Free Red Centre by Ansel Gough Page A

opening, barely big enough for a
man to get through. It looked as though it went down deep into the
earth, but it was hard to see. They weren’t prepared for
spelunking. They didn’t even have a flashlight. And who knew what
could be in there? There were a thousand things that could kill you
in these parts, excluding aliens.
    Roy came over for a closer look at the cave,
his pit-bull leading the way. The dog let out a growl, peeling back
its lips to display large, saliva-coated teeth. It then exploded
into a savage burst of barking, jerking hard against the chain
leash, rising up on its back legs. Saliva sprayed from its
blood-stained mouth. Roy fought to control the rabid-like dog.
Something was definitely in there. He looked over to Frank—what
now?
    Chris inched right to the edge to see what
the men were up to, even though he knew he still wouldn’t be able
to hear what they were saying. After a moment, Frank headed back in
the direction they came from, leaving Roy to guard the cave. Chris
stayed low to avoid detection.
    Roy looked around, already bored. The hot
sun beat down on him. He spat on the ground, a string of saliva
sticking to his hair-prickled chin, and moved a short distance back
to take cover under a small, leafy tree. He flopped to the ground
to rest. The shotgun rested on his knee, pointed at the cave
entrance. He wasn’t going anywhere.
    Chris watched Frank disappear into the
wilderness. He had to make a choice: keep eyes on the fat bastard,
or follow Frank.
    ***
    Frank’s F-250 truck was backed in close to
the Corbin house, right near the front door.
    Chris crept along the side of the house,
staying low and out of sight. He moved to the corner, peering
around to see what he could find. Frank came through the front door
juggling an armful of supplies: bottled water, packaged food,
backpack. He made repeated trips in and out, loading his truck with
rope, shovels and other tools.
    After Frank finished loading, he removed a
large set of keys and locked his front door. It was
three-inch-thick hardwood and had four locks to secure it. Overkill
for these parts, but considering what he had gone through in the
last two years—justified.
    The F-250 sped away, up the dirt trail.
    Chris watched on as the truck disappeared
into the distance. He glanced at his watch. The day was starting to
get away from him and he wasn’t sure what these two were up to.
This wasn’t getting him any closer to finding Shawn. All this alien
shit had screwed with his head. He couldn’t lose another day.
    He turned to leave, but something caught his
attention: the front window had been blacked out with what looked
like black paint. This man obviously liked his privacy. Maybe it
was all the reporters hounding him when his wife disappeared that
took him to the brink of complete seclusion; or maybe it was just
that his wife was gone.
    His eyes moved to another
window, and then another. All the windows in front had been blacked
out. His mind started to race. Maybe Frank
was crazy and killed his wife. Or maybe she was still alive, but
they didn’t want anyone to see. Lots of thoughts ransacked his
mind. Chris couldn’t help it, he had to know. Was his wife in
there? Was Shawn in there?
    Chris pounded on the front door. “Hello?” He
glanced around. “Mrs. Corbin?”
    No answer.
    He moved around the house, looking. All the
windows were the same—thick, black paint; except for one at the
rear of the house, on which the paint was a little thinner. He must
have been low on paint. Chris glanced around to see if anyone was
watching him. He was alone. There were two large, rust-covered,
corrugated-iron sheds at the back. Big enough to house large
farming equipment or a small plane. They were old and rusted out,
sitting side by side. Both had a chain and lock on their large,
hangar-style doors.
    Chris slowly put his eye close to the
window. Peering through some of the streak marks he could just
barely see into the dark house. A dim light