SHIFT by D Doyle Reynolds (aka Giskard)

[Giskard]

Introduction

SHIFT was originally posted in an earlier, unrevised form at Frugals some time ago (pre-Fiction Nuke). Some folks had expressed interest in seeing the final version, but some of them "disappeared." Now I know why. Since this book now exists as an eBook in a variety of formats commercially, and also in print from places like Amazon and Smashwords.com, I have decided it would be the better part of valor to share this with my friends here in the Private forum.

It's like a restaurant. My friends I let into the back kitchen, but the rest of the patrons gotta pay! Gotta feed the kids, doncha know.

So here we go, laying down a couple chapters at a time so as not to choke the server. I really don't care if you post comments here in the post. That's fine. Especially if they are nice ones!

Oh! So what is SHIFT? Not your conventional survival story, I'm afraid. Very much a mixed genre. Some call it Speculative Fiction. Others Paranormal Suspense. A couple think it's like a science fiction, but not. I'll let you decide. It's open for debate.

Enjoy!

-Dave

[Giskard]

[Giskard]

CHAPTER TWO

Sandy’s hand shook a little when she pulled the carafe from the coffee maker. Cassie sat at the small dining table in the kitchen. “Maybe you shouldn’t drink any more. Maybe you had enough,” she suggested.

“I haven’t had even one sip yet. What’s a five-year-old know about coffee anyway?” Sandy reached for the sugar then thought better of it. Cassie’s advice was sound enough, but Sandy wasn’t about to go for a more calming adult beverage while babysitting. Coffee would have to suffice as a comfort drink.

The sort of banter Sandy and Cassie engaged in frequently was grounding. The playful dialog provided an anchoring retreat. Humor was their common refuge in time of trouble. From the time they first met, Sandy and Cassie sensed the troubledness in one another, if there is such a word. Sandy didn’t know whether Cassie heard talk of the loss of Danny. She probably had. Sandy could tell a secret hid behind those wise eyes and she was concerned of the implications of Cassie's guardedness. So to lighten the mood, the two would parry with humor as their weapon of choice, not so much against each other, as together, against the ever-present oppressive enemy. They never named their common enemy. To name the enemy was to conjure it. To conjure it would be to face fears they were reluctant to battle.

So the girls, vastly different in age, dodged their fears with the weapon of wit.

“Mom says coffee makes her nervous as a little Chihuahua. Daddy says if you drink too much coffee it’ll turn your knees black.”

Sandy turned her legs out from under the table and tugged her skirt just above her knees. “Look at my knees. Do they look black to you?”

“He also says coffee will stunt your growth.”

“That’s smoking.”

Cassie crossed her small arms and squinted at Sandy with suspicion. “Are you sure?”

“Positive,” affirmed Sandy.

“Good thing my Grandpa smokes then because he’s six-foot-four.”

“You are absolutely right. He would’ve been huge.”

“Titanic! Like, he would have to have a special door just to get in the house.”

“Or even a special house.”

“Yeah, and his bed would be hu-normous!”

“Is there such a word?”

“Why not? Maybe there should be.”

Sandy smiled, “Why not.”

Sandy always wanted a little girl of her own. Now, with Danny gone, she at the far end of her twenties, her optimism that a child was in her future waned. True, women in their thirties bore children on a regular basis these days, though such births fell under the classification of High Risk. First, Sandy would have to meet the right man. She refused to consider a clinical solution. This idea struck her as too impersonal. Sandy joked to her sister she considered the idea vile. Her sister didn’t get the joke.

Sandy wasn’t optimistic she would ever again meet the right man. She already met Mr. Right, dated him and married him. Then Sandy's bright future went from sunshine and roses to black hell with Danny's premature death.

Sandy lived in a free-fall of denial as a widow of less than two years. She would not permit herself to consider considering anything else. The pain and anger flowed without restraint in her veins approximating a sensation of barbed wire and ground glass.

Well-meaning friends often challenged Sandy. How long would she give herself over to grief? What amount of time should pass before it was time to “move on.” This much insufferable phrase she hated beyond any other sentiment. ‘Don't you think it is time to move on, Sandy?’ ‘Sandy, I think it's time you move on.’

