A vintage amusement park with rides, how nice, Denver thought. At least I will be a lot closer to his pistol while I’m sitting in the car. That might prove useful later on.
A well-dressed blonde sporting a summer hat passed Denver. Their eyes met and he nodded. "Hello."
The Chief tapped his horn. "Quit castin’ an eyeball at that Dolly, lover boy, and get in here." Denver grabbed a final look around and slid into the passenger’s seat.
The Chief dropped his voice. “Pretty sure she’s circled anyway.” Denver wrinkled his brow. McCloud explained. “You know circled…married.” The Chief held up his hand and traced around his ring finger several times. “Circled.”
The squad car backed out of the slot and eased into the uptown lane. The breeze through the open window played with Denver's hair. "I do believe you are the very first stock broker I've ever had in this squad car," the Chief said.
Denver perked up. I knew it. This is the government messing with me. Nice slip up, fake cop. Denver smiled. "Now, how could you possibly know that?"
The Chief adopted a mischievous look. "I know people!” He glanced over at his passenger. “Nah—just kiddin'. I found information in your wallet. Detective work, it's my job. Or, one of my jobs."
Denver refused to be amused and took in the view, stunned at just how big this fabricated town was turning out to be. The Chief glanced over at the jaded stare in the eyes of his captive yet not captivated audience. McCloud changed the subject. "Jumpers."
"Excuse me?"
"Jumpers. That’s what they call us, I mean, that's what we call ourselves. Me, you, us, we're Jumpers."
The Chief waved at a few of the locals as he slowed for a stop sign. Denver angled towards the Chief, willing to entertain this comical stranger for a little while longer. He glanced down at the pistol. It could've been in his hands in just over a second. That brought a strange sense of comfort.
"It started in the mid-to-late ‘40s,” the cop began. “Now Doc and Ellen can explain it a whole lot better'n me, but it had something to do with nukes—"
"Nukes? Nuclear weapons?"
"That's what Phil and the others have told us. All that atomic testing did it. Manhattan Project they called it. Doc said those bombs created little holes, little rips in the space-time-continuum thing."
Denver called to mind another recent car ride and another conversation with a curious six-year-old less than twenty-four hours ago. He smiled as he glanced up at the sparse clouds. "Invisible cracks in the sky."
The Chief was on a roll and didn't seem to notice Denver's reaction. Denver, on the other hand, noticed just how smoothly McCloud delivered his little speech.
"Anywho...apparently these little time portals are pretty harmless,” McCloud continued. “They don't bother anyone or anything. Well, at least not until they're supplied with huge, and I do mean huge, amounts of energy."
They made a wide left turn and the Chief's attention shifted abruptly to a couple of young men on the sidewalk. He slowed and leaned out the window. "Charlie Wilson! I better not catch you hotroddin' out on 66 tonight!"
The young men responded with nods and waves. The Chief chuckled and accelerated. "Kids! They all think they're the next Mario Andretti. Anywho...what was I sayin'?"
"Huge energy."
"Oh yeah...listen, lemme ask you a question. What’s the last thing you remember before you came here, here to Normal?"
Denver gazed out his passenger window. "I was in my apartment. I had a few drinks, it was a rough night. I fell asleep and then I woke up in your little government-sponsored freak show here."
The Chief either ignored or dismissed the last little jab. "What else was going on? How ‘bout the weather?"
"The weather?” Denver asked. “Well, it was about as nasty as my soon-to-be-ex: Rain, stormy."
McCloud motioned with his hands in an effort to get Denver to elaborate. "And lots of...?"
"Lots of...what?"
"Lightning, son! Lots of big, huge, lightning bolts."
He stared hard at the Chief, a man who now seemed a bit more credible.
McCloud continued, "Lightning. Guaranteed. Bet my life on it. It's the only common denominator for all of us Jumpers. Everyone has the same story. One second we're living our lives, then BAM! CRASH! Lightning bolt, and the next second, we're here. Right here, Normal, Illinois."
