Paradigm Rift: Book One of the Back to Normal Series (4 page)

"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 opened 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!"

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.

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.

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.