Free Red Centre by Ansel Gough Page B

was on, maybe a lamp.
Chris repositioned himself to get a better look. Suddenly a shadow
flashed across the wall. Chris stumbled back.
    He quickly moved to the back door.
    It wasn’t heavy duty like the front door and
had only one lock. He pounded on it. “Mrs. Corbin! Emma Corbin!” He
scratched his head, frustrated. “I saw you, Mrs. Corbin!”
    He pounded the door again with the palm of
his hand. This was bullshit! He tried the door handle, twisting it
back and forth. Locked.
    “ I’m coming in, Mrs.
Corbin!” He twisted the handle and pushed on the door. It didn’t
budge.
    Chris raced over to the window again,
pressing his face against the black glass. He tapped on the window.
“Mrs. Corbin?”
    He ran back to the door and thumped on it.
Chris paused, backed up a little and charged the door, shoulder
first. He bounced off it, exhaling. He moved back, repositioned
himself and unleashed several heavy kicks. The door burst open.
Part of the door jamb missiled across the room.
    A stale smell of body odor mixed with
mothballs and what smelled like rotting food washed over him,
burning his nose. He covered his face with his shirt.
    “ Mrs. Corbin?” he said in
a subdued voice, slowly entering. An old washing machine and
rusted-out tub sat in the corner of the room. He was in the
laundry. A flickering light burned in what was probably the living
room, just up ahead.
    He moved further into the house along a
small, dark corridor, toward the lamp. He cautiously entered a
small living room where the flickering lamp rested on a wooden
coffee table. Pictures of people, newspaper clippings and pictures
of UFOs taped around the walls immediately caught his attention.
Hundreds of pictures and articles decorated the room. One picture
froze him in his tracks. His stomach churned.
    The picture … his son, Shawn.
    “ What the hell?” His
fingers touched his chin. Tears filled his eyes.
    Chris slowly moved forward, reaching out
with stretched fingers to touch his son’s photo. Out of nowhere a
crushing blow struck the back of his head, like a brick smashing
against his skull. All he saw was a flash of white and black. His
body stiffened like a board, went limp and crashed to the
floor.
    Out cold, twitching momentarily.

     
     
     
     

 
Chapter Ten
Ransom
     
    The room was blurry at first. Chris tightly
closed his eyes, opening them again, readjusting. His head pounded.
Disorientated. Realization set in—he had been struck from behind.
Knocked out cold. Probably a concussion.
    The hair on the back of his head felt moist.
Mostly from blood mingled with sweat. An ice pack would be
nice.
    He immediately realized his mouth had been
taped. A single strip of silver duct tape silenced him.
    His wrists were also bound with tape;
strapped to the armrests of an old wooden chair in the middle of
the room.
    Blackness crept into view; his eyes started
to close again. He could feel himself slipping into unconsciousness
again. Before he could stop it, he was out cold. His head flopped
forward. A single drop of sweat ran down his forehead, along his
nose and onto the dusty, hardwood floor beside his boot.
    ***
    Muscles in Chris’ cheek twitched. He let out
a muted grunt as he became conscious again. His eyes slowly
focused; things gradually sharpened. His eyes darted around. He was
sitting in a small, dark bedroom. Dust particles floated and danced
around in the few beams of sunlight that cut through gaps in the
painted, black windows.
    The room was sparse; only a small bed behind
him against the wall and a wardrobe in the corner.
    Sweat beaded on his forehead, running down
the sides of his face. It was hot and stuffy in this little
room.
    Shooting pains stabbed the back of his
throbbing head. His mouth felt dry. His body dehydrated. It wasn’t
helping being stuck in a sweat box.
    He could tell his legs weren’t bound, but he
moved them and glanced down anyway, just to make sure. At least
part of him was free.
    His muscles strained,