After the “Yes” and the “I do’s” there were happy days, even happy years, but they felt like someone else’s life right now.
The intensifying electrical storm made the lights protest several more times, as Denver did his best to empty Budweiser number two. A strange blue glow filled the room.
Satellite dish is out, that's great.
He turned off the TV and studied the ring a bit more, before sliding it back onto his finger. He rolled to the side to finish off his beer, and in a matter of moments, Denver Collins was finished as well. Not even the incessant, window-shaking thunderclaps could disturb his fermented-barley-induced slumber now. He drifted off remembering the expression on Jen’s face, but it was like a fading dream.
Nobody gets engaged like Jen and I did.
But that was over eight years ago.
Journal entry number 7
Thursday, March 21, 1946
Had to buy some more clothes. I will be out of money by week’s end. I don’t know of any other way to survive right now. I’m not proud of it, but I will probably have to steal (but I fully intend to make good on it once things improve). But cash isn't the only obstacle.
I have to not only look the part, but my actions, my words, my interactions, all must be authentic. I cannot let people find out who I truly am, and when I am truly from. For example—there's technology. I have been trying to cook my own food to save money and limit my exposure to the public. I went to the appliance store and asked the clerk to direct me to the microwave ovens. I had to quickly cover for my mistake (I am about a decade or so too early). They will be called Radar Ranges at any rate, not microwaves.
It’s so weird to think there is basically only one computer in the world right now, ENIAC—and it’s bigger than a small house! Back at the high school I teach at in Colorado, we had over ten Apple II computers in one building!
I have been immersing myself in newspapers and magazines. I haven’t seen a TV here yet. I picked up a cheap radio. I can get a few local stations, and one out of Chicago. They carry a lot of sports. It's strange listening to games, at least the ones that I already know the outcome. A guy could make some serious cash with my knowledge, at least in the right places.
The ending and effects of World War II are still very fresh (I have found that most people refer to it as the “Second World War.”) Everyone has lost someone, and some have lost everyone it seems. The only joys in this are the babies. So many babies, and expectant mothers (nobody uses the term “pregnant” around here). Many people say "In the family way."
It is so interesting to get to see the rise of the next world war, the Cold War (I need to be careful with that term, as well. If I remember right, Bernie—something, can’t remember, coined it, not sure when). Immersion and education. These may be the keys to keep me from incarceration. I'm sure the Feds would love to get their hands on Phillip Nelson. I aim to make that difficult for them.
But first they have to find that a time traveler is among them.
CHAPTER 3
The images, colors, and sounds pulsed with intensity in Denver’s tortured mind. Scenes and memories, or fragments of memories, blurred and blended. Nothing made sense, yet everything seemed important. Children, the sounds of children. Are they playing? The visual confusion and sensory overload escalated. The echoes of voices assaulted him with a haunting quality that made very little distinction between children playing and children screaming.
A flash. What was that? Is that blood? And the pain. Such pain. Wait...who is he? A frightened young boy passed before his mind's eye. He can't be more than five years old! Another face, an older face. A new voice. What is he saying? In low tones, words reverberated through the senseless nightmare.
Denver. Remember.
More pain. A knife flashes.
Rumbling and shaking.
More flashes.
Denver.
Remember.
A pale young boy stood before him. He couldn’t have been more than five or six years old. The child screamed in terror, blood on his hands. A flash of hot, white light swelled brighter and brighter, blinding with the force of a hundred suns, followed by an explosive crash so loud it would not only wake the dead, it would surely rend them up out of their graves.
_____________________________________
Denver snapped awake and thrust himself into a seated position, bathed in sweat as his heart pounded within a few beats of complete cardiac arrest. His head frantically spun about in the darkness, as a peal of thunder had just passed its crescendo and was retreating into the distance with all the subtlety of a squadron of low-flying aircraft. The entire building rattled and reeled beneath the onslaught, but soon everything around him returned to a dark, dead calm—with the notable exception of his nerves.
Lightning must've knocked the power out again. Looks like warm beer for breakfast. Terrific.
