WhiteSpace Season One (Episodes 1-6)

by Sean Platt

  * * * *

  CHAPTER 10 — Milo Anderson Part 3

  Friday evening…

  Milo thought himself lonely two days earlier, but lying alone in his hospital room, soaking in the aftermath of Manny’s death, Cody’s call, and Beatrice’s kamikaze run into Jordy’s Foods, made the previous two days feel like a laugh riot.

  The surgeon had already met with Milo, as did a pair of Paladin guards, who stayed twice as long as the surgeon, and seemed to ask three times the number of questions.

  Everyone seemed especially interested in what would possibly make Beatrice floor her way through the front of the store. As if Milo had any idea. He wished he knew. Milo had called Bea a crazy bitch plenty of times, but he had only meant the second part.

  He felt sick to his stomach, and had had to reach for the barf bowl sitting by the bedside when the taller of the two Paladin officers informed him that there were two fatalities in the accident — an elderly couple named the Marshalls that Milo had known since forever. There were a few other injuries as well, but nobody else in critical condition. Milo and Beatrice got it the worst. But she shouldn’t still be breathing, not if her breath had stopped the Marshall’s from getting theirs.

  Milo remembered the first time he saw Mrs. Marshall, in the produce section of Jordy’s ironically enough, though back then the store had been called, Lucky’s.

  Milo was in the middle of a temper tantrum, one of his worst ever. He wasn’t sure if it was the severity of that particular tantrum, or Mrs. Marshall coming up to him which made him remember the incident, but the memory was clear as a perfect spring sky on the island.

  Mrs. Marshall came up to Milo, mid-scream, and kneeled on the linoleum. “How old are you, honey?” she said. “You must be four!”

  Something about her voice must have stopped Milo from crying. He sputtered to a stop, then turned to the old woman and said, “I turned three last birthday.” Milo remembered holding three proud fingers to the sky.

  “My goodness,” Mrs. Marshall said, turning toward his mom. “He’s quite tall for his age.”

  Milo’s mom agreed. Mrs. Marshall then leaned closer to his mother and whispered, just loud enough for Milo to hear, “Don’t worry, honey, it gets better. The only time I really hated being a mother was when my children were three. Well, three and 13. Those were the two years when I just didn't want to do it any more. But I promise,” she winked, “it does get a whole lot better.”

  The painkillers mostly numbed the pain outside, but the pain inside Milo’s body was far worse. The thought of Mrs. Marshall flooded Milo with fresh memories of his mother, and twisted the pain in his body closer to torment.

  He could be dead.

  Like the Marshalls. Or his mother. Or Jessica. Or Manny.

  Home promised plenty more misery, but it would still be better than lying alone in the hospital, where everyone seemed to agree Milo would be spending his next few days.

  The nurse had removed his catheter and IV. The only thing he was hooked to was a cuff on his arm and a monitor on his finger. So. Alone.

  Milo had many wretched memories docked in a harbor of too little time. The memories were a festering wound, and the isolation an acid drop on it. Milo didn’t believe misery loved company, but was smart enough to know sharing was a salve on any wound.

  Which made Milo wonder again where in the hell his father was.

  Milo grunted, then swung his legs from bed, detached the device which measured the oxygen in his blood, and then rolled into the bathroom with his IV drip bag.

  He sat on the toilet, body aching, pissing for what felt like forever. At first, it hurt to piss. But then the pain ceded. And then Milo continued to sit there, crying, feeling sad, scared, and alone, missing his mother, maybe more than ever. He was terrified that his father would fall into the same abyss that claimed him when Milo’s mom vanished.

  Milo’s dad was mostly a ghost — an apparition of the man who once curled his fingers into the chain link at every baseball game, held the glue steady so it poured in thin lines, and made sure all Milo’s A’s and B’s were displayed on the fridge with his homemade smiley face magnets.

  Milo lost his father once. The wound, still raw, was bleeding again. He couldn’t bear to do it again.

