Paradigm Rift: Book One of the Back to Normal Series

by McWilson, Randy

  Where will it take me? Back to jail?

  To Chicago? Hardly believable.

  A fake Chicago? Even more absurd.

  Halfway back an open seat to his left came into view, and he slid into it carrying nothing but a list of questions. A few stragglers poured in as the bus prepared to leave, and with a deafening release of air brakes, the lumbering vehicle eased onto the road.

  Denver scanned the passing streets. There was no sign of Officer McCloud, let alone any evidence of a manhunt. He never really considered himself as important, but the idea that a disoriented psychological test subject was loose on the streets of this pretend Midwestern town surely demanded more of a response than this. This is so odd.

  The uptown district was gradually replaced with various neighborhoods. The yards and houses were absolutely convincing, down to the children at play, erratic sprinklers, and pets of all shapes and sizes. Denver couldn’t even begin to imagine what a setup like this was costing the taxpayers. It had to be in the multiplied millions.

  And for what purpose?

  He strained to see beyond the residences and eventually caught sight of the outskirts. It looked like farmland: flat, dirty, and rows upon rows of corn with no end in sight. He half expected to see miles upon miles of desert. Denver had convinced himself that this was probably a new addition to Area 51 somewhere in Nevada. The temperature was about right, but the humidity didn’t match at all. The air wasn’t oppressive, but it was much heavier than it should be.

  But where are the fences? The guard shacks? The checkpoints?

  There were no fences, or guard shacks, or checkpoints, just vast stretches of rural landscape. The pleasant smells of the countryside drifting in through his cracked window offended him strangely. Visuals could be faked, sounds could be imitated, but the nose was virtually impossible to deceive.

  A child giggled and Denver's attention abruptly snapped inward. He straightened up to survey those around him, hoping that perhaps one of them would hold a clue as to his current predicament.

  Behind him sat a distinguished-looking, older gentleman in a nice suit, scanning a Chicago newspaper. A soldier—probably home on furlough—was just ahead, with a large rucksack leaning up against him. To his left and up a row, he caught sight of a young couple engrossed in each other. Get a room. He turned and stared across the aisle at a young mother holding a baby girl wrapped like a doll in a quintessential pink blanket.

  Wow, actual babies. They really are serious about this illusion. Wait, maybe it’s just a fake baby, a doll. The tiny infant blinked a few times and fussed. Wrong again, Collins.

  The sweet sight across the aisle triggered a sweeter memory a lot closer to home. He retrieved his wallet and pried it open, and with loving reverence pulled out a photo of his daughter. It was his favorite picture of her: goofy party hat, tooth missing, and a bit of icing on her tiny nose. He turned it over, greeted by a message in smeared blue ink: JASMINE, 5th BIRTHDAY 2013.

  Denver flipped it back over and traced his finger across her face. First, your momma tries to keep me from you, and now the government is doing the same. But don’t worry, I’ll be home soon, sweetie. I can handle Jennifer, and I can handle them.

  He blinked hard to stave off a tear or two. Now that things had calmed down, the repressed emotions of the past twenty-four hours refused to be ignored any longer. He stared at the photo for a few more moments, and carefully hid it away in his front shirt pocket.

  Palming his wallet, his head rolled to one side and he glanced out at the green and gold patchwork quilt of farmland. Where is this? Where am I?

  It seemed that the sheer burden of unanswered questions forced him to slump down in his seat and close his eyes. The relaxing trio of a rocking bus, the almost comfortable seat, and the exhaustion of continued uncertainty, all knocked him out almost as fast as McCloud’s tranquilizer dart.

  He had no idea where or when he would wake up this time.

  Journal entry number 34

  Sunday, May 5, 1946

  Yesterday was my first time at a horserace, and it was the Kentucky Derby, no less! Ken’s knowledge of sports history has really paid off. He remembered that 1946 was/is a famous year in horseracing—he remembered that Assault won the coveted Triple Crown—Kentucky Derby, Preakness Stakes, and the Belmont Stakes. (I’ve learned a lot!)

