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.
Chapter Twenty-One
War
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.
Frank moved between the two groups of aliens. They were packing up, gathering their dead and wounded, heading home. They now had what they’d come back for. Their war was over.
But it wasn’t over. Not for Frank. He rushed to retrieve Roy’s .357 from the ground, tucking it into his waistband. He glanced at Roy lying on his back, nursing his leg wound. His eyes moved again to Chris’ lifeless, blood-covered body. They had made him do this. Chris had made him do this. It wasn’t his fault. Chris was a casualty of war. A war Frank didn’t start and didn’t want anything to do with, but something he was forced into. The day they breached his home. His sanctuary. The day they took Emma, they started the war
Frank dragged his left leg, stumbling into the middle of the road between Roy’s truck and the craft.
“HEY!” Frank called to the grays, his call drowned out by the pouring rain.
The grays either ignored or didn’t notice his call and continued their escape towards the ramp.
“HEY!” he called again, pressing on, trying to get closer.
His second call drew their attention. In unison, the grays turned, locking onto Frank. Their piercing, black eyes menacing. Lightning reflected in their eyes as it lit up the sky.
Frank locked his gun against his shoulder, his finger hovering over the trigger. With left eye closed, he took aim. “Give me back me wife, ya sons of bitches!”
He squeezed the trigger. The shotgun clicked. Nothing. A misfire. His wet shells now useless. Quickly snapping open the gun he let the shells fall to the ground. He advanced on the enemy, retrieving two more shells from his pocket.
The grays continued towards the ramp.
The shells loaded, Frank pulled the trigger again. The double barrel failed again.
Frustrated, Frank tossed his gun and whipped the .357 from his waistband.
He ran as fast as he could, hobbling on a wounded leg. Ignoring the stabbing pain in his leg, he wasn’t going to let them escape—even if he had to crawl on hands and knees. They were not making it off this planet.
His leg almost giving way. He stumbled. Yelling in pain and rage, he approached the departing grays.
He took aim as the grays reached the top of the ramp. The gun recoiled. Two shots fired.
Two bullets ricocheted, sparks lighting up the side of the craft. The creatures, saved by poor aim, disappeared into the craft.
Frank made it to the bottom of the ramp, stopping. He looked into the glowing light of the craft. This was it. No going back now. He hesitated.
Carefully planting his right boot firmly onto the metallic ramp, one foot after the other, slowly he made the climb. The light became more intense the closer he drew near to the opening.
Halfway up Frank glanced back, looking into the dark, rainy night. His world left behind. He may not come back to it. His quiet life in the outback was no longer. It had been gone for years. He was just the shell of the man he used to be.
His eyes snapped back to the opening. Three silhouetted figures appeared at the doorway, startling him.
Undeterred, unafraid, Frank rushed them. He took aim and fired over and over again, three shots emptying the gun.
One bullet found its target. The stopping power of this weapon lived up to its reputation—“a manstopper.” It dropped the gray where it stood. Its lifeless body fell from the top of the ramp, crashing to the muddy ground. Its head bounced off the ground on impact.
Frank closed in, meeting the remaining two stunned aliens at the top. Gun empty, he charged, ready to go hand to hand.
One of the creatures revealed its two-foot cylinder as Frank approach, ramming it into his chest. A blue spark jolted from its end. Electricity charged through Frank’s body, starting at his chest, running in all directions, going deep to the bone. His body convulsed, then stiffened like a board.
Adrenaline pulsed through his veins. It was the only thing holding him upright.
They would need a bigger taser to stop this ox. Amazingly, he powered through the attack and lunged, hammer fisting the gray in the face. A tough left hook followed. So much power it would take your head off if it connected. But before it connected, the gray struck him again in the chest. His body stiffened again. This time he couldn’t resist the force.
Electricity charged through his entire body. He dropped onto his knees, then flopped to his back, lying in the middle of the ramp. His body convulsed and then finally stilled. His right leg twitched slightly.
Frank’s eyes darted around, unable to feel his body. Paralyzed from the neck down. Eyes filled with fear, he realized he was no longer a rescuer, but a victim. Just like Emma.
Long, gray fingers wrapped around his ankle. His body was effortlessly dragged by the gray up the ramp. They disappeared into the bright light.
Gone.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Missing Persons
The warm, morning sun peaked over the treetops. Water droplets rolled off the leaves, dropping to the damp ground below. Birds were chirping as the land awoke from its sleep. Roy’s shit wagon and the Humvee remained parked on the dirt road. All signs of the night before had been removed. Chris’ lifeless body lay on the wet ground, covered in dried blood and mud.
