White Space Season 2

beneath him suddenly gave out, crumbling, pitching him forward into the abyss, his arms flailing, desperate to grab hold of anything.
    Billy’s hands found nothing.
    The fall felt like a slowly spinning forever until he finally landed hard on his back in something wet, knocking the breath from his body. Billy screamed, unable to help it, paying no mind to the threat of Indians finding him.
    His entire body was wracked by pain as he tried to turn it. He could only move his neck, craning, but unable to see anything in the darkness. He wondered if he’d broken anything. It felt like he’d broken everything. He tried getting up, but his body refused to do anything but lay there.
    Oh, God, please don’t let me be stuck here!
    Billy wondered if he could die from pain alone. If not, starvation would certainly kill him.
    His head swam dizzily as he tried to keep from passing out. Though he couldn’t breathe, and barely think, something in Billy’s memory reminded him how he once heard Doc Dermish say that people passed out from pain on account their brain lacking sufficient blood and oxygen. Dizzy, cold, and trying to hold onto his scant vision, Billy managed to sit, though his limbs refused to help him stand. His right leg felt like someone had stabbed him — or shot him with an arrow. He ran his hands down the length of his leg toward his knee, then felt what he could not see — bone jutting from his flesh, like Jack popping out from his box.
    Billy screamed again.
    I’m going to die.
    There it was, the thought he could no longer question; truth as clear as island sunlight on its sunniest day. Billy woke that morning alive and happy, excited to hunt with Father, eager to see the whale. Now, he would probably close his eyes and never wake again. At least he hoped it would be that easy. If he had to die, with nothing he could do to stop it, he wanted it to come in a hurry. Not slow and full of torture like it already was. Billy wanted to die like a man, then join his family in heaven — not lie at the bottom of a cave, with a bone popping out of his knee, sobbing pitifully.
    He listened for any sign of the whispering he’d heard before, but was met with only silence.
    “Hello?” he called out, not even caring if the Indians found him now. At least they would put him out of his misery.
    And then, he heard the whispering again. First his name, and then other things he couldn’t understand. The whispers sounded close, yet far away.
    “Hello?” he called again, trying his best not to cry.
    And then something odd happened. The cold he’d felt in his bones began to recede. He felt a sudden, comforting warmth, like a blanket pulled to his chin in winter. It started in his head right beside all the tangled thoughts, then began seeping into every part of his body.
    The whispering seemed to grow louder.
    Billy felt warmth intensifying on his leg, almost as hot as fire. He reached down, expecting to find the bone sticking through again, but instead, his fingers found flesh, smooth and unbroken.
    What?
    Impossible!
    He felt suddenly whole; pain erased from his body.
    How?
    The whispering grew louder, as if it were coming from nearby. Still, he saw only darkness.
    “Hello?” Billy called out again, certain that someone was down there with him.
    And then came the light — softly, at first, a dot of soft blue glowing above, at the top of his fall. The plummet was high, higher even than Billy imagined, making a fall so steep he should have broken his neck and not just his leg.
    The tiny dot of blue bloomed larger on its descent, swelling in size until it was about as big as a basket hovering in front of his face, still soft blue and perfectly sphere. Until it wasn’t.
    Billy leapt to his feat, feeling suddenly stronger than Father, gasping as the glowing orb took human form before him.
    “Billlllly,” it said.

    * * * *

CHAPTER 1 — Warren Conway

    Hamilton Island, Washington
    The Conway Industries Boardroom
    Monday
    One month after the shooting

    Warren stared at the head of the table, where Father should have been sitting. It was already 10 past nine and his dad had yet to show, or extend Warren the courtesy of calling in to say he was running late. Warren told himself nothing was wrong, Father was simply being his arrogant self, putting his needs first and thinking that nothing else mattered. But that was hard to buy — Blake Conway was never late for an inner circle meeting. The four others in the room, not