  Assault was an underdog (or is it underhorse?) with only 8-1 odds going into the Derby yesterday. This was great for us. We walked away with nearly a thousand dollars! It’s not as much as we could have won in Vegas, but it’s a start. We can bet again at Preakness, and Belmont, and maybe invest money in the stock market.

  Anyway, the best thing about all of this is that we don’t have to steal anymore.

  We can finally make an honest living by cheating.

  CHAPTER 15

  “This latest test data can only go so far, gentlemen, but I want to know: what exactly are the risks?”

  Doc Stonecroft stared across the table at the impatient redhead who was at least three decades his junior. His mind raced for a satisfactory reply for her. Being at a loss for words was rare for the eloquent former college mathematics professor.

  He glanced over at the balding, spectacled man seated next to him, and then back at her. “This is clearly uncharted territory, Miss Finegan. The list of potential...unintended consequences is formidable.”

  The windowless room was lit by several incandescent bulbs dangling from the ceiling, supplemented by the pale blue glow of several electronic control panels nearby. Besides the three occupants, a large round table, and a few upright cabinets, the featureless chamber resembled more of a large prison cell than a meeting room.

  Ellen Finegan, with her shoulder-length red hair pulled back, and sporting a long white lab coat, adjusted her glasses. She glanced up from a handful of papers. “I'm not asking for an exhaustive list, Dr. Stonecroft. I'd be satisfied with top tier threats.”

  He traded quick glances with the other gentleman and turned back to her. “Worst case scenario?”

  She nodded. Doc took off his glasses and massaged the bridge of his nose. He cleared his throat and gave her a smile that would have warmed the heart of a serial killer. Before he could speak, the other gentleman gesticulated wildly and almost shouted.

  “Il pourrait devenir un wormhole incontrôlable!”

  Doc Stonecroft was polite but firm. “While possible, Dr. Papineau, that outcome is highly improbable, sir.”

  Ellen interrupted their exchange. “What outcome?”

  He stood and moved towards her. “My esteemed colleague is overestimating, in my opinion, the possibility of a CUTA. A cascading, unidirectional, temporal anomaly: a wormhole.”

  “And why is that a problem, Doc? Sounds like the solution we've been hoping for, even praying for.”

  “This is not a stable rift, Miss Finegan—it is an expanding, cascading rift. It is a temporal anomaly that could grow exponentially—uncontrollably.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning, that once ignited, it could expand outward, both in space and in time, and even in velocity. Dr. Papineau shares my concern.”

  Papineau pounded on the table. “Aussi vite que la vitesse de la lumière!” Most of it appeared to be lost on them. “Lumière,” he repeated. “Light.”

  “Yes, Emile,” Doc said. “Theoretically, the rate of expansion could accelerate up to near the speed of light. Nothing can reverse it. All of creation would...would necessarily implode.”

  Dr. Papineau spread his hands far apart and then clapped them together. “Singularity intervertir.”

  Ellen looked to Doc Stonecroft for the interpretation. He kept it short but not very sweet.

  “Backwards Big Bang.”

  CHAPTER 16

  “Mr. Collins? Mr. Collins. Denver Collins.”

  The female voice continued to echo in the distance, but it seemed to be getting closer. “Wake up. Wake up, Mr. Collins.”

  Denver’s eyes popped open, and he l
eaned forward, disoriented, and blinking hard in the sudden, bright light.

  “Mr. Collins? Over here.”

  He directed his gaze to the right, and as his eyes adjusted he discovered that he was in a hospital, in a waiting room to be exact.

  The voice belonged to an older African-American nurse framed in a doorway, she took a step closer to him. “Congratulations, Mr. Collins. You have a beautiful baby daughter. She is healthy and your wife is doing fine. It was kind of touch and go for a while, but you can come back to see them now.”

  Without warning, streams of hot tears began to cascade down as he rose to follow. He rounded a few corners and the large, glass expanse of the nursery window came into view. The nurse tenderly maneuvered the newborn’s cart into a nearby room.