A finger twitched. His chest raised and lowered as air filled his lungs. Eyes flickered as the soft, golden sun touched his face.
He was alive!
Sucking in a deep breath, his eyes opened wide. In shock, he suddenly realized where he was. How he didn’t die through the
night was beyond him. Nothing remembered after that final gun shot. His hand moved to his blood-stained shirt, feeling for his wound. His skin felt smooth. There was no pain. Propping himself up on his elbows, Chris lifted his shirt. No sign of any bullet wound; only dried blood on his shirt. What the hell happened?
“They healed you.” The distinctive, Russian accent of Pav broke the silence.
Chris slowly turned his head in the direction of Pav’s voice. Pav sat on the ground, leaning against the large, front wheel of the Humvee.
In disbelief Chris rechecked for any gunshot wounds, not sure if he could believe the Russian. But it was true. Somehow they had saved his life. Who were these creatures? How could they possess power over life and death? Why save him?
Chris dropped back onto the muddy ground, staring into the bright-blue morning sky. A gentle smile on his face. He had survived, but no one would believe him. It felt good to suck in the fresh, morning air. He thought he would never get that chance again.
He turned to look at the Russian. “Hello, Pavlova,” he said in a dry, drawn-out tone, not excited to see the crazy scientist. “Why are you still here? And where are the other two?”
“Pavlovich,” he said in a calm voice. “I let it go this time.” He got to his feet and walked to Chris, staring down at him. “I don’t drive.” He grinned sheepishly. “I hid in the trees. I waited all night for you to wake.” He scratched his head. “The other two didn’t make it. They were taken.”
Chris closed his eyes, glad they had spared his life and not taken him. The gladness quickly washed away. He still didn’t have Shawn.
***
Red and blue lights flashed. Police cars lined the dirt road of the Corbin driveway. Cops were scattered throughout the yard, in the sheds and in the house, like ants swarming over food scraps. Boxes of papers, computers and other boxes of evidence were seized and being gathered in piles in the front yard.
MacKenzie stood on the veranda speaking to Chris. Pav sat on Frank’s wooden chair, his head between two hands, staring at the ground. MacKenzie took notes, as Chris explained the night of activity. Chris was animated, waving his arms around. Showing his blood-stained shirt, but his healed body.
At times, the conversation was heated.
MacKenzie shook his head in disbelief. It was hard for Mackenzie to understand the magnitude of the situation. There was no evidence. No proof of their story. He fired repeated questions over and over again at Chris and Pav.
It was frustrating. The day dragged on. Reports were filled in.
MacKenzie pointed his pen at Chris with a stern look of warning on his face. He paused for a moment, not sure where to take the conversation. Dropping his hand and then slipping the notepad into his top pocket. With two thumbs place inside the front of his pants he pulled them up around his belly, breathing in deeply.
He scratched the side of his head with the back of his pen, visibly frustrated with the situation. Turning his back on Chris and Pav, he looked out into the yard at the other officers. “I’ll come back in a moment.” He stepped off the veranda and walked a small distance to contemplate the situation.
***
A few minutes dragged by. MacKenzie returned to the veranda. “Frank and Roy are going to be charged with the kidnapping of the Baker family. They are considered fugitives and if they reach out to you, you’ll need to notify your local law enforcement. If you attempt to help them in any way or not report any contact, you’ll be charged with aiding and abetting.” He pointed at Pav. “We’re taking you into custody for now. You’re not under arrest at this time, until we determine your involvement in the Baker’s kidnapping.”
Pav dropped his head, knowing that things probably weren’t going to go well for him. He was not even a legal resident of Australia and had far outstayed his visa.
MacKenzie pointed at Chris. “For now you’re free to go. The Bakers have identified you as their rescuer.” He paused. “You can call yourself a hero for now. But don’t get too comfortable with the title.” He leaned forward, looking directly into Chris’ eyes. “I’m gonna dig and dig, until I uncover all the evidence in this bizarre freak show. If something doesn’t add up, I’m going to drag your arse to jail. You hear me?”
“Am I free to go?”
“For now.” Mackenzie stood up straight. “I suggest you go back home for now, but make sure you make yourself available if we need you to testify ... or for further questions.”
Finally it was done. Two police officers took Pav into custody, cuffing his hands behind his back and leading him to a patrol car. Chris breathed a sigh of relief as he was allowed to go free.
***
The piercing sun was high in the sky, scorching everything in its path. The red desert stretched out in all directions as far as the eye could see. Heat waves rose from the black asphalt highway. Mirages of small bodies of water formed in the distance. All was still.
