Free Paradigm Rift: Book One of the Back to Normal Series by Randy McWilson Page B

up to Denver and grabbed his shoulders, turning him to face north, more or less. He pointed a stubby finger at Denver and then at the city in the distance. “Let me ask you, Mr. I've-Got-It-All-Figured-Out —when's the last time you were in Chicago?”
    Denver had no intention of answering, but he couldn’t think of a good enough reason to stay silent. “Fourth of July, last year,” he muttered.
    “Well, good, cause I'm sure you couldn't look up at all them fireworks in the sky without seeing a few hard-to-ignore little buildings. Uh, let me help your architectural recollection—namely the Sears Tower or the Hancock building?”
    Billy returned and offered the field glasses to McCloud.
    “So, Mr. Answer Man,” the Chief continued as he transferred the binoculars over to Denver, “take a good look through these field glasses at the skyline of the windy city.”
    Denver was stoic.
    “Go on,” the Chief encouraged.
    He didn’t want to, but he raised them anyway, and the distant metropolis came into view. McCloud began to wax condescending. “Well, wait a minute. Where's all those big buildings? Something's wrong here, ain't it?”
    Denver lowered the binoculars. He was growing uncomfortable with the fact that the fake police chief was making some real sense. He raised them again and panned the hazy horizon a few more times. It wasn’t a painting, or a mirage.
    How could anyone make a simulated city on this scale?
    Building on his probable success, the Chief played his next card. “Hey Billy, what day is it?”
    “Friday, Chief. All day.”
    McCloud put a hand on Denver’s shoulder. “Wait, isn't the second busiest airport in America here in Chicago—O'Hare International? Now, correct me if I'm wrong, Mr. Denver Collins, but these ol’ eyes of mine don't see any jet contrails anywhere. It's Friday, Friday afternoon to be exact. This sky should look like a crossword puzzle by now. But, they ain't there.”
    Denver dropped the binoculars once again, and surveyed the empty sky.
    This is wrong, this is all wrong!
    McCloud leaned in. “This may be a nightmare, Mr. Collins, but it sure ain't no friggin’ dream!“
    The Chief grabbed his rifle and held it up, shaking it. “This, this is a real gun.” He fired it into the air and stared a hole through Denver. “That was a real bullet.” He ejected the casing and tossed the weapon over to Billy—who almost dropped it—then knelt to cup a handful of roadside dirt. He rose and let it drain slowly out of his hand just inches from Denver’s face. “This is real dirt. It’s all real. This is real …as real as it gets, son.”
    Denver paused for a moment and bent over and amassed his own fistful of reality. As he stared at the falling dirt, it seemed his former excuses began diminishing as well. All at once, coffee stains on ragged paper menus and tiny babies in pink blankets didn’t seem to belong to a well-crafted illusion anymore.
    In his mind’s eye, he recalled rows of houses, children and pets at play, and vast stretches of Midwest farmland. He remembered a flash of lightning and a rushed layman’s explanation in the front seat of an amusement park ride that looked awfully close to a squad car.
    The impossible had been eliminated by the strange fortune of becoming probable. That which remained was a truth too terrible to comprehend, at least, all at once. He rose dejectedly and sulked about.
    McCloud adjusted his tone and spoke with a depth of compassion obviously nurtured by experience. “The year is 1956. I am from 1996, and O’Connell here jumped to Normal from 1965. Like us, you’re a Jumper, Mr. Collins. You’ve come to us from the year 2014.” He cleared his throat and spat again. “The quicker you accept it, the quicker we can get on with our lives, and the quicker we can get to fixin’ this mess.”
    Denver began shaking his head and picked up his pace. His walk morphed into a run, as he climbed up a steep dirt bank which dumped out onto a