barrage of solid
punches.

Chris defended as best he
could from Frank’s ruthless onslaught, covering his face with both
elbows. Instinctively he recalled jiu-jitsu combat training from
his days in the Guard, and swept the old man onto his
back
,
almost
knocking the wind from Frank’s lungs; the position
reversed.

Chris gripped him around
the throat and locked up one of Frank’s arms, stopping him from
punching.
Chris would rather defuse the
situation and continue his extraterrestrial negotiations than bust
up an old man.

Frank gasped for air, face
red, as he struggled to break the tight grip around his neck.
Having been in tight spots before, there were no plans to yield.
His free hand frantically searched for a weapon: rocks, sticks,
anything.

Sandy mud slammed into
Chris’ eyes
,
blinding him.
Releasing his grip on
Frank, he grabbed his stinging eyes.

Frank quickly followed
with another fistful of mud, palmed into Chris’ mouth.

Gagging and coughing Chris
sucked dirt to the back of his throat. Saliva and blood mixed with
dirt dribbled down Chris’ chin. He blindly struggled to control
Frank.
Chris spat blood-colored mud and
looked to the sky for rain to rinse his burning eyes. The rain
offered little help.

Frank rolled a coughing
Chris off him and staggered to his feet.

A vicious kick to the gut
knocked Chris onto his back, buckling him in pain. Desperately he
searched for air. To breathe. Nothing.
Passing out at any moment was a real possibility.

After what felt like
minutes, Chris inhaled air
—
like stripping plastic wrap from
his face. The air almost sweet.

With battered arms Chris
covered his head as a relentless barrage of kicks and punches from
different angles targeted his bloodied face.

Chris blindly searched for
his attacker, grabbing in air at the flurry of legs and
fists.

Blood, mixed with
rainwater and sweat, ran down the side of Frank’s face. His left
eye swollen.
Catching his breath, he
paused to wipe blood from his face with the back of his sleeve. He
spat on Chris
, then
resumed the onslaught. Killing him, an option.

Rain became heavier,
beating down on the men. Mud and water splashed wildly.

Almost by luck, one of
Chris’ blind-air grabs paid off, catching Frank’s leg.
Chris yanked. Hard.

Frank’s back slapped into
a pool of muddy water.

With clenched teeth Chris
let out a roar, like a wounded wild animal breaking free. He
sprawled to hands and knees
—
and charged.

Enough was
enough.

He dived on the fallen
Frank, unleashing hammer fist after hammer fist, pounding the old
guy’s face and chest.

Frank’s unconscious head
bounced in and out of muddy water with each blow. Blood and dirty
water painted his face.

A brutal attack.
Chris had reached a point of no return. He might
not be able to stop. Defense now turned to rage.

A shot rang
out.

Chris stopped.
Warm liquid spread across his cold, wet
shirt.
He grabbed his
side
—
dark, warm
blood quickly covered his fingers, followed by sudden burning deep
in his side. Like a fire poker penetrating his ribs.
He dropped off Frank, disorientated.

With blurred vision he
eyed Roy standing near the truck, a .357 revolver in
hand.

Chris gently rolled to his
back in a pool of bloody, brown water.
He
tried to sit up, but somehow couldn’t.
He
tried to speak, but nothing came out.
Rain
peppered his face; his hand bandaged his side.

He heard Roy’s voice,
deep, slow and rolling. “Ya right, Frank?”

Chris slowly turned his
head to Frank, ear submerging into water and mud.

Frank blinked his eyes,
slowly coming to. He rolled to his knees.

Chris struggled to breathe. Each breath like
a knife stab. His body pale. Fingertips numb. The rain washed over
him. He blinked slowly to clear the water from his eyes, to focus.
As he opened them, the round, stainless steel barrel of Roy’s .357
came into view, followed by his ugly face. He grinned, showing a
half-toothless smile.

Chris dropped his right arm, in no condition
to fight and no match for a .357 magnum. Slipping a hand into his
pocket he grabbed at the pocketknife; the only line of defense.
Just grazing the top of the handle, his fingers stretched for
it.

Roy stomped on Chris’ leg with his large
cowboy boot, twisting the heel back and forth to cause as much pain
as possible. Chris screamed in pain. In desperation he pushed his
hand further into his pocket, fumbling for the knife.

“
Ya ain’t gonna get off
that easy.” Roy cocked the gun.

Chris could smell his stinking breath. He
needed to get the blade.

Noticing the movement, Roy eyed Chris’
fumblings. He raised the gun to lay down a pistol whipping.

Chris snagged the handle. With a last burst
of energy he sat up and stabbed Roy in the thigh, twisting the
blade sideways. The fat bastard squeal in pain and landed on his
fat ass, grabbing at his leg. The gun dropped into the mud.

Chris flopped back, energy
now completely spent. His heart pumped blood, quickly.
His vision faded in and out
,
as though his eyes were closing
while still open.
He tried to sit up
again. His body refused.
He grabbed at a
floating twig in muddy water.
Coughed
blood.
Suddenly he felt tired, afflicted
by the urge to sleep.
Rain hitting his
face was all he could see. He couldn’t see Frank, or Roy, or the
truck.

He heard the sound of
Frank’s shotgun reloading.

The sound of the shotgun
exploding in his ears. His arm jolted. Blood splattered into his
eyes and face.
He didn’t feel the shot
this time, just the sound ringing in his ears.

Muffled voices filled his
head.
A smile drew across his bloody,
mud-caked face. He was back home, playing catch with Shawn at the
front of his Colorado home.
Shawn was
eight. Eight and innocent.
It felt so good
to play with him again. To be with his boy. To teach him.
Protect him.
The sun was
bright, grass green, the air fresh. Mountain air.
Shawn was safe now. And so was he.

And then it was
gone.
Gone in a brilliant flash of
white.

Chris’ motionless body lay
in a pool of his own blood and swirling, muddy water. Rain pattered
down.

Lifeless.

The double barrel snapped open. Two empty
shells slid out, dropping to the waterlogged ground. One by one
Frank guided two fresh, but wet shells into the chamber. His hands
shaky and numb. Sweat, mixed with blood, water and dirt, ran down
his beaten face. His heart pounded as though it was going to come
through his chest. Heavy breaths.

Remorse was replaced by rage in his eyes. A
switch had been switched. A line had been crossed.

He was dead inside. Had been for years. He
only realized how dead he was at this very moment—the moment he
took Chris’ life. But all was not lost. He could still win this.
This was his time now. His chance for payback. His war.

The bright craft drew his full focus. A
doorway had opened on the side, with a ramp leading to the ground.
The two grays loaded the dead sentinel onto a floating stretcher.
The sentinel’s long, limp arm scraped the ground.

Another gray stood behind Roy’s truck,
standing over the wounded prisoner alien. From a small sphere in
its hand a bright, bluish light emanated, sending a jolt of life
into the wounded gray.