  She opened the door into the hallway and motioned for Denver to come inside. As he walked across the threshold time literally seemed to slow. He glanced down at the baby. That’s my daughter.

  He wiped his wet face again and again. The nurse transferred the precious package into his trembling, inexperienced arms. He had held everything from wild women to dangerous weapons, but this was new, fragile—outside his experience.

  The nurse almost laughed as she guided his arms into the cradle position. Once he felt comfortable, and with careful precision, he sweetly brought the newborn close and kissed her forehead.

  The nurse patted his shoulder. “She's a very pretty baby, and trust me, I’m an expert. I've seen quite a few.”

  He struggled to speak, but what came out was more crack than voice. “Jasmine.” The nurse leaned in. He swallowed and made a stronger second attempt. “Jasmine, her name is Jasmine.” He attempted to wipe another tear with his right shoulder…

  …Without explanation, Denver found himself standing against a bed in ICU Recovery. His wife was hooked up to a spaghetti maze of tubes and wires, looking more like she had recently survived a car accident rather than a hard delivery.

  Jasmine was nestled up alongside her, with just her little face peeking out from the wrap of blankets. Jennifer stroked the sleeping infant with no more pressure than a gentle breeze. Denver bent over and graced his wife’s cheek with a light kiss, and then turned his head to see the newest member of the Collin’s clan.

  Almost on cue, baby Jasmine began fretting, her eyes tried to open, and then settled back to sleep. Denver smiled and stared into Jennifer’s tired but thankful face. He mouthed the words “I love you” and clasped her hand, being careful to avoid the IV. Suddenly, the light in the room grew brighter and brighter until Denver was blinded…

  …As his sight returned, he saw the kitchen and dining area in their first apartment. Jennifer was storing the remnants of a late meal in the fridge, as a young Jasmine played in the floor nearby. Denver had almost forgotten how cute her Shirley Temple blonde curls had been. The back door opened, and he saw himself walk into the room. Jennifer glanced up and turned to the toddler. “Oh look, Jasmine. It's the guy who sleeps here occasionally.”

  “Babe, I told you it would be a couple rough weeks,” he said. “We've got new software, and a new—”

  She cut him off. “A couple of rough weeks? How about a few rough months!” She pointed at their daughter. “I have to show Jasmine your photo just about every night—sure don't want her to forget what her father looks like!”

  He started to say something, but reconsidered, and bent down to the cutie on the floor. He put his arms around Jasmine, and as he raised her everything began to blur out…

  …There was darkness and then more blur…

  …And then he was holding a smart phone. By the hot emotion he felt, and the look on Jennifer’s face, he ascertained that they were in the middle of another argument.

  Arguments came quite frequently and with more intensity in those days.

  He shook the phone in her face and said, “So what am I supposed to think!”

  She wasted no time. “It's none of your damn business!” Jen made a quick move to snatch the phone and he grabbed her arm.

  “I think that a strange man texting my wife on a daily basis falls under the ‘my damn business’ category, Jennifer!”

  She yanked hard against his grasp and moved away, grabbing a small shot glass. She downed it like a pro. “At least he tries to talk to me every day. More'n I can say for my own husband!”

  Denver took a step towards her. “What else does he do for you every day?”

  “Just shut up! Shut up!”

  With all the force of a major league pitcher—but the accuracy of an enraged and intoxicated spouse—she hurled the cup at him. The shot glass crashed into the wall behind him and exploded into hundreds of sharp shards.

  _____________________________________

  Denver snapped awake as he felt the bus brakes engage. The loss in momentum almost threw him into the back of the seat just ahead. The nightmare had been so vivid, so tangible, that he jumped up, out of breath, veins pulsing. As he grabbed the seat to steady himself, he scanned the rows of unfamiliar faces for his drunk wife and precious daughter.

  Very few of the passengers seemed to even notice his desperate state, as most of them were craning to look out the windows at something. The bus continued to decelerate and Denver heard the wail of a police siren approaching.

