White Space Season 2

knocked louder and waited through another minute of nothing. “They’re probably downstairs having breakfast,” he suggested for the third time. “Wanna check?”
    “Yes,” Cassidy nodded. She still seemed more worried than what Jon thought reasonable, but then again, Houser was like family to Jon, and she didn’t know him nearly as well. He wondered if it was her addiction making her anxious. It was tough to break habits, especially when they were chemical, and Jon figured he’d have to put up with some of this for a while. But he would help her through it.
    Cassidy said, “But I don’t think we should both go. We could miss one another in the elevators, and I’d really like to stop feeling so edgy. How about if I head downstairs and you stay here? I’ll text you if I see them, and you text me if they come back. Sound good?”
    Jon smiled, wanting to soothe her. “Sounds great,” he said, then pulled her into a hug and whispered in her ear that there was nothing to worry about; Houser was the most responsible man he’d ever met, which was why he trusted him with his life. “Besides,” Jon added, “he’s half robot now, and who’s going to mess with a cyborg? Emma couldn’t be in safer hands.”
    Cassidy laughed, but Jon could tell her laughter was there as obligation, not out of sincerity. She turned then walked toward the elevator, taking her nerves with her.
    Jon wasn’t alone outside Houser’s door long before the same nerves he thought left with Cassidy made a nest in his own brain and body. A gnawing chewed through his gut, insistent that something was wrong, and that his logical mind wasn’t being so logical.
    When Jon’s cell buzzed in his pocket it nearly rattled him out of his skin.
    It was Cassidy.
    “I can’t find them anywhere,” she said, voice in near panic. “I’ve looked everywhere, Jon, and asked a bunch of people. They’d be an easy pair to spot, right, but no one’s seen a thing.”
    “It’s OK, Cass, just relax,” Jon said, his heart now racing.
    You’re just being nervous, Jonny. Chill.
    “I’ll call Houser again, then call you right back, OK?”
    “OK,” Cassidy said.
    Jon could hear her swallow.
    He dialed Houser, then waited. By the third ring, Jon heard a faint echo of the ring — a beat behind the original — trilling from the other side of Houser’s closed hotel room door.
    He killed the call, dropped the phone in his pocket, and started pounding hard on the door.
    “Houser? Houser!”
    No answer.
    Jon thought the majority of what he learned as an actor was bullshit. Sometimes, like now, he was grateful for a few of the seemingly trivial things he had managed to pick up, like how to properly kick open a locked door. He could make a phone call and get someone to open the door, but something told him he wanted to get inside the room ASAP and see if there was something only he should see.
    Jon examined the door — it looked like the inside frame was softwood with laminate on each side, meaning it probably had a chipped wood core that would require average force. He stood sideways a few feet from the door, his right leg facing the frame.
    Being upset wouldn’t help, only serving to dim the strength of his kick, and increase the odds of him hurting himself. Jon drew a deep breath, preparing to strike, then kicked at a spot just below the sensor panel, sending the thrust of his kick into the target.
    The weakest part of a door was usually the frame, latch, or lock. This door was no different. Though his first kick did almost nothing, Jon’s second caused the trim around the door to shatter then break, and finally swing open.
    Jon ran into the room and gasped.
    Emma’s bed was still made, and her bags were on the floor beside Houser’s. A lamp lay broken on the ground.
    Oh, my God. She’s gone.

    TO BE CONTINUED …

::EPISODE 11::
    CHAPTER 1 — Stephen Anderson

    Stephen sat in the bunker’s underground room, staring at the giant monitor that displayed everything the 29 people he was responsible for monitoring saw, said, and heard, all at once in a constant, uninterrupted flow.
    He was watching their live feeds, as he’d done nearly every day for the past six years.
    Some squares were dark — people sleeping in late this morning. Others showed points of view from people driving, working, shopping, eating, talking to others, and some watching television. Observing the world through people’s eyes while watching TV always felt especially odd