The phrase reminded Sandy of all those schlock-y television dramas where there is a tragic accident and the cop urges the crowd to move along. There's nothing to see. ‘Just move on.’

Sandy couldn’t. This remained forever her tragedy. Danny’s memory is her love, her lover, her reason for life as certain as if his death occurred mere days ago. The very idea of moving on away from Danny's memory never failed to raise a lump in her throat. The barbs and glass in her veins threatened to clog her heart.

Sandy knew men in her circle of acquaintances gravitated toward her. Her perspective of herself as a Plain Jane made her question their reasons. She saw herself as the girl next door, minus a couple points. Others insisted she was pretty, but lately, when she looked in the mirror, a specter stared back.

Then Sandy's sister introduced her to the Johnson family and the balm that was Cassie began to work her magic. Cassie – The magic for the tragic. The radiant force for Sandy was a combination of Cassie’s smiles, insights and humor. Cassie Johnson gradually began to fill a need for love in Sandy that otherwise could not be easily satisfied. Adults around Sandy tiptoed. Her grief was eggshells to the grown-ups in her life. Little CJ, on the other hand, steamrolled right over Sandy’s grief and pressed joy from every moment they were together.

Sandy knew she was messed up, perchance even a wimp. Of a certainty, she was a coward. Either way, naïve and innocent little Cassie lodged in. She was in and working her magic and Sandy would stop at nothing to guard this love and protect this peculiar little girl.

After another big gulp of coffee, Sandy put the cup aside and clasped her hands before her on the table. “CJ, let’s go back to the beginning. What exactly did you see? Tell me everything and don’t leave out one little detail.”

Cassie looked down at the table, uneasy. Sandy reached over, raised her chin, and looked her in the eyes. She saw the haunted eyes of someone very much older than age five, or even ten. The dark circles under her eyes suggested to Sandy that sleep was ephemeral and reserved for someone less aware.

Again, Sandy found herself wondering about home. What was the true story? Did they ridicule her? Tease her? Was Cassie being abused? No way. Ridiculous. Not the Johnsons--any one of them. Then Sandy wondered how often kids were abused right under the noses of those closest to the family.

She had to protect this little girl. Sandy’s imperative was to get at what could so trouble one as sweet as this. She had to know what happened in her living room a few minutes ago. She was already beginning to second-guess her own experience.

“The cat’s out of the bag. You know I love you no matter what. No matter how different from other kids you are, no matter what may have happened to you, no matter what you may be going through, no matter even if someone might be hurting you, I will always love you, Cassie Johnson. Understand?”

Cassie nodded and made her silly, adorable grin. Sandy absolutely loved the way one side of her face scrunched a little more than the other did when she smiled. One eye would close just a little more than the other.

“So ‘fess-up,” Sandy prompted.

Cassie scratched her chin so very adult-like. “Well… first I was reading. Then I smelled something really good like roses and cooking and camping.”

“Camping?”

“Yeah. You know. Happy smells – like fires and food and trees and stuff.”

Sandy mulled over their similar olfactory experience. There the similarities end. Sandy wanted to know what Cassie saw that she didn’t. “Okay, go on.”

“I could feel a little bit of warm wind with the nice smells. Then this guy comes in.”

“Okay, now, here is where you lose me. How did he come in? Did he walk in the front door? Through the wall…?”

“I was looking at my book, reading. He just sort of was standing there all of a sudden like. Not through the door or all glittery like Star Trek. I think he was an angel because he had these big wings.” Cassie looked off and considered. “Or maybe he was a big fairy!”

“CJ, focus. What did you really see? Tell me the truth, now.”

Her eyes opened wide. “Miss Sandy, I promise! He was a big guy, lots of muscles ‘cause he had no sleeves on his shirt-robe thingy. And his wings were huge and he had a nice tan. Oh, and a sword.”

“A sword?” Sandy exclaimed. “Okay, I think we can rule fairies out.”

“Yeah, what was I thinking? Fairies don’t have tans,” she deadpanned.

“Right. So what happened next?”

Cassie leaned forward and spoke in earnest, reverent tones. “He got on one knee right in front of me with a nice smile. He told me, ‘Do not be afraid. Our Lord has chosen you and given you a gift for His purpose. Now is the time of your own great expectation.’ That was pretty much it.”

