Paradigm Rift: Book One of the Back to Normal Series (3 page)

A motel room? What’s going on here?

Denver was not just in any motel room, but a motel room that had been in desperate need of remodeling since at least the Vietnam War, maybe even the Korean. He was fascinated by the large, black phone by the bed and walked over to it.
A rotary phone?
He picked up the handset and listened to the tone. Just for fun, he spun the rotary dial, and it clicked back into place. He glanced around again.

No television? I gotta be dreaming.

He stepped toward the thick curtains and cautiously peeled the left side back a tad. He could make out a nearly-empty parking lot through the dirty glass, a few lights, but no activity. He grabbed the handle and the ugly green door opened under extreme protest. Denver moved out onto the uneven concrete sidewalk. There were about a dozen units along the wall, and a handful of cars were parked on his far right.

He strained to see the vehicles in the darkness.
Nice, looks like a '47 Ford on the end. Somebody dropped some bucks in that restoration job.

There appeared to be some city lights straight ahead in the distance, though he couldn't tell how far due to the intermittent fog that hugged the ground. He grabbed his cellphone to check the time, and hopefully his location. The display was a disappointment except for the time, 9:34 p.m.

He pulled it closer.
Do I have a signal? How many bars?

No and none.

That’s great
.

He put the phone away and felt his back pocket, relieved to discover he still had his wallet. He peered inside.
Good
,
at least fifty bucks.
He figured he would need at least that much just to get a cab ride home.

Denver took one final look around and made short work of getting across the parking lot, which dumped out onto a narrow, two-lane blacktop. He paused and looked up and down the road, lit about as well as could be expected in the mist and moonlight, and he began a brisk walk towards civilization.

The air was sharp and cool, not cold, but something bothered him as he trudged along. It was the weather. No clouds, no rain, no storm, no lightning, just a thin layer of fog. He was convinced it was a close lightning strike that slapped him from slumber mere moments ago.

But how? Where? If it was an explosion,
where is the smoke?
How did I end up in a motel? What’s freakin’ going on?

It was a mystery, but he reminded himself that a mystery is just an event that is yet to be explained. He began working through possible explanations, from an over-the-top office prank, to a far-fetched government conspiracy. He had a few friends who worked for the NSA, recruited right after Afghanistan. Those guys now operated in an entirely new region of reality, a region of unlimited information and limitless resources. They might be messing with him. Regardless of their individual merits, the potential explanations he toyed with at least served to pass the time.

He checked his phone again fifteen minutes later.
No bars, no location, no service.
As he shoved it back into his pocket—
a sound
. He perked up…in the distance, a low tone. He turned and spotted the muted glow of car headlights through the cool haze.

He thought about flagging them down,
but that would be almost crazy, right?
He decided against acting desperate and continued towards town, whatever town it was.

The car was much closer now, but he resisted the urge to look. The rumble of the engine revealed that it was slowing as it approached. Denver's shadow was thrown long and strong as a sudden pool of intense light surrounded him. He was being spotlighted and he just walked on, pretending not to notice, full knowing how ridiculous that proposition was.

A voice pierced the tension. "Need a ride son?"

He hesitated in his steps, still disoriented. "I, uh...I'm not sure."

Denver glanced back and was nearly blinded by the search light, now amplified by the mist. He couldn't help but shield his eyes as the gruff stranger continued. "A little early to be hittin' the sauce wouldn't you say?"

Denver was thrown for a bit. "What? Sauce? Oh, no...I…I'm not...I haven’t been…" He tried to resume walking down the tiny shoulder.

The stranger rolled alongside in the car, matching his pace. "Lemme guess. You're not from around here, are ya?"

Denver shrugged as he plodded along. The conversation appeared innocent enough, but his military-sharp skepticism was on full alert. He managed a rough answer. "Well, if I only knew where
here
was."

The car pulled ahead of him a bit and Denver was shocked to see it was a police car, or at least it had been a police car, maybe fifty years ago. With huge whitewalls and large rounded fenders, it was an auto collector's dream. The man stopped the car and got out. His silhouetted form revealed a hat befitting law enforcement. Denver caught a glimpse of a pistol at the man’s side and thought it best to attempt de-escalation. "I, uh, I'm not looking for any kind of trouble."

The uniformed figure stepped a bit closer. "Listen, son, why don't ya just get in my squad car, and let's figure out what's going on here."

Denver's fight-or-flight mechanism went into overdrive, and he chose the latter. He darted off the road, and flung himself across a shallow ditch, landing and tripping in a dirt-clod field. He recovered his stride and ran in the moonlight, navigating as best he could through the low rows of freshly harvested wheat.

The stranger lifted a gun. "Hey! Stop! Don't make me shoot you, son!"

Denver stumbled again, hitting face first into a patch of sharp wheat stubs, but recovered in a mess of dirt, sweat, and adrenaline, and took off again.

The man took aim. "Last warning!"

Denver's heart pounded out of his chest as he continued his mad and uneven pace. Then there was a flash, a crack of gunfire, and Denver was thrown forward with the impact. He smacked the bristled ground and rolled several times. The back of his left shoulder felt like it had been tagged by a scorpion's tail, burning and enflamed. He slid to a stop and reached around with his right hand.
What was this?

His fingers discovered a large device buried into his flesh and yanked it out.

A tranquilizer dart?

He flung it away and moments later realized that these missiles were aptly-named. A strange calm descended over him, his muscles felt like lead, and his breathing slowed.

His vision started to defocus, and his eyelids weighed at least seventy-five pounds each. He saw something approaching and raised his head off the ground for a final time. In his crooked and blurred field of view, the man in uniform walked up and knelt beside him, holstering his weapon.

Denver tried to react and respond, but all of his military training collapsed under the weight of chemistry and biology. He stopped resisting and found it considerably easier to just fall asleep.

The uniformed assailant almost laughed.

"Sweet dreams, son. And welcome to 1956."

Tuesday, April 9, 1946

I am not alone! This is unbelievable! Where to begin?

Wow, the last 24 hours have been terrifying, and amazing, and wonderful all at the same time…at least for me. His name is Ken Miller. He is from Texas, South Texas actually. And he is from 1979!

I just read those 3 sentences above again. I’m still almost pinching myself. Let me back up a bit, so much to share about what happened yesterday. You could hear it all over town, apparently. It rumbled the apartment pretty good. It was still echoing when I went outside. My next door neighbor stepped out and looked at me and said a strange word:

Thunder.

I looked around. A few clouds, but 99% blue sky. I started to go back inside, but then I remembered March 5. My Jump Day. Lightning, thunder, a severe storm back home, but no storm here in Normal. It brought back all those early questions—am I alone? Has this happened before? Can it happen again? Did it have anything to do with the storm that night?

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.

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.