Paradigm Rift: Book One of the Back to Normal Series

by McWilson, Randy

  I couldn’t resist the possibility—and I walked downtown. There was so much at stake—so what if it turns out to be nothing? I got close to the diner, and there were some people talking and pointing. I asked about the thunder. A lady said a farmer she knows just on the north of town saw the flash. He had said it was close, real close.

  I left them and started running. I realized that even if there was another Jumper, it didn’t really help my case—but somehow—just the idea of it was thrilling, comforting. My misery would really love some company. It was probably thirty minutes after the blast. I hunted up and down the road beside the farm. And then I saw him.

  Along a small creek to my left, there was a thick patch of trees, and there was a man lying on his stomach. He was in a nice gray suit, not terribly different than a 1946 suit, but you could tell it was out of place. I thought my heart was gonna come out of my chest!

  I looked around for witnesses and ran to him. He was out cold, but breathing. He was breathing! I took some cold creek water and splashed his face. It took a while, but he came around.

  There were a whole bunch of things that happened in the next 3 or 4 hours. Too much to tell in this little journal. He went through all the expected phases—disorientation, confusion, denial, more denial. A long walk downtown, a little television (I finally found one), and a few newspapers helped. It will sink in, but it won’t be overnight. I hope I will be a good mentor. I am experienced, but far from an expert.

  Ken is from Texas. He said it was June 20, 1979 back home. He is (or is it WAS, or is it WILL BE?) a salesman with Texas Instruments computing. Overseas sales, international stuff.

  It will take some time to sort this out, to figure out where we go from here. Should we stay together here? What’s the cover story? Brother from out of town? Second cousin moved in looking for work? He is 31 years old, 7 years younger than me. Smart. Friendly. Married. No kids.

  Ken’s arrival proves at least three things:

  1. These time jumps are almost definitely related to lightning somehow.

  2. My own jump was not a unique event.

  3. There might be more Jumpers in the future, and maybe there have been some before me/us.

  There certainly are enough questions to keep you awake all night if you let them. We will head downtown tomorrow…I will be looking for clothes, he will be looking for answers.

  So am I, Ken—so am I.

  CHAPTER 5

  Not quite 1,500 miles away and deep in the desert Southwest, an immaculate blue 1949 Oldsmobile made its way east on Route 66. The two gorgeous blondes who occupied the front couch seat (with windows down, scarves blowing in the wind) made the entire scene look like something right out of Life Magazine.

  The passenger was engrossed in a tabloid, and she spoke without even looking up. “Are you positive this cousin of yours and I will...you know…hit it off?”

  “Sharon, do you honestly think I would sacrifice my vacation to drive you all the way to Oklahoma, if I didn't think you two were perfect for each other?”

  The passenger looked over; her skepticism barely assuaged. She thought about the answer, but soon got distracted by the dazzling silver ring with an impressive red stone adorning the right hand of the driver. “Where did you say you got that ring, Deb?”

  Debbie smiled and showcased it. “It was a gift from my mother.” She paused. “Sort of a going away gift, I suppose.”

  “Never seen one like it. It’s really something.”

  “Thanks.”

  Sharon flipped the page on her magazine. “I've been on a few blind dates, but nothing like this. What if we don't—you know, match? This could be one awkward trip.”

  “Have I ever led you astray?”

  “Well, no. Not this week, anyway.” They both laughed.

  Sharon discovered an adorable outfit on page seven and pulled the magazine close. The car started slowing and the right turn signal began flashing. She looked up at the empty vista, just miles of road, and a steep embankment off to the right. The car came to a smooth stop along the narrow shoulder. Debbie jumped out and the passenger leaned over. “What’s the matter, Deb? Outta gas?”

  “Nope, full of pee. I gotta go. Be right back.”

  The driver vanished around back and Sharon flipped her visor down. She rummaged through her purse and fished out some blush. Moments later she grabbed her lipstick and puckered for another alluring application.