“That’s it?” Great. Poor little CJ is having a meltdown and delusions. Sandy went through her mental Rolodex and tried to recall any mental health professionals she knew.

“Well, he showed me scary pictures in my head and said something like, ‘Our Lord will reveal who to gather. He will show you the way you should go.’”

Sandy sat back, speechless. She shook her head in confusion. This couldn’t be real. Yet what were the options? An elaborate hoax? A deception of some kind? Who would do that how and why?

People don’t simply imagine things outside their world of experience or ability to know. A five-year-old won’t hallucinate with vocabulary beyond her years, even if she does know how to read and comprehend the words. A child may say, ‘God said for me to tell you to fix me a banana split.’ Or maybe, ‘God said you must buy me a new bike and tickets to the Wiggles On Ice show.’

Instead, what Cassie told Sandy was what an adult say -- maybe something a self-absorbed or nut case adult might say, but an adult nut. Then it occurred to Sandy that this is precisely why God would pick a child. For who would believe such imaginings could come from a child.

Therefore, what she spoke was as truthful as any recitation given a child by an adult, like teaching them to recite their address and phone number.

However, this whole notion that God stepped in and sent an angelic messenger, Sandy found surreal. Her husband attended church and she went with him a few times, but it was more of a tradition for her. Going to church was like apple pie, the Pledge of Allegiance and Thanksgiving turkey.

Religion is a cornerstone the Pilgrims brought over at our nation's founding. Once upon a time, folks took matters of faith much more seriously than most today. Bible stories weren’t something Sandy considered possible, but more as morality plays. Most people believe in God in some form, same as Sandy, but she knew one couldn’t distill a real God into a book.

Perhaps this particular book was more of a witness testimonial. No court document could reveal, to any considerable degree, a person’s life. Cassie's experience made Sandy rethink all aspects of the great morality tale, the exact nature to be determined.

She asked Cassie, “What do you see that others can’t and what sort of scary pictures did he show you?”

Cassie said, “They weren’t pictures like from his wallet. I don’t think he even had a place to keep a wallet. It was more like movies in my head. Sometimes I see things kind of like that, but then they really happen later. Sometimes I see stuff when I’m dreaming.”

“Visions?” She asks.

“Umm… ”

“Never mind. What movies did he show you, then?”

Again, Cassie rubbed her chin. “It was like a couple of movies in fast forward together. There was a gray jet, some people’s faces I’m talking to, and dark rain clouds. Lots of those, all thunder-y and lightening-y. And…” Cassie’s face clouded over. She grew pale and she swallowed hard as she stared down at the table.

Sandy reached over and raised her tender porcelain chin. “It is going to be okay, sweetie. You can tell me. It’s over now and I’m right here.”

“I saw monsters. It’s like I knew they used to be like the angel, but now they aren’t.”

“What do you mean? Do you think angels are going to turn into monsters? Even if they did, what could you or I do about that?”

Cassie looked away in reflection. “I don’t think so. It’s as if they were all the same once, long before we were born, but some were bad. So they don’t get to be angels anymore.”

Sandy swallowed hard. She was familiar with this story but doubted Cassie read the tale. Given the nature of many a modern television cartoon, she may have picked something up there. Again, Sandy dragged her feet and struggled with another good versus evil morality tale. Because lumps go down better with something hot, she took a big gulp of coffee and set the cup back down. “What are they now, CJ? What in God’s name could an angel show a little girl?”

Cassie grew very concerned for Sandy and put a small hand on hers. “You are right, Miss Sandy. It is going to be okay. The angel said you are going to be there to help me through the whole thing.”

[Deena in GA]

Wow! Very different and very, very good!

[Giskard]

Thank you! Finishing coffee, then I'll get more up.

[Giskard]

CHAPTER THREE

Essex fidgeted and paced near a tree off the beaten path of the well-used park in Washington D.C. He smoked like a train and glanced around for anyone who might be watching him. Three-fourths of this town was hiding something, so he looking suspicious didn’t concern him.

