Red Centre
Publisher: Gough Media
Author: O.G. Gough
Cover Design: KPGS
Copyright © 2015, O.G. Gough
Disclaimer: This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Taken
Chapter Two
The Outback
Chapter Three
Close Encounter
Chapter Four
The Red Centre
Chapter Five
First Kind
Chapter Six
Fourth Kind
Chapter Seven
Third Kind
Chapter Eight
Isolation
Chapter Nine
Black Tracker
Chapter Ten
Ransom
Chapter Eleven
METI
Chapter Twelve
The Hunt
Chapter Thirteen
Hostage
Chapter Fourteen
Experiencers
Chapter Fifteen
Preparation
Chapter Sixteen
The Bait
Chapter Seventeen
Dark Night
Chapter Eighteen
Showdown
Chapter Nineteen
Call Out
Chapter Twenty
Fifth Kind
Chapter Twenty-One
War
Chapter Twenty-Two
Missing Persons
Chapter Twenty-Three
Home
Chapter Twenty-Four
Sky Beings
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Chapter One
Taken
The outback of Australia. The Red Centre. A vast, harsh and barren land, full of canyons and spinifex-grass-covered hills. Vibrant red dirt stretched as far as the eye could see. A sunburnt and rugged country.
Yellow, red and orange filled the sky as the sun started to set.
A small, two-story wooden house sat alone, nestled amongst small, red hills; the middle of nowhere.
A rusty, old, barbed-wire fence secured the large perimeter—protecting the house and two large iron sheds hidden at the back. Their weathered paint (or what remained) clung to them in feeble chips, between spots of brown rust.
Two well-worn, wooden chairs sat on the old veranda, neatly positioned to one side of the front door. A nice spot to relax. A spot to feel the gentle desert breeze. To watch the sun go down after supper. But the wind was anything but gentle this night. A summer thunderstorm was rolling in.
Metal wind chimes hanging from the roof bounced about vigorously. Dust and tumbleweed blew in different directions. Loose, corrugated-iron roofing sheets flapped, banging up and down from the frenzied lashings of the wind. The front door was forced open, dim light spilling out into the darkening evening.
Frank Corbin stared into the sky, where small flashes of lightning lit up menacing clouds forming in the distance.
Trailing thunder rumbled, as though it was shaking the earth. A small, red light streaked across the sky above the house. Unusual. Maybe a meteor. He squinted as dust and wind blew into his eyes. Not sure what he had just seen, he shrugged it off, cleaning his grease-covered hands with an old rag.
He had been working on his old 1970 Ford Ranger F-250 pickup. Its faded, dark-green paint and rusty, dented body— testament of a hard working machine, in an even harder environment. It was the Australian version, steering wheel on the right.
Frank gathered his tools, tossed them back into his toolbox and slammed the hood closed. This had become almost a nightly ritual for the past month or so.
His thinning, silvery-gray hair was evidence of a man in his late fifties.
A clockwork life, he wore the same style of clothes every day of his adult life—blue jeans and either beige or brown, long-sleeved plaid shirts, with the sleeves rolled up three quarters. He had been a big man in his youth, but age was starting to catch up to him. But still strong; he could give a man half his age a good whooping if it ever came to fisticuffs. And he knew it.
The aroma of a beef stew hit him as he entered the house. He wiped his deeply wrinkled forehead with a grease-stained sleeve. Years of manual labor in the harsh, Australian sun made him appear much older. Skin like leather.
He could hear his wife, Emma, humming to herself while she stirred the large aluminum pot and banged around in the kitchen. Frank quickly removed his boots just inside the house, closing and locking the front door behind him.
Emma was a petite woman. She had made their simple house into a home, decorating it with family photos and bric-a-brac. She wore her long, graying hair in a bun. A floral apron around her waist. The pot of stew bubbled on the old stove. The smell of freshly baked bread engulfed the house. Good, old-fashioned, country-style cooking.
Frank took his usual place at the small kitchen table. Emma quickly served two mismatched bowls of the chunky stew and the fresh, homemade bread on a small dinner plate. Frank’s large dirt- and grease-stained hands ripped apart the fresh white bread; he dipped chunks into the rich, meaty stew. It tasted as good as it looked.
He was a gruff man. Not one for conversation, especially when eating. Emma was used to it. They had been married straight out of high school just over forty years ago. Raised three children and lived in the first house they had bought together. That’s just how life was for their generation. Put down roots and stay there until you died. That was their plan. That was their happiness.