  With the hiss of air brakes and a strong lurch, the bus came to a dusty stop on the side of the road. Children began to fuss, and loud chatter rippled row-by-row. Denver dropped back down and pressed his face against the window, but the plume of dust obscured most of his view.

  But the dirt couldn’t obscure the unmistakable voice of Chief McCloud. “We know you're in there, Denver Collins.”

  Denver jerked back from the window. It was an uncomfortable and new experience for him. Back in the Middle East he had marched probably hundreds of Taliban sympathizers off of buses or out of the beds of pickups, even dislocating several out of cramped and dusty automobile trunks.

  He was now on the receiving end, and he wasn’t receiving it well.

  Some of the passengers exchanged furtive glances, some clutched their children, others mouthed silent prayers. But the taunting call would not be silent.

  “This will go a lot easier if you surrender peacefully, Mr. Collins. The good and decent people on the bus with you don't want any trouble. We don't want any trouble.”

  A slim young man, sporting dark sunglasses and a hat, emerged from the unmarked police car behind the bus. He made his way towards the driver’s side, with his sidearm drawn and ready. His awkward mannerisms and gun insecurity betrayed a lack of police experience. And though he tried to hide it, he didn’t fool anyone.

  A little boy peered out the window at him and pointed, but the child’s mother ended her son’s excitement, yanking him down into her lap.

  McCloud donned his own pair of sunglasses and plain hat, and moved to Denver’s side of the bus. “So the way I see it, there's only one way for this to end,” the Chief said, obviously enjoying the drama. “I'm gonna count from five, and before I get to one—I want to see your smiling face, with hands held high, stepping off this here bus.”

  McCloud’s inexperienced assistant rounded the front of the vehicle and took up a position, gun aimed, near the closed door. The driver hesitated between opening it, or leaving it be. He didn’t want to make any sudden moves.

  The Chief was unrelenting in his ultimatum. “Five…Four.”

  The passengers became deathly still, eyes darting around. Even the children were quiet, or were at least forced to be.

  “Three…Two.”

  There was some activity, some sort of movement on the bus. The door opened. McCloud paused, struggling to see through the filthy glass. “One.”

  In reluctant protest, Denver emerged with his hands just above his shoulders, staring straight ahead. He stepped down to dirt level and froze. They approached him with all the stealth of a big game hunt, guns aloft, taking measured steps.

  “On behalf of the great state of Illinois,” the
Chief boomed, “I would like to thank you for making the right choice, Mr. Collins. Please step away from the bus.”

  The young officer waved his gun to the left a few times, signaling the direction for Denver to move. The Chief looked up at the driver and waved. “Let's get this rig outta here, pronto! Nothin’ to see here, folks! Show’s over.”

  The driver appeared thrilled and quickly shut the door. Moments later, with a loud release of air, and a knocking engine, the Greyhound pulled out onto the blacktop, leaving the awkward trio in a mushroom dust cloud.

  “Officer O'Connell,” McCloud said with an unusual air of respect and formality, “would you please search the suspect for weapons?”

  At least half a dozen scenarios of how this could go down passed through Denver’s mind, and more than a few of them involved the death of two supposed policemen. With his military training, he imagined waiting for the wannabee to get close, and then grabbing his arm and shooting McCloud with O’Connell’s gun, then turning it back on the young fool.

  It would be over in all of two and a half seconds.

  The only thing stopping him was the near certainty that this was all part of an elaborate government experiment. These men were just playing their part, following orders, even difficult orders. He himself had been there more often than not. It sickened him to think about how many children he left fatherless overseas or all of the widows he had created just following orders. His already sickened gut felt even sicker.

  A lot of guys had come back from Afghanistan having lost their hearing, or sight, or even a pair of limbs. But Denver had lost something both intangible and crippling; he had forever lost the right to ever judge another human being.

  As O’Connell got close, Denver kept his fight-or-flight instinct locked in a tight cage. He knew the two cops had no clue how close they had come to meeting their maker. Even added together, they were still woefully out of his league.