  The back door opened, as the vain occupant moved closer to the mirror for a better inspection. She heard the driver rumbling through the bags nestled in the back seat. “What're you doing back there?” Sharon inquired. “Looking for toilet paper?”

  “Nah, just lookin’ for a snack.”

  Sharon turned her head incrementally from side to side. “You know, my boss, Leon? He said he hates it when you and I walk into the store together. He says he has a hard time telling us apart.”

  Debbie stopped rummaging through the sacks. “Well, actually,” she said, “that's the whole point.”

  Like a silent and lethal pair of snakes Debbie’s hands slid from the backseat and latched either side of Sharon’s head. With a ruthless and experienced twist, the young woman’s neck was quickly and audibly snapped. The killer guided the beautiful and lifeless body back against the seat. She hopped back in the front and traded purses with the still-warm corpse.

  With planned precision, she put the car in neutral and opened the door, jumping out and grabbing the steering wheel through the open window. The car began to accelerate downhill as she struggled to veer it to the right. With gravity and momentum now at the helm, the Oldsmobile plunged off the steep drop. In a disturbing cascade of metal, rock, and dust, the vehicle fell, hit, and tumbled its way down to the red-graveled valley below, eventually coming to rest upside down.

  Debbie produced a small pistol and targeted the exposed gas tank. The car erupted in a small fireball and was soon engulfed in the blaze.

  As if on cue, and almost out of nowhere, another dark sedan drew alongside her, coming to a calculated stop. She opened the passenger door and slid in.

  “Speshka, poydem comrade,” Debbie said and shut her door.

  The sedan accelerated away from the fire and the smoke, headed due east.

  CHAPTER 6

  "Mornin’ sunshine."

  The words echoed into the distance in Denver's mind like a dream, or was the voice real? He ascended back towards consciousness as if surfacing from a deep dive. He opened his heavy eyes, which snapped shut in the bright light. He attempted to sit up, but a blast of splitting pain through his skull ended that enterprise in short order. He laid back down, massaging his head.

  The voice called out again. "I said, good mornin'."

  Denver squinted and tilted his head to one side. He was greeted by thick, black jail bars, and just beyond that a large wooden desk with a grinning, late middle-aged policeman behind it. Denver tried to sit up once again. He grimaced. "Good isn't the first word that comes to mind. No offense."

  "Probably got one heckuva noggin' splitter. Lemme guess—feels like a concrete truck is parked on your forehead?"

  Denver managed to rise and sat on the edge of his cot, his face in his hands. "Two trucks."

  The cop, or whatever he was, laughed under his breath as he rose out of his seat. "Hey, that one's on you, pal. I told you to stop runnin'."

  Denver couldn’t help but nod in an odd-sort of agreement. What’s this? He looked down and was taken aback when he saw what he was now wearing. His new clothes were completely different than what he had been wearing last night, or at least, what he was wearing when he lost consciousness. He had no idea how long his drug-induced state had lasted. He examined his jail attire, not fashionable for sure, but he wouldn’t have looked twice at anyone wearing it on any given sidewalk.

  He reached around to his back pocket, then his front two. The stranger noticed.

  "Lookin' for these, Mr. Collins?"

  Denver glanced over as the cop open
ed a drawer and produced a familiar wallet and smartphone. He dangled them in the air and smiled. "Well, let's just say these ain't safe in this time zone."

  He tucked the wallet away, but kept the phone out. "Trust me, ya got more bars over there, son, than you'll ever get with this. Well, at least not for another fifty years or so."

  He stashed the phone in the drawer and strolled over to the cell, offering a steaming cup of coffee through the bars. "Here. This’ll go a long way to clear things up. I hit you with enough happy juice to stop a small grizzly. But you'll be back to normal in no time. I promise."

  The cop slid a chair over and leaned in as Denver took a cautious sip or two. "So, lemme ask you, son. When’re you from?"