The family farm was always what they wanted. A few head of cattle to keep them going. Nothing too big. Grow their own food. They weren’t after riches, just a simple life. That was their dream.
Now, it was all changing.
Years were catching up to them—too old to make it work. The farm was nothing more than the house, a couple of sheds and dirt. They would have liked to pass the farm onto their children, but they were different. They wanted formal education, a career, the friggin’ city life. Lifestyle they call it.
Bullshit.
City life had no appeal for Emma and Frank, so they rarely saw their kids. Only on special occasions would the children make the trek back to the outback to catch up.
***
The wind howled outside. It sounded like a wild animal in agony. Roaring.
The kitchen window was slightly ajar, letting wind rush through the small opening—giving Emma a chill. She rubbed her arms as she moved to close it. Night was conquering the day as the sun fell below the horizon, leaving a red tinge in the air.
Something caught her eye, something in the distance, like a fire burning up on a ridge, perhaps started by a lightning strike. She watched on for a moment, as the light bounced and danced around. It didn’t seem right. She slammed the window closed, locking it. “Come look at this,” she said in a soft voice.
Frank finished up his mouthful of bread, palming the table to get to his feet. He met Emma by the window. Both stared out at the unusual fire burning afar
off. Emma gently grabbed the back of Frank’s arm as he leaned against the kitchen sink, trying to get a better look.
He groped for the wall-mounted phone, not taking his eyes off the fire. Emma placed the receiver in his hand, as there was no way he was going to reach it without moving his feet. Eyes shifting, he punched in a number and waited. A grouchy “yeah” muffled through the phone into Frank’s ear. Roy Lambert was on the other end. A rough hillbilly whose property bordered Frank’s.
“It’s Frank,” he said in a stern, monotone voice. “Ya seeing what I’m seeing up on the ridge?”
Roy Lambert used three dirty fingers to spread apart his old, dented aluminum horizontal blinds. He balanced the phone on his shoulder as his other hand nursed a cold beer. He was a husky man in his late forties. Very scruffy and unkempt. A stranger to daily baths. He wore grease-stained, ripped-up jeans, with ass hanging out; cowboy boots and a food-stained, blue wife beater. He belched as he stared out into the night, the red glow catching his attention.
He could hear his dog barking furiously just outside his rundown, double-wide home.
***
A large bolt of chain lightning arced across the night sky. Heavy drops of rain started to fall on the dry desert floor.
Two flashlight beams broke through the night and the rain.
Frank and Roy made their way up the side of the rocky hill towards the glow. The terrain slippery and hard to navigate in the dark.
Frank stopped for a moment to take a breath. He looked up into the sky, letting the rain hit his face. The sky was alive. Lightning danced all over the place. The smell of wet soil and fresh rain filled the air.
The two pressed on, traversing rugged and steep terrain, curious to see what lay over the ridge. Roy’s foot slipped on a wet rock; stumbling a little he grabbed Frank’s shirt to steady himself. Frank glared back. Roy quickly let go.
Men out here don’t cross personal space. Stand on your own two feet; the unspoken law.
A red glow washed over the two men as they reached the summit. Their eyes grew wide as they peered down over a small clearing. A few feet from them, a radiant, red light about forty-five feet wide. So bright they could barely look at it. In awe (and maybe some fear) they weren’t sure what to do. They stood firm.
Stunned.
Roy went for his smartphone. He had to get a picture, maybe even video. No one would ever believe him otherwise.
Pulling the phone from his tight jeans’ pocket, he fumbled. The phone impacted hard onto a rock. A few more cracks spidered across an already heavily cracked screen. It wasn’t the first time this phone had kissed the ground. Roy dropped to one knee, the only way to lower himself to the ground without straining his back. With a gut that big, simply bending over was out of the question.
With a raised hand, Frank shielded his eyes, squinting to get a better look. Eyes adjusting, an oval-shaped object came into focus. His tightly wrapped fingers repositioned around the flashlight, his heart racing with anticipation. He took a big breath and slowly stepped towards the craft.
Shaken and intrigued, he hesitated for a moment—then carefully took another step, his muddy boot rolling small, wet stones. Suddenly a bright, white light flashed behind him.
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, h
e 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.
Chapter Two
The Outback
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.