Speeding down the lonely road, the bright red Cherokee interrupted the silence, its tires slapping the road as it drove. Chris sat solemnly behind the wheel. His eyes wandered over to the picture of Shawn on the passenger seat. He had failed. Tears welled in his eyes.
His foot slowly eased off the gas, moving to the brake, bringing the Cherokee to a stop on the side of the road. He took the photo in his hand, staring at his son.
The Cherokee’s door flew open. Chris placed his foot on the hot, rocky dirt, the heat of the day smacking him in the face. Hesitant to leave the comfort of the air-conditioned vehicle, he looked into the blinding blue sky.
His hand slid into his pocket, his fingertips feeling the smooth surface of the oval object. He removed it, resting it in the palm of his hand, and studied the alien symbols covering the outside. His fingers gliding over the top. His mind worked as he tried to picture the gray punching in the password to get it to work. He tried to replicate the actions, to no avail; the object appeared dead.
He tried again and again. No combination seemed to work.
Dropping hands down by his side, he took a deep breath. Overwhelming frustration set in. He slowed his breathing, closing his eyes for a moment. One last try. He waved the device around in the air, seeing if he needed to catch a signal. It was worth a shot. He moved onto the road.
Gently he pressed on each symbol. That had to be the combination. He paused with anticipation. He really believed he had it this time.
The device didn’t react.
“Son of a bitch!” Chris tossed the device, like a football, as hard as he could into the surrounding desert.
His head dropped, eyes closed. “Please … Please, God.” He mumbled the words, stumbling on the word “God.”
“Help me. We can’t lose another.” Chris raised his head, looking around. He was not a religious man, but this was all he had left. Looking into the sky again he screamed, “WE CAN’T LOSE ANOTHER! YOU HEAR ME?”
He wiped this mouth with the back of his hand. His other hand made a tight first. White knuckles. He spun in a circle, looking at the dry desert around him. Dead grass and dead, sparse trees. Rolling, sand-covered hills. He was small and insignificant compared to the vast, surrounding landscape. A harsh environment. It remained undefeated.
Stepping toward the Cherokee he stopped and did a double take on the desert. He didn’t want to go back, but he had to. Leaning into the four-by-four, he grabbed his cell and punched in a quick text message: “I’m coming home.”
He slammed the door closed behind him. Sweat ran down his forehead and back. He quickly restarted the car, blasting the aircon on. The cool air felt good. He pulled the stick into drive; the indicator ticked. Just as he was about to drive off, his eyes caught the sun’s reflection coming off the oval object, half buried in the dirt where it had landed.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Home
A neat and tidy, upper-class American neighborhood. A small layer of snow had dusted everyone’s front lawn. Leafless trees lined the street. During the fall, their leaves would explode
with different yellows, oranges and reds. Right now, the leaves had fallen, leaving the area cold and depressing. It would be spring soon and the cold, depressing days would soon be behind them.
Kate Marshall stood on the front doorstep of their upscale, double-story home. She wrapped her pale, pink sweater tightly around her small frame, trying to stay warm, as she looked back and forth, up and down the street. She glanced at her watch, bobbing up and down on her toes, a little anxious.
Not long out of hospital, she had seen better days. With dark rings under her eyes, she was lucky if she'd had more than three hours of sleep each night.
***
Soon a bright yellow cab pulled over in front of the house. Chris quickly exited the car, visibly worn. Kate could see breath escaping his lips with each exhale, as he stood in the cold. His beaten face had begun to heal, but visible bruising and scabbed cuts still marked his face. His neck and face were tanned; the only person with a natural tan this time of year. Several days of facial hair growth rounded out his new, rugged look.
He took a deep breath of the cold, crisp air. It was a welcome change to the unbearable heat of outback Australia. He was home.
Briskly walking toward him, Kate gave a little hop as she began to run. It had seemed like an eternity since they had seen each other. Held each other. They embraced tightly on the footpath, not wanting to let go. Chris leaned in, giving her a small, tender kiss. Kate’s eyes filled with tears. Their joy bitter-sweet; visibly overshadowed with the stark reality—Chris had returned alone.
***
The all-too-familiar alarm sounded on Chris’ cell phone. Monday morning. Time to get dressed for work—his first day back since things happened. It was hard to get back to the normal grind, but as their counselor said: it could be good to get back into a routine.
Steam hung in the air from Chris’ hot shower. He toweled the misted mirror, seeing a disfigured version of himself. His body and face had mostly healed from the multiple encounters with Roy and other tumbles in the outback. Again he checked his body: no visible sign of any gunshot wounds. It was still hard to believe. If it hadn’t happened to him, he wouldn’t believe it either. He rubbed his face, wishing they had fixed all the damage.