Paradigm Rift: Book One of the Back to Normal Series (5 page)

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 destructive 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.

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 volumes 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.

He grabbed a seat at the long bar as far from the front window as possible. He figured he could hop over the counter and make a break through the kitchen if he was forced to. Denver reached around to ensure that his gun wasn’t showing.

That little piece of steel was his ultimate back up plan if things went south.

Monday, April 22, 1946

I can’t wait to visit the new Flamingo Casino. It just opened about 6 months ago. It looked great as we were coming in on the bus.

Hopefully Sin City will turn into Cash City for Ken and me. We need money to live on, and we will need large sums of money (eventually) for time-travel research. What better way to acquire large sums of money than gambling? We have weighed the pros and cons of this effect on the time-stream, and we feel like this will be a minimal impact on the future.

Our plan is to hit multiple casinos and bet on sports. Ken is a bit of a sports buff, and he knows the outcomes of a lot of games. I think we could spend a few weeks here and rake in a small fortune.

They say the house always wins.

Well—the house never met Ken and me.

She had peered through that smudged window in the swinging kitchen door at least a thousand times. Every time the bell on the front door clanged, waitress Katie Long peered out. She was always looking for something, never sure what to expect, and never sure what she wanted it to be.

But today, she was intrigued, and grew far more certain that she might have found what she had been missing. Katie was so caught up in the moment that she didn’t even notice the close approach of fellow-waitress, Beverly Welker.

She examined Katie and then bent down, apparently trying to locate the object of Katie’s attraction. “What’s so interesting? Is Mayor Vorhees picking his nose again?”

Katie reluctantly stepped aside, allowing a better angle for her coworker. Bev adjusted and spotted Denver over at the bar. Her hands dropped to her hips. “Well, hello there, handsome.”

Katie shook her head with playful disgust and bumped Bev away from the door. “You know the rules. First one to the window wins.”

Bev wasn’t so easily dismissed. “That’s never really been a rule. More like a guideline, sugar. Let’s uh, settle this one the only fair way.” She reached down into her mostly-attached apron pocket and held up a quarter. “Heads he's yours, tails he's mine.”

Katie grimaced in mild protest, but her coworker flipped the coin anyway, and it bounced and settled on the counter nearby. They leaned in…
heads
. Bev stepped away from the swinging door and stretched out her arm towards it.

“Go get 'em, you lucky tiger!”

Katie blushed a bit and stared at her fun-house reflection in the flimsy metal door. She carefully teased and pulled a few strands of blonde hair down and then straightened her outfit. She turned to Bev who surveyed her up and down like a proud mother inspecting her daughter before her first big social event.

Bev stepped back. “A goddess in a greasy apron, but hey—a goddess no less. Now get out there to this unsuspecting mortal!”

_____________________________________

Denver noticed a well-worn trifold paper menu sandwiched between the ketchup and mustard bottles, and flipped it open. He was impressed by the incredible level of detail of this vintage, small town simulation.
Right down to the coffee stains on the menu, complete with 1950s prices…nice.
He turned it over, admiring the craftsmanship. He was running his finger down a ragged fold when a question startled his investigation.

“Don’t get a paper cut. I think we’re fresh out of bandages.”

He nearly dropped the menu and looked up into the simply beautiful and wide-eyed face of Katie Long. He surveyed her figure and fashion, order pad in hand, complemented with a perfect cherry-lipped smile. It was a setting obviously borrowed from a Normal Rockwell painting. If the menu was an impressive prop in this little charade, the waitress sealed the illusion.

A little bit predictable, but I doubt they could’ve picked a better actress. I’ll give ‘em that.

She stood there while he judged her like a runway model. The tension became uncomfortable and she broke it. “Can I get you some coffee for uh, starters?”

He continued to study her, but he was thirsty, and he was hungry. “Oh, sure, coffee sounds good…black.”

“Only color we got today,” she said. “The blue brew with pink polka dots doesn’t come in from Chicago til next week.” She winked, tucked the order pad away, and turned to grab a fresh pot.

“So, are you all serving the uh...the lunch menu yet, Katie?” he asked. “I'm not really a breakfast kind of guy.”

She donned a stern face, with just a hint of a smile and leaned in. “Lunch? Oh,
dinner
. No, not for another half-hour, at least officially,” she said. “But I think I can sweet-talk Bob back there to make just about whatever your little heart desires. It's the middle column.”

“Uh, sorry, the what?”

She pointed at the menu, and tapped it. “The middle column. The middle of the menu, that's the dinner menu.”

He blushed. “Oh, I'm so sorry, yes...just a bit out of it, today.“

Beverly passed by with a plate of food and a low growl. Katie shot her a look and moved her own attention down to Denver’s wedding ring.

“While you're looking, should I set out another plate for your wife?” she asked.

“Another plate?” He looked up. “For my....oh. Oh, no, I'm not marri—I mean, we're sep—uh, it's
complicated
.“

She retrieved her order pad again as the doorbell sang its sad song and another patron strolled in. Denver’s whole body twitched at the sound, and he glanced over at the man and back to Katie. She continued her picturesque stance and smile, waiting for Denver’s order.

“Well, uh, let's keep it quick and simple,” he said. “Can I get a burger, everything on it, and some fries?”

She began writing feverishly as she rehearsed it. “Put a cow in the wheat field and run it through the garden, and a side with eyes. Got it.”

Denver contorted his face. “Sounds either delicious, or...
dangerous
. Guess it'll be a surprise.”

She smiled and started to turn. “Oh, I'm full of surprises.”

He watched her cute figure stroll towards the back.

Maybe this simulation isn’t so bad after all.