Denver decided to play along with this clever scenario, or maybe he was starting to buy into it; he couldn't actually tell. He threw the Chief a curve ball. "But why here, I mean, why Normal?"
The Chief didn't even blink. "That's the one angle our experts ain't quite nailed down yet. Some think it has to do with the geographic makeup of the area, something ‘bout the land, and metal deposits—heck, who knows?" The Chief laughed and slapped Denver on the shoulder. “Hey, maybe there’s a secret military program around here!”
Denver wasn’t laughing. "There was lightning and thunder last night," he admitted.
"Not just a regular bolt of lightning, no sir. Doc calls it a Superbolt. Only one lightning strike in a million fits the bill. He says when a Superbolt hits one of those tears, those holes in the space-time-thing, it opens the portal wide enough to actually send an entire person back in time."
They turned onto a new street, and the Chief waved again at a driver passing by. "That's how I found you so quickly. That's how we always find 'em, at least, most of 'em." Denver shot him a bewildered look.
"The lightning and the thunder,” the Chief said. “When a Jumper jumps, the portal carries a part of the lightning and a lot of the thunder back with it. We call it a FLaT. Being a cop and all, I hear about all of the strange stuff. When you jumped, heck, my phone rang off the wall last night—it was a snap to find you. Lightning and thunder on a clear night, dead giveaway, son."
Denver sat there, trying to take it all in. He could think of at least three good reasons why this was clearly ridiculous. The problem was, he could rationalize five better ones that made it believable.
As he became distracted in his thoughts, the Chief appeared to be distracted as well. A little commotion on the sidewalk in front of a soda fountain had snagged his attention. He slammed on the brakes, inadvertently throwing his passenger into the dash. The Chief jumped out, and then leaned back into his driver's window. "Stay here. I'll be right back. I can't wait for school to start back up next month!"
Three young boys were in a late summer scuffle, and the one on the ground was taking a severe thrashing. The Chief closed the distance, hollering at the boys. Denver looked over at the keys, still in the ignition. He glanced back up at Chief McCloud, who was occupied with diffusing the brawl.
It's now or never. I could be out of this psyche study in five minutes. Well, that is, unless there are armed guards posted along the perimeter. Denver slid across the seat. "So long, freak show."
He threw the car into drive and pressed the pedal to the floor.
Journal entry number 23
Thursday, April 18, 1946
Someone once said that knowledge is power.
But what about Future Knowledge? Maybe Future Knowledge isn’t power. Perhaps it is DANGEROUS, like a nuclear bomb, powerful and dangerous. There are two issues at stake here, and neither is absolutely “knowable”:
1. What happens if Ken or I accidentally reveal Future Knowledge to someone here in 1946? What effects will that have in the Time-Stream?
2. What happens if I accidentally impart Future Knowledge to Ken, and then (hypothetically) we find a way to get back home? He will return to 1979 with Future Knowledge, which then could impact the world from 1979 on, and then I will return to the late 1980s, into a world (potentially) changed by Ken.
This kind of thinking used to be a fun and fruitless exercise when I studied physics in college, usually leading to arguments in the frat house, especially after liquid-courage-enhancers in 12 ounce metal cans. But this is—real. These are real issues. To neglect them is to crack open something potentially far more des
tructive than the lid of Pandora’s Box.
In war they say: “Loose Lips Sink Ships.” But, honestly, a few frigates doomed to the depths is nothing compared to what we could possibly unleash with careless conversation.
We need our second axiom, another accord. Especially if our group grows beyond two. Something about keeping the future secret. We have to consider everything we say, or, rather, are about to say to each other, and to non-Jumpers (I’ve been calling them Locals). We need a type of screen, or a filter. I like that. A Filter.
Our Second Accord: Filter the Future.
After much planning, we will finally jump on the bus tomorrow, headed for Las Vegas. Easy cash awaits!
On a sad note, a cargo ship exploded at port in Texas City, Texas, a few days ago. Hundreds dead. Wiped out twenty city blocks. Close to where Ken grew up.
