Authors: Ansel Gough
Tags: #ufo, #alien, #alien abduction, #ufo abduction, #ufo encounter, #alien abduction suspense, #alien adventures, #alien attack alien invasion aliens, #alien action adventure, #alien abduction story with surprise ending
Red Centre
147
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.
Chapter Two
Raiders
⇒
Click here to download Raiders for free
In a post apocalyptic world, Wren was
kidnapped from her home as a little girl, her family killed.
Branded and trained for years as a Scout Raider, the first rule she
learned was to never leave the tribe. Ever. When Wren’s group comes
across a young girl, she is instantly reminded of her younger self.
A split decision causes Wren to break the first rule, and she’s
taking the girl with her.
Thank you for supporting my work!
O.G. Gough
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.