  Milo flushed the toilet, washed his hands, then opened the bathroom door to find his father standing there.

  “Dad!” Milo said hobbling toward his dad and hugging him.

  “Milo!” he said. “I’m so glad you’re okay.”

  Milo sat back on the bed and put the oxygen monitoring clip back on his finger.

  Milo looked up at his father, but before he could say a word, his dad leaned onto the bed. “I’m sorry Milo, I should’ve been here.”

  His dad looked like he was one shudder from sobbing, which sloshed the acid in Milo’s stomach. His father never cried, or at least almost never. He always cried when he watched Field of Dreams and some baseball games, but almost never otherwise.

  “It’s okay, Dad,” Milo said, suddenly meaning it. “I’m glad you’re home, though.” Milo smiled, though it hurt, sending a spark of pain to his abdomen. “How’s Beatrice.”

  Milo’s dad looked down, then shook his head. “Not too great. Doctor says they’ll know more later, but so far the news isn’t good.”

  “Sorry,” Milo said.

  Milo’s dad tried to hold Milo’s gaze as the edges of his mouth started to twitch, appearing more angry than sad.

  “You okay, Dad?”

  Milo’s father smiled, the older smile that made him look more like a ghost.

  “Yeah, I’m fine, considering. It’s just,” his face flooded with apology, “Bea and I have been fighting lately, a lot actually, and that’s part of the reason I’ve been out of the house more often than usual. But that’s not fair to you, or her either. Now she’s . . . ” He collapsed into tears. “Well, I dunno if she’s gonna make it, and I can’t get our last conversation outta’ my head.”

  “I’m sorry,” Milo said.

  “It’s okay,” his father said, wiping his eyes before pulling Milo’s hands into his. “Everything for a reason. Everything will be okay. This is the wake-up call I needed. Now, tell me what happened.”

  Milo’s dad patted him on his hand, and Milo filled him in on everything (except the Cody guy calling him — he didn’t want his dad to think he was crazy) until the nurse came in with medication which made Milo feel groggy.

  Milo was barely aware of his father getting up to leave the room. He might not had even noticed had his dad not leaned in, kissed him on the head, and said, “I’m sorry this all happened. I love you.”

  His dad left the room, leaving Milo alone, but feeling more loved than he had since his mother turned to memory.

  * * * *

  Chapter 11 — Stephen Anderson

  Stephen Anderson closed the door to his son’s room, then relaxed into the slight limp he’d kept well hidden while inside, quickly putting distance between his son’s room and his still bleeding conscience.

  Fifty feet from trading the bright white of the hospital for the dim gray outside, Fur Elise rang in his pocket. Stephen froze as a thin sheet of icy fear frosted the top of his boiling rage.

  He held the phone, stared into his palm, and tried to keep his face calmer than his voice. “You have a lot of goddamned nerve calling me. My son was nearly killed! You said nobody else would be around. You said no collateral damage.”

  The grayed image on the other side of the call said, “You might want to remember who you’re speaking to, Mr. Anderson. I don’t do well with a lack of manners.” The best Stephen could do to mind his manners was stare and say nothing at all. The voice without a face said, “What does Milo know?”

  “Nothing,” Stephen lied.

  “Are you certain? Because Paladin has shared a different story, and you know how I like my stories to look one another in the eye.”

  “Don’t worry,” Stephen swallowed his lump. I’ll make sure he
can’t connect the dots.”

  “You’d better, Mr. Anderson. Or we’ll activate his chip.”

  “Wait,” Stephen huddled against the wall, the phone now inches from his face. “You put a fucking chip in him? When? How?!”

  The grayed face crackled into a black screen.

  The when and how was answered by the smiling surgeon, Dr. Edward Stone, nodding at Stephen as he stepped through a swinging set of double doors.

  They now had him exactly where they wanted him.

  TO BE CONTINUED...