Essex was more concerned with someone he knew to be always watching. He was certain someone followed him earlier. He sincerely hoped he lost the persistent jerk and that he wouldn’t turn up again. Who was that guy anyway? The tail could have been any one of the three-letter organizations, not the least of which, the M – O – B.

This cloak-and-dagger garbage was getting to him. Here it was dinnertime, it was getting chilly and he had to wait for old Statham so he could play patty cake with him in the back of his limo. What’s wrong with using one of those disposable cell phones? They are good enough for the freaking terrorists. For the umpteenth time, Essex checked the time.

Essex had a vigorous dating life and he couldn’t wait for the big payoff at the end of this particular stage of Dark Cloud. The Bahamas beckoned to him. The fun and frolic of the islands is a favorite retreat of the power-elite and he counted himself among their number.

Soon, a limo cruised on by. Essex watched. Is it stopping? Too many limos in this town. Then another followed not far behind the first. This one pulled alongside the curb. One last look around and Essex hurried to the limo. The driver opened the door for him. He flicked the cigarette to the curb, ground the butt under foot and climbed in.

D.C. well recognized Old “Iron Hair” Statham, thus the need for discretion. His hair was a thick, rich silver and gray with every rigid hair starched in place. The puzzle for Essex remained the same for many. All Washington knew him as lobbyist William J. Statham, but a careful background check will reveal nothing under that identity prior to 1982 when the lobbyist first appeared on the D.C. scene. He was an enigma. No one who might benefit complained, and none would fuss who feared reprisal.

Elsewhere, Statham had different names, but everywhere, he was the man behind men (and some women) but rare indeed survived the photo of him, let alone video footage. Those who tried, found their careers with the various publishing houses altered dramatically or eliminated altogether. He didn’t drive, so no database contained a Driver License photo.

Photographers and reporters who sought to connect dots found themselves on the “paranoid freak has-been” list. He shopped and banked without his direct involvement, though his image, of a certainty, existed deep within the security databases of some of Washington’s most closely guarded hallways.

Firmly settled into the back limo seat across from Statham, Essex wasn’t surprised to once again find the thin, balding man with wire-rimmed glasses who remained ever silent, vigil and nameless. He never spoke. Essex wouldn’t have been surprised to learn Statham had removed his tongue so he could not. He could’ve been an accountant. He waved a device in Essex’s direction and watched the readings within a briefcase. Obviously, he was looking for listening devices, bugs, what have you. The driver got back into the limo and pulled away from the curb.
“Someone followed me, but I lost him.”

With a nod from his silent aid as he stowed the device, Statham said, “That’s good. So tell me how it went.”

“Pretty much just as we thought it would. The tests are moving forward later next week. Thursday, I am told. We should have lots of excellent raw data for our models.”

Statham grinned and nodded as Essex spoke. Statham shifted his shoulders and settled back in his seat as he looked out the window, “Look at them all. Like so many cattle, consuming resources, living off the dole…”

“Maybe not for too much longer,” Essex offered. “Beautiful thing is Global Warming gets the blame. Oh, excuse me. It's Climate Change now, right? I find it ironic that the very government stirring everything up will actually be the cause and probably will never even realize it.” Essex shook his head in wonder. “But reduce the world's population to just five hundred million! Do you really think we can pull that off?”

*

Statham looked across the limo’s expanse at Essex while he rambled. He was still trying to impress Statham, when all he wanted was for Essex to shut up and play his part without question or opinion.

Who does this putz think he is? Statham wondered, Whatever he thinks, he has no idea what he’s dealing with. All he is interested in is the almighty dollar. Soon the dollar won’t be worth squat. Not with worldwide chaos. There will necessarily be a global reorganization. The paradigm shift will junk the world’s current monetary system in favor of a new system. China? The Euro?

What the hey. Shedding a little light for this functionary might keep him motivated. He thinks he’s inside.

“Oh, maybe not with this one plan alone. You are only working one front. There are many ways to reduce the populace. Wars are an obvious and very old front that has been effective for millennia. Then there are drugs, of course. Ah, but you have to love and admire the age of technology. Genetics is yielding some excellent results as well – particularly in virology.”

“And politics. Tracking people and controlling ownership of guns is tricky here in the states.”