He sat frozen at first, transfixed by a new and unfamiliar sound—the curious sound of silence. Denver made an educated guess about the general location of his large picture window, and stared hard into the black nothingness in that direction.
Whoa. Whole city must be out. This is bad.
He sat and argued with himself about the merits of simply going back to sleep, but was interrupted by a question that refused to lie down.
Where are all the cars? Where are the lights from the cars?
Once again he studied the best-guess window area. Still nothing. Lightning can knock out the city power, but not car headlights.
His inquiry wasn’t even close to being settled when a fresh mystery washed over him—the odor. It was different, heavy, almost oppressive—not entirely unlike an old, wet towel.
Denver ignored the foreign aroma and rubbed his hands on the couch, but something wasn't quite right about that either. He leaned over and groped all around. Wait, this isn't my couch! It's my bed. When did I move to my frickin’ bed?
He got on his feet, his heart rate and breathing just about back to normal. Oh, that's why I can't see the cars, I'm in my bedroom...duh. He whisked his head around in all directions, and then he spotted it.
A light.
Not a city light, or a car's headlights, or a streetlight, but a weak, warm, incandescent glow. He could make out a straight line, actually two lines, maybe a doorway. He moved along the edge of the bed, disoriented, but now fully awake. Something hit him in the stomach and he stopped cold. He felt of it. A chair? Feels like a wooden chair.
Of course, there was nothing unusual about a chair, except for the fact he didn’t have a chair in his bedroom.
He navigated around the foreign furnishing and progressed toward the light. It was spilling through a cracked door, and Denver pushed it wide open. The room that he saw both confused him and clarified his misgivings in the same instant. He had walked into a bathroom, but not his bathroom. In fact, not the bathroom of anyone he knew, or had ever known, for that matter.
This bathroom was...different. A porcelain toilet, rusty sink, and a plain tub with a hideous shower curtain furnished the tiny area. It may have been practical, but it was not pretty by any standard. He backed out with some effort and located a small light switch on the wall outside the bathroom. Nothing could have prepared him for what he saw next.
He wasn't in his bedroom. He wasn't even in his apartment. And he probably wasn't even in Manhattan. He stared into a long, single room—complete with a bed, a small table and chair, a telephone, a green door, and closed curtains along the far wall.
He was in a motel room.
Journal entry number 12
Wednesday, April 3, 1946
Something simple today triggered something fundamentally… fundamental. I was walking across the grass in the town square and had to cross over a section of soil, and then back to grass. Something grabbed my attention—I think a car backfired–and I stopped and turned. I looked down and saw my footprints clearly in the dirt, but there were no tracks in the grass on either side.
And th
en it hit me. As a time traveler, as a man walking somewhere he doesn’t really belong, I need to be careful not to leave any tracks, or at least, as few tracks as possible. My interactions in and around Normal, my travels here in 1946, need to be like the vanishing footprints we create in the grass. We push it down temporarily, but moments later, the many blades of green snap back, sweeping our tracks for us, all but forgetting our brief encounter.
If and when I am able to return home, I need to leave Normal, Illinois, and the rest of this world, as if I were never here, no footprints, no changes. My interactions with people, need to be like walking in the grass. A quick, fleeting impression, then moments later—nothing.
Maybe I need to write this mantra on my bathroom mirror, and repeat it to myself several times a day:
Walk without Footprints.
This is my new axiom, my pledge. Walk without footprints.
Just over 20 years from now, another man, out of place, will walk on foreign soil. But unlike me, that man will intend to leave his mark, to make tracks for all to see: footprints that will be as clear and fresh at Judgment Day as they were (or will be) on that early Monday morning in late July of 1969.
Neil Armstrong misspoke on that important day, and no one ever forgot his famous line broadcast from the Moon’s surface. But here in my journeys, also far from home, it would be better if no one ever remembered anything I said. Like an extra piece on a chessboard, I am not supposed to be here. Every move I make, every word I speak, anything I do could alter the game.
One small step I leave behind as a man, could create one giant disastrous leap for mankind.
CHAPTER 4
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 fi
eld 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."
Journal entry number 18
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?
Paradigm Rift: Book One of the Back to Normal Series Page 2