  WhiteSpace: Episode 5

  by Sean Platt &

  David Wright

  Copyright © 2012 by Sean Platt & David Wright. All rights reserved

  Cover copyright © 2012 by David W. Wright

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, businesses, events, or locales is purely coincidental. The authors have taken great GIGANTIC liberties with locales including the creation of fictional towns (and islands!) The authors rarely leave their home states and research is limited to whatever the spirit of Magellan tells them via Ouija Board.

  Reproduction in whole or part of this publication without express written consent is strictly prohibited.

  The authors greatly appreciate you taking the time to read our work. Please consider leaving a review wherever you bought the book, or telling your friends or blog readers about this book, to help us spread the word.

  Thank you for supporting our work.

  Visit: CollectiveInkwell.Com

  eBook Edition - May 29, 2012

  Layout and design by Collective Inkwell

  CollectiveInkwell.Com

  Published by Collective Inkwell

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  CHAPTER 1 — Jon Conway Part 1 (age 13)

  Jon stormed home from school, through the house and into the kitchen, where he dropped the cardboard box on the floor with a resounding thud. He then tore open the refrigerator and grabbed an IBC root beer from the front of a neat column, leaving another eleven behind.

  Mrs. Rasmussen appeared behind Jon, smiling.

  “I can’t believe you didn’t take a jacket with you,” she said, shaking her head. “And why do you look like something that’s about to start shooting steam from its ears? Was it the ferry ride that has you all bothered, or the science fair?”

  Jon twisted the cap from the top of his bottle, then pitched it into the trashcan.

  “I suck.”

  Mrs. Rasmussen crossed the kitchen to the fridge where Jon was still standing, then knelt to the floor, crossed her legs, and pulled Jon to the floor beside her.

  Though Jon was plenty used to Mrs. Rasmussen’s unique brand of conflict resolution, the gesture still caught him slightly off guard. He had to balance his bottle on his way to the floor, tipping a sip’s worth of liquid over the lip of the bottle, where it splashed onto the Pietra Firma tile below.

  Jon looked up at Mrs. Rasmussen, horrified.

  She said, “Like you’re gonna clean it up?” then laughed.

  Jon laughed, too, but looked down, embarrassed by the truth.

  “So what happened?” she said. “Your homemade plastic didn’t go over so well? Is that what has you looking like you’ve been sucking on a jumbo bag of Sour Patch Kids all afternoon?”

  “I’m not sucking on Sour Patch Kids.”

  “Well, you’re 13 now, young Mr. Conway, and pouting is for children. So let’s start all over and tell me what’s in that head of yours?”

  “I suck.”

  Mrs. Rasmussen said, “Say that again and see what happens.” Her crimped blond hair draped between her breasts. Like always, it made Jon think of a mermaid. Mrs. Rasmussen was pretty, especially for being so much older then him, and Jon imagined she had been quite attractive, and maybe even beautiful when she was young.

  She had on her dangerous face, even though her, “Say that again and see what happens” had never led to any sort of cruel or unusual punishment, or really anything at all. After years, Jon was curious. But not curious enough to push her. Not today.

  Jon had gone to the science expo in Seattle with his class. His project was his own brand of homemade plastic. Jon hadn’t known much about plastic, much less that you could make your own, until he started his research. Even though Jon couldn’t see caring much beyond his presentation, he did find the research relatively interesting. Though most plastics had to be made in factories, Jon used a recipe that allowed him to use milk, vinegar, and a concoction of other stuff from the kitchen and laundry room which made the plastic not only stronger than the kind which used just milk and vinegar, but which seemed to provide for more uses.

  Jon thought his idea was original, or at least an original twist on a common project, but there were four other projects at the Expo which used homemade plastics, just like his and better. Only volcanoes were less original.

  “I got one of those ‘nice job’ ribbons,” Jon said. “It may as well say, ‘thanks for being total crap.’”

  “Your work is not crap. You’ve never shown much of an interest in science before the Expo, so why do you even care what type of ribbon you earned? You entered the fair, did your best, and tried something you’ve never tried before. And that’s exactly what you were acknowledged for. Nothing more, nothing less. I would count this one as a success.”