“That wall will crumble, thanks to the war on terror. Mark my words,” Statham said, again watching people out his window as they drove by them. “Even the street bums have cells these days. Pick someone and you can track ‘em. Sometimes with their cells off you can track them. The rest they will agree to, happily.”

Essex tilted his head from side to side doubtfully.

“You ever hear the story about how they catch wild pigs?”

Essex looked back and made a face. Statham was running out of patience with this unimaginative string bean of a man but decided the imparting of wisdom might prove beneficial, for all the good this knowledge would do him. Statham smiled at the private joke that he might be casting pearls before swine.

“Story goes – you can throw corn out in the woods and the pigs will come around to eat at it. After a short time, they learn this is the place to come for freebies. Next thing you know their friends are coming around too. Once they are accustomed to it, you throw up the side to a fence and let them get used to that. Then you put up another, then another, until finally you put up an open gate. Now all the piggies have grown acclimated to living off the trough, fences and all. One day they come in for the freebies and find the gate closed behind them. They can run around and around in circles all they want, but it’s too late. The gate is closed.”

Statham pointed out the window, “The little piggies out there have gotten used to feeding off the public trough even with all the walls. Private industry is unwittingly helping us, like with the cell phones and PDA’s. National Health Cards, then later, chips, are a great idea 'for the children.' Gun control is for their safety, they will see. It’s already in place in Europe, Australia, Canada… They will register them and allow national I.D.’s ‘for the children’ as well as vaccines, and look up one day too late to see the fence.”

Essex rubbed his palms on his knees. “Well that’s fine by me, because the sooner the better. I don’t want to sound impatient or appear too greedy, but there is something to be said for lifestyle.”

Statham grinned at the tall man, but for reasons Essex might not suspect. He’s so predictable.

Statham added, “You don’t have to worry. It is a world’s wealth in which we shall partake. We are an age-old order and we are ready to step in to fill the vacuum left by the world’s failed governments. You will be a part of that new order, rest assured.” As a boot licker, he thought privately.

“Yeah, but it sure will suck to be in that underclass, but someone’s got to make our shoes, right?” Essex chuckled.

Statham reached across and patted Essex on the knee. “You are so right.”

[Giskard]

CHAPTER FOUR

When Cassie’s mother, Giselle, came for her, Sandy choked with apprehension as Cassie walked out the door. What else could she do? Tomorrow was a weekday, so to ask that Cassie spend the night was ill-timed. Sandy and Cassie had agreed between themselves to keep the angelic visit a secret. Until events made the revelation advisable, prudence demanded silence.

Besides, Sandy was unsure how this vision or delusion or whatever would hit the Johnsons. She didn’t know whether they would ridicule her or have her institutionalized, or, that she wouldn’t see her again. The Johnsons might think Sandy was a bad influence. ‘Mommy, there was a half-naked man with big wings at Miss Sandy's!’ Tough though this would be to explain, the deception nevertheless struck Sandy with a wave of guilt.

However, it wasn’t the deception or discovery of a distressing revelation of an otherworldly visit at the sitter’s house that had Sandy so spooked. The discussion of the immanent arrival of monsters and demons gave her the chills. Sandy smelled those smells and felt that warm breeze in her enclosed living room just as Cassie had. If the events were real, what the heck did this experience mean? This surely was symbolic of something less dire. The message could be allegorical. There weren’t really such things as monsters. Not really. Were there?

Ah, and what of the mysterious gray jet? Solid gray with no trimming or logo, she said? Was she supposed to believe monsters were going to fly into the Santa Barbara Airport in a big gray jet? Ridiculous! So where was the connection? What was the underlying meaning behind the imagery? What was the connection with the big thunderstorm? She would have to remember to ask Cassie if they themselves were on the jet, or something she was seeing from a ground-to-air perspective. She knew she was grasping at straws-some interpretation that could mean little Cassie was still sane. She seemed sane. Like I would know what insane was like.

No matter how many ways she tried to get her mind around the puzzle pieces, she could not grasp their meaning. Angels in a big gray jet fall to the earth in an electrical storm and terrorize Ventura and little CJ is going to save them and I am her sidekick? Craziness.