CHAPTER 8
My car! Son of a gun.
The Chief looked up in disbelief and darted out into the road as the squad car stole away, minus its rightful owner. He wiped his sweaty forehead. "You'll never get out of here, Mr. Collins. This thing is way bigger than you or me. You'll see."
_____________________________________
Denver raced down the street, ignoring both the speed limit and ordinary caution. As adrenaline pushed him, he pushed the accelerator, his pulse pounding. He attempted to navigate the first corner and slid out of control, almost slamming into an oncoming car.
What’s this? No power steering?
Denver corrected just in time to avoid hitting a second vehicle and then narrowly missed a few parked cars off to his right. The fleeing fugitive approached a four-way stop at full throttle and plowed on through.
The brakes and tires squealed as he made a hard right, struggling to compensate for the difficulty of sharp turns. The steering wheel seemed determined to fight him in a battle of wills. With the police station back in sight, he dropped his speed and rolled past, searching for something. Two doors further along he cut down a small alley on his left. He made another left at the end of the narrow lane and gunned the motor for the final stretch.
The echoing roar of the police sedan scared a stray dog scavenging through the garbage, and it bolted out in front of him. Startled, Denver cut the wheel hard to his right. He missed the malnourished animal, but caught a small tree on the edge of the alley instead, tearing a sizeable gash in the front end. He coasted to a stop behind the station and parked the squad car, yanking the keys out. He looked back at the lucky dog, who had already returned to his meal, then jogged over to the back door of the police station. He tried three or four keys before success, cursing himself for his trembling hands.
Focus, Collins. Focus.
The back door started to give way but then jammed on him. He slammed his shoulder into it and popped the door loose, nearly falling to the bare concrete floor in the process.
Denver scurried over to the Chief’s desk and ransacked the drawers. Papers, folders, a few playing cards, and two packs of smokes became casualties of war in his mad scramble. He grabbed his confiscated wallet and phone and continued to pilfer the remaining drawers.
The lowest drawer yielded a bonus. A pistol. Now that’s more like it, McCloud. He plopped the sidearm onto the desktop and rummaged for some ammo. He grabbed the gun, kicked out the magazine, loaded it, and shoved it back in with all the skill, speed, and precision of a trained soldier. He held it aloft for a brief moment.
Been a long time. Feels good. Finally something real around here.
The cold metal, clasped against his skin, took him back to a much different time. To what seemed to almost be another life. This whole fiasco was the second time in his young life that the government had taken him far from his comfort zone.
Of course, the first time it was voluntary, completely of his own choosing. The GI Bill was hard to ignore in the late 1990s for someone who needed college money, and whose parents and whose grades were incapable of offering much more than encouragement. He endured basic training, but he generally enjoyed the discipline and comradeship of Army life.
As the final month of his enlistment drew near, many members of his new military family put pressure on him to sign up for a second go around. It was strangely tempting, but he had his sights set on a degree in economics, paid for courtesy of Uncle Sam. He had always been fascinated with numbers, financials, and the global market. The Army had shown him what the world of implemented national policy looked like, but economics held the promise of revealing a much bigger picture.
Denver’s family had planned a tremendous welcome back home party for early October of 2001. That is, until nineteen terrorists mercilessly obliterated two towers, four planes, part of the Pentagon, and over 3,000 innocent American lives.
More than airplanes were hijacked on that pivotal September day in America’s national history—Denver’s personal future suffered a violent takeover as well. Overcome with thoughts of justified revenge and brimming with patriotic fervor, many young men (including Denver and his younger brother, Dallas) either upped or re-upped. The attacks on the Twin Towers may have only temporarily crippled the U.S. economic system, but it indefinitely derailed Denver’s dream of a future in financials.
In his mind, global economics could wait. It was time for global payback.