  Jon shook his head. “Warren got First Place when he did the Expo. First out of everyone. And I mean like, the entire state. Every year he entered!”

  Mrs. Rasmussen said, “I know, he wouldn’t shut up about if for months each time.”

  Jon smiled.

  “Ah, so that’s what’s bugging you — Warren,” she said, breaking into a wide grin and patting his shoulder.

  He lost his smile, almost immediately. “He does everything better than me.”

  She shook her head. “No. He does some things better than you.”

  “Yeah, all the stuff that matters.”

  “Hot sauce,” Mrs. Rasmussen said. “And crackers. You are colorful and articulate, and friendly and funny. You, Jon Conway, are a gentleman, and if you don’t mind me saying so,” she leaned in, just close enough to turn their conversation conspiratorial, “a delightful, but total pain in the cactus patch.”

  Jon fueled his smile with another long swig of root bear. When he looked up, he saw his father, Blake Conway, suddenly in the kitchen.

  “Mind if I take it from here?” Jon’s father turned to him, smiled, winked, then opened the fridge and grabbed an IBC from the front.

  He twisted his cap and pitched it in the can.

  “You’re home!” Jon cried.

  “Of course,” his dad said. “Today was the science expo, right? Big day.”

  Jon looked puzzled. “But you weren’t there?”

  Like Jon, Mrs. Rasmussen was now standing. his father put his hand gently on her shoulder and said, “Thank you.”

  Mrs. Rasmussen nodded, then said, “Of course, Mr. Conway,” and left the kitchen.

  Jon’s dad hefted himself onto the countertop, then patted the granite and waited for Jon to join him. Jon hefted himself up beside his father.

  His father said, “No, I wasn’t there. I’ll give you three guesses why. And please, no need to spare my feelings. I hate it when you pull that crap. If you can’t learn to shoot straight, you’ll never learn to shoot shit.”

  Jon said, “I don’t know.”

  “I don’t know lives on I Don’t Give a Shit Street.” His father took a sip of root bear. “Do you live on I Don’t Give a Shit Street, or do you live in the beautiful, unblinking eye of Cedar Park?”

  Jon said, “I live in Cedar Park,” then, “Because you had a meeting at the same time, and it couldn’t be rescheduled?”

  “BZZZZZZZZ”

  “Because Hillary messed up your schedule, like she always does, and it’s a goddamn question of your sanity why you keep her on your payroll, especially with all the bonuses you thro
w her measured against the number of times she fucks shit up?”

  “BZZZZZZZZ.” his father grinned. “And don’t be a smart ass.”

  Jon laughed. “Because I suck?”

  “Just because I’ve never smacked you before, doesn’t mean I won’t start. I figure I have at least another few years before you get enough meat on your bones to kick my ass back. Now stop saying you suck. It pisses me off.” His father wrapped his arm around Jon’s shoulder. “None of those are reasons why, and no, I didn’t forget. I saw your giant pile of homemade plastic sitting on the table this morning. I didn’t need to go to Seattle and see it there, too. Not when I could arrange my day around being here when you came home instead. Know what I mean?”

  “Sure,” Jon said. “It means you pretty much figured I’d suck.”

  “Nope,” his father shook his head. “I didn’t figure anything of the sort, but I also didn’t think your homemade plastic stood a chance against science geeks who’ve been working on their projects all year. If you had won, then you would have only won because you’re Blake Conway’s son. And that would’ve been bullshit. Right?”

  “Right,” Jon grumbled.

  “Don’t whine or pout. Listen. You entered the science fair to prove a point. I hope you feel you proved it. If not, better luck next time. I love you, son, but if you thought you were gonna waltz in and win that science fair because you decided to throw your dart at the board up around two weeks ago, well that’s just downright disappointing to me, since I figured I raised a smarter boy than that. In general, shit in life is not that easy.”