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

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.

Journal entry number 26
    Tuesday, April 23, 1946

    I may have jinxed us with my last journal entry. Who could have known?
     
    Sports betting is not yet legal in Nevada!
     
    Apparently that doesn’t happen for at least several more years from now. I know my Dad talked about doing it in the mid-1950s. This is a disaster. Absolute disaster. We spent almost all of our remaining cash on this trip! I’m sure we could find some unsanctioned (illegal) outlets for this type of enterprise, but that is far too risky. I proposed that we should go back to my earlier plan involving the stock market. Ken thinks there is still hope with gambling. He said it involves horses.

CHAPTER 10
    Denver enjoyed a few long sips on his cup, surprised and grateful that it wasn’t simulated coffee. As he contemplated his options, he constructed a mental map of what he had seen of the area. The town of Normal, frankly wasn’t normal. It was so picture perfect that it reminded him of those meticulously designed fake communities used in nuclear testing in New Mexico. Or was it Nevada? Or maybe both.
    But the real difference, he noticed, was the people. Those model towns were meant to be destroyed. Their citizens and their pets were wood and plastic mannequins, but here, real flesh and blood. In those simulated communities, they were studying blast effects and radiation, but what about here?
    What are you researching here, Uncle Sam?
    He imagined they were studying a very different kind of bomb, a psychological blast. Perhaps testing the limits of human endurance and the breaking point of a person whose entire life has been replaced, down to the coffee stains on a paper menu.
    It seemed so far-fetched, so fantastic, but it was the only possible explanation. Right ? The only one possible .
    But unlike the Army, he didn’t sign up for this, for any of this. Maybe that was the point. After all, it wouldn’t be much of a test if you knew it wasn’t real. He had left active duty over eight years ago, but perhaps there was some clause, some fine print, a tiny caveat that gave Uncle Sam permission to conduct psyche tests, even without consent.
    It didn’t matter. I’m not a guinea pig, and I’ve got enough trouble in my personal life. I don’t need military trouble as well. I’m getting off this train.
    Katie navigated past with a tray filled with plates for a nearby booth. Denver snagged her attention. “Excuse me, Katie. Uh, what is the best way for a guy to get out of town, like, as soon as possible? “
    She stopped on a dime, balancing her burden. “Hmm... what is it, Friday? Well, probably the ten-fifty to Chicago.”
    “Ten-fifty? What is that?”
    Without a free hand, she tilted her chin at a clock on the wall. It was almost 10:30 in the morning.
    “Ten-fifty. A bus for Chicago leaves in about twenty minutes, just up the block, corner of West Beaufort and Broadway,” she offered. “I'll be right back.”
    She continued on with her delivery, and he grabbed his smart phone. Surprisingly, or maybe unsurprisingly, it read: 1:18 A.M., MONDAY. He studied it closer.
    Still no bars, no signal . Not even GPS . How is that possible? You can’t hide from satellites . Must be scrambling the signal .
    Katie returned with an empty