  Denver didn't make eye contact. "New York, East side."

  The cop paused. "I don't think you heard me. I didn't ask where, I asked when are you from?"

  Denver froze and glared at him.

  The officer grinned and leaned in again. "You heard me right, son. But wait, forgive me, Mr. Collins, I'll go first." The cop shoved his powerful hand through the bars. "I'm Police Chief James McCloud, but you can call me Jim. I'm from Atlanta, the year 1996. I jumped, local time, spring of 1950. Been here six years, actually a little over."

  Denver returned the handshake, but only out of courtesy. He was doing his best to process the nonsense while recovering from a tranquilizer-accentuated migraine. He wagged his head. "Look, with all due respect to the badge, I really don't know who you are, or where I am, or what’s going on here. So, if you'll just—"

  "Hey, I know it's a lot to swallow, son. Heck, I remember my first day. Not much better'n yours!” The self-proclaimed police chief stood up. “I actually jumped naked and was found by a cute little gal, but that's another story for another time."

  With considerable effort, Denver stood as well, and leaned against the bars. "I'm not sure whose idea of a funny joke this is, but you've got about five seconds to let me outta here, and even then I won't promise that legitimate law enforcement won't get a sudden and heated phone call."

  The Chief reached back and snatched a folded newspaper. He slapped it against the bars by Denver's hand. "Check out the headlines, hotshot."

  Denver retrieved it with some reluctance:

  NORMAL JOURNAL FRIDAY, AUGUST 10, 1956.

  He shoved it back, unimpressed. "You know what they say, don't believe everything you read."

  The Chief appeared almost hurt, but shook his head as he stepped towards a console TV set. He muttered under his breath as he flipped it on, "I would get a stubborn Trailer right before a nice, quiet weekend." He smiled with confidence. "How about these TV shows, Ace?"

  The black and white set crackled alive, right in the middle of a skit on The Garry Moore Show. Denver studied it for a few seconds. “Yeah, I think my soon-to-be-ex has that whole show on DVD. Now listen, I'm not kidding—you better let me outta here!" He rattled the door to the cell. It didn't give much. "I know people!"

  The Chief marched over to the bars. "Know people? Not around here you don't. Listen! My name is Chief James McCloud. It is August the tenth, 1956. You are no longer in the heart of the Big Apple. You are in the middle of Normal, Illinois. You are a Jumper, and I am too. And we are not alone."

  Denver stood there, half waiting for the punch line.

  It never came.

  He dropped back and plopped down onto his cot. Chief McCloud slid his chair closer. "Trust me—I know it's a lot to take in, but if you promise to play nice, promise you won't run, I wanna show you something."

  Denver looked up into the Chief's wide-eyed, grinning face, as his own thoughts were in a desperate struggle to connect the dots.

  This is way too elaborate for an office prank. Gotta be the government...yeah...it's got CIA or NSA written all over it. Maybe if I play along, I can get out quicker.

  The cop pushed his right hand between the bars. "Whaddya say? Deal?"

  Denver strained to take any of this seriously. "Uh, deal."

  The Chief slapped his hands together, grabbed his key ring, and unlocked the cell. "Now that's my boy. C'mon!"

  Denver took a few tentative steps out and sized up the Spartan room. A desk, gun cabinet, a few filing cabinets, chairs, large TV, concrete floor. He spotted a framed photo of President Eisenhower on the wall just to his left.

  Nice touch. These government psychological testing programs are very meticulous. Can't wait to see the rest of this operation.

  Chief McCloud trotted ahead of him towards the front door. As Denver got close, the Chief stepped aside and threw the door open for him, as if he were a visiting magistrate. “Right this way, Mr. Collins.”

  Denver exited the imitation police station into the bright sunlight of a late summer day, and was blinded for a few seconds. The Chief shut the door and flanked him.

  "Welcome to Normal, Illinois!"