His marksmanship scores and spotless evals landed Denver a role in Task Force Dagger, a few weeks before Thanksgiving 2001. Cave-by-cave, town-by-town, tribe-by-tribe, his unit (one of many under the command of Colonel John Mulholland) routed the Taliban throughout Afghanistan. Once the last stronghold of bitter enemy resistance in Kandahar fell in early December, Denver’s team relocated all across the unforgiving landscape until he left the army in the fall of 2005. It was a land of many contradictions, with nomadic herders subsisting in a culture that had changed minimally over thousands of years, yet communicating on satellite phones and email.
But four brutal years of sleep deprivation, innumerable late night raids, countless IED’s, and far too many flag-draped caskets were enough for the twenty-five-year-old boy from New York.
Like thousands who preceded and followed him, it was curiously difficult for Denver to make that sudden transition back to the soft civility of a civilian existence. The real world was an unfamiliar environment for those who had experienced the horrors of a land where life is cheap, and death is even cheaper.
And now, in the last twenty-four hours, it appeared that Uncle Sam had once again dumped Denver into a world he was totally unprepared for.
But this time, things were different.
He now had experience. He had combat skills. He had an overriding desire to get back to his daughter. Denver was more than a decent human being, but he feared for the safety of any man who would stand in the way of him achieving that goal.
Denver untucked his shirt and shoved the loaded pistol just inside his back waistband and jogged over to the jail cell. He pulled out the keys, removing the one for the squad car, and stuffed it back into his pocket. He locked the cell door, and then pitched the remaining keys into the cell. They slid along the smooth floor and Denver was halfway across the room before they came to a stop beneath the humble cot.
He locked the front door from the inside and sped over to the gun cabinet. Four rifles and a shotgun stood at the ready. He stepped back, kicked in the thin, glass door, and began grabbing the firearms. Denver slammed them, one at a time, onto the hard concrete floor. By the time he was finished, the arms collection was reduced to a twisted pile of steel and splintered wood. He snatched several boxes of ammo and chucked them into the jail cell as well.
He took one more look around and spotted the phone on the Chief’s desk. He started to grab it, but then reconsidered. They probably use radios or cellphones anyway. He set it down and exited through the back door, making sure to lock it as well.
The foul stench of hot antifreeze assaulted him immediately. He glanced over at the car as radiator fluid drained upon the ground forming a tiny green river and volume
s of steam rose above the hood. Saving a dog’s life had cost him the regrettable loss of his easy ticket out of town.
He paused to consider his options. Flush brick buildings on the near side and towering shade trees straight ahead lined the narrow chasm, and Denver moved to his right along the tree line. About half a block down, a break in the trees revealed another short alley to his left and he took it, picking up his pace. He fished his phone out with some difficulty, hoping against hope for even a single bar.
But, hope disappointed. Nothing.
The shaded corridor dumped out onto another uptown street. A handful of vintage-era shoppers and an occasional dog-walker littered either side of the lane. Denver hesitated as a few more classic cars cruised by. He did a quick reconnaissance, looking for the location of surveillance cameras, on the light poles, and even along the tops of the buildings. The only thing he spotted of interest was a small restaurant across the road with a large, picture window. AMANDA’S DINER was painted across it in a gentle curve with two-tone lettering and a small OPEN sign dangled on the front door just to its left.
He crossed the street, attempting to be casual, and kept his head down. Denver had the irrational impression that everyone was staring at him, but no one seemed to be paying any attention to the out of breath newcomer.
A dull jingle from a broken bell announced his arrival to the diner, and none of the smattering of patrons even bothered to look up, except for one little girl in the nearest booth. She leaned out from behind the seat and smiled at him with a tiny wave, clutching a rag doll that was actually more rag than doll.
Denver caught her eye and managed to force a grin back. About the same age as my Jasmine. She held up her doll proudly, and then a momma’s hand snapped her back into a more proper posture. Denver scanned the area, looking for exits and vantage points as he sized the place up. He glanced back out the window. Business as usual out there. Odd.
Paradigm Rift: Book One of the Back to Normal Series Page 4
