White Space Season 1

the fuck was that thing?
    Who are these people?!
    Ahead, Houser saw the car that had been looking for him. It was in the opposite lane headed back toward the street where he’d just been.
    He jerked his car into the oncoming lane and aimed straight for his enemy.
    The other car swerved at the last minute, then ran up onto someone’s yard, hitting a tree.
    Houser considered stopping, getting his rifle, and taking care of business right there, but his body was still buzzing from whatever the bird had done to him, and he couldn’t be sure he’d be able to accurately hit his targets.
    So Houser kept going, as fast as he could.
    He raced back to the main road, and had the car nudging 120 as he raced north to find somewhere to call Jon, and put as much distance between himself and the men as possible. The road narrowed from four lanes to two, and twisted and turned as it he went up a steep incline. Thick forest buried the night on either side of him obscuring him from anyone who might be following.
    Houser was so distracted, staring into the rearview, that he didn’t see the car without its lights in the middle of the street until it was too late.
    He slammed on the brakes and swerved right off the road. His car tumbled down the steep incline and into the forest below. The car kept flipping, turning over and over as the airbags on the sides and steering wheel exploded open and Houser felt as if he were being pummeled by darkness.
    The car finally came to a stop.
    For a minute there was nothing but silence and pain, followed by darkness.

    * * * *

CHAPTER 3 — Jon Conway

    Jon flew his Porsche past the Chamber of Commerce and Visitors Bureau, then up and along the snaking coast to Greenwood, counting the countless ways he hated Warren throughout the short, zippy drive up and into the mansion-peppered Cedar Park.
    Fuck. Him.
    Jon planned to use his thumbs to give that pile of shit brother of his a brand new set of eye sockets.
    Jon yelled as his Porsche fishtailed across the center lines of the road, having to swerve his car across the dividing line to avoid a deer that may or may not have been standing in the middle of the road. He barely missed the metal guardrail which was the only thing that might prevent him from going off the road and down a 200 foot or so drop.
    The car evened out and Jon floored the accelerator, wondering how many times he’d imagined crashing through those same barriers, metal crinkling as he flew from one side, hovering in the air for a moment before gravity sent him plunging to the depths of the Pacific and the certain death under her surface.
    And while Jon could easily see himself dying in a fiery car crash, he didn’t see it happening at anytime soon. He had been driving these roads since before he was legally allowed. It didn’t matter how much he’d had to drink, he wasn’t too drunk to drive.
    He was, however, just drunk enough to tell Warren exactly what he thought.
    Jon pulled the Porsche to the gate of Conway Gardens.
    “Good evening, Mr. Conway,” Carl said over the intercom.
    “Good evening to you, Carl,” Jon said, trying not to scowl. “I won’t be long tonight.”
    “Take your time, Mr. Conway. And welcome home.”
    The gate opened and Jon pulled into the circular drive, killed his engine and got out of the car. He rang the doorbell, then went to knock, but the door swung open before his knuckles hit the wood. “Good evening, Madge,” Jon said, doing everything in his mortal power to keep his words from slurring.
    “Well, good evening, Mr. Conway. Seems like you’ve been at yours for a while.” She winked, then smiled and held the door open.
    Jon smiled. “I won’t be long, I promise. Just wanna talk to my brother for a minute.”
    “Anything you want to talk about with me first?” She looked nervous.
    Jon shook his head. “Not this time, Madge.”
    “Jon!” Warren suddenly appeared on the other side of the foyer. He folded his tablet, then set it on a long table against the wall and started walking toward Jon.
    Asshole.
    Warren’s tablet was slicker than snail snot — so paper thin and remarkably pliable, Jon could see it from across the foyer. It looked at least two years ahead of anything Jon had seen.
    Fucking showoff.
    Jon wondered if Warren had actually had the tablet in his hands, or if he went to get it when he heard the bell.
    “What brings you here in the middle of, oh whatever time it might be,” Warren said. “Unless it’s the promise