  Journal entry number 21

  Monday, April 15, 1946

  Ken is approaching his one week anniversary. I think he is doing better than I was at Jump+7—no scratch that—I KNOW that he is doing better.

  It is difficult to describe how immensely helpful Ken is, how much of a relief it is to actually be able to talk freely with another human being. It’s like I have been trapped in a foreign country, and I barely know the language, and then suddenly, I meet another American, better yet: an American from near my home town.

  We are eight years apart (jump-date-wise), two states apart geographically, and politically only one president removed. He asked me yesterday if Carter won a second term. I didn’t tell him, but I’m afraid my face did.

  Having Ken around changes things profoundly. It’s like having your own apartment, and then taking on a roommate. When you are alone, you really don’t need formal rules, because, well…it’s just you. And who cares? But then, there are TWO. An object alone can generate no conflict, but with two, friction is possible, rather…it is probable.

  But it’s not just about rules, or about formal agreements governing how we treat each other, or our respective responsibilities. Most of those things will arise naturally, organically anyway.

  This relationship…it could change the world, and change it accidentally. We need policies, guiding principles. Especially if our group grows. Then everyone needs to agree to them, to be in accord with them. Like a micro-society within society, we would be a temporal subculture.

  I like that word ACCORD. I guess I’ve already made one “rule”: Walk Without Footprints. Should it be called: The First Rule of Phillip? Sounds a bit self-aggrandizing. How about this:

  The First Accord: Walk Without Footprints.

  Better. There is something comforting and stabilizing about rules, about boundaries. I’m not Moses, and I don’t plan on making anywhere close to TEN of these, but I know there is value and virtue in them.

  Oh, and Ken mentioned something the other day: Diseases. There are illnesses and diseases that this time period faces that Ken and I have not been exposed to, at least in a long time. I’m not sure the vaccines we’ve had will prepare our bodies. It’s strange to think that an old disease could kill time Jumpers from the future. Almost like a version of the Old World diseases wiping out the natives of the New World 500 years ago. Not a pleasant thought.

  But, if you think about it, Ken and I are diseases. We are foreign bodies injected into a 1946 host. We could poison and harm its natural future. Maybe a disease wiping out a disease would be nature’s way of correcting its own impossible mistakes.

  By the way, we are tentatively planning a trip to Vegas. Soon. We need money. I have some big plans.

  CHAPTER 7

  Normal? Normal, Illinois? Ain’t nothing about this whole experience I would label as Normal.

  Denver blinked hard and was compelled to squint as his eyes did their best to adjust. The sheer volume of intense daylight aggravated his headache somewhat afresh. As he acclimated, he found himself on a sidewalk in the middle of yesteryear.

  This fake town’s
name must’ve been some bureaucrat’s idea of a joke. “Abnormal” would be better.

  The area appeared exactly like a community that time had long-since forgotten; indeed, much like any other Midwest town in the height of the 1950s. Vintage cars, people, clothing, and storefronts filled his vision. He was impressed.

  Whoa, someone has really gone to a lot of trouble for this simulation. Maybe they will give me one of these cars as a consolation prize when it's over.

  The Chief stepped around in front of him, grinning like an over-zealous tour guide. Denver would've almost laughed, if it hadn't been for the sidearm on the Chief's hip and the fact that he didn't have any idea where he really was or how long the powers that be were going to keep him for testing.

  The Chief continued, proud and genial. "A beautiful Friday mornin' here in Normal. They're callin' for an even prettier weekend."

  Denver concentrated on McCloud, wondering if that was even his real name. He studied his face, his demeanor, his costume.

  He's a great actor, I'll give him that. A bit overplayed, but a good actor.

  The Chief made his way toward a familiar squad car parked along the curb. "C'mon, I wanna take you for a tour. Technically your second ride in my car, but you probably don't remember the first one. You can sit in the front this time." The Chief started to get in the driver's seat, but raised his head over the roof. "For the record, you're heavier'n you look." He winked, and then motioned for Denver to hop in.