CHAPTER 9

Michael slumped at the kitchen table, his arms still tightly bound behind the chair. His head drooped, every attempt to keep it upright sending sharp waves of pain coursing through his bruised chin. The once-vibrant bruise had spread, becoming a cosmic swirl of purple and pink hues. Tears welled up in his eyes as he whimpered, his voice broken and hoarse.

“Jim, Captain, Major—whatever you want me to call you," Michael gasped, barely audible. "Something’s going on here, but I swear, I’m not part of it. Just... untie me, man. Please."

Jim sat across the table, his focus fixed on the phone in his hand. His face remained impassive, only occasionally tightening as he swiped through social media, emails, news sites, and government pages. Everything he saw confirmed the gnawing pit in his gut: this world was not the one he’d fallen asleep in the night before.

“You’re not going anywhere, Captain,” Jim muttered without looking up. His voice was flat, cold. “Not until I figure out what the hell is going on here. And trust me, I will figure it out."

Michael's pleas fell on deaf ears as Jim continued searching through the phone. He tried calling three numbers he had memorized—numbers that never went dark. But each time, the same automated response: This number has not been recognized, please try again.

That shouldn’t be possible. Those numbers had been operational for as long as Jim could remember. The fact they had been wiped—along with everything else—meant something huge had happened. Security must be airtight.

Jim stood abruptly, leaving Michael dazed and groaning at the table, and walked through the house. A quick search confirmed his suspicions: it was a standard three-bedroom, tastefully decorated, just the kind of place he’d be comfortable in—if it were his. But it wasn’t. Or was it?

Photos of Jim littered the house, each with different faces in different places, like a gallery of someone else’s life. It was disturbing how detailed the illusion was. Whoever was orchestrating this knew exactly how to craft a reality convincing enough for him to slip into. He couldn’t deny that everything, down to the figurines from The Evil Dead, was spot on. But the real kicker? His own name was on every personal item. Wallet. Credit cards. Driver's license. Even the bank statements scattered across the desk.

He picked up a small pad and a pen from a desk in the corner, jotting down what he could remember—notes that felt distant, like they belonged to someone else. Venus. Missing people. John Kelly. Kelly McMillian. Those two names stood out because they were easy to remember—he’d joked about how Kelly’s name wouldn’t change much when she married John.

George and Anne Milnar, he scribbled, memories of their DNA test flashing in his mind. Their eight-year-old daughter was key. And they lived nearby—40 miles from the base. What else? His hand trembled as he pressed the pen to paper. Think, man, think.

Brettell. The scientist who seemed to know more than he let on. General Benson—he’d have to report in, or at least try. Maybe Benson had a handle on this mess.

Jim sat upright, his body stiffening with dread. The South Slate Bank. His deposit box. If they had gotten to that, he was screwed. His heart pounded. It was a primal feeling, not something Jim often experienced. Normally, he was always in control. But this? This was chaos.

The bank would be his first stop. Nothing else mattered until he confirmed whether or not his deposit box was safe.

He shoved the notepad into his jacket, gave a quick glance at Michael—still unconscious—and rechecked the restraints. He wasn’t about to release him yet. Michael might not know what was going on, but Jim wasn’t taking any chances. A few more hours tied to the chair wouldn’t kill him. At least, Jim hoped it wouldn’t.

Jim grabbed the keys he’d found on the counter and slipped out the back door, locking it behind him.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

"Morning, Jim! How’s it going, hun?" A raspy, familiar voice rang out over the garden fence.

Jim froze, annoyed that he hadn’t noticed her before. An old woman peered at him from behind the fence, a friendly smile plastered on her face. She was someone he knew—or should have known—and she was apparently part of this elaborate illusion.

Ignoring her, Jim pressed the fob on the car keys, hoping it would unlock something nearby. The car beeped and flashed its lights, a Citroën parked about 15 meters away. Just as he reached for the rusted bolt on the garden gate, the old woman stepped in front of him, blocking his path.

“Didn’t you hear me, hun?” she chirped, her voice like nails on a chalkboard to Jim’s already frayed nerves. “I’m off to pick up Gerry’s prescription before the mid-morning rush. You know how it’s getting worse down there—hooligans and drugs everywhere! Why, just the other day Marry said she won’t even go alone in case of... well, the rape, you know. Such a shame. The world’s not like it used to be. They should all be more like you, I say."

Actors. Jim thought bitterly. They’ve thought of everything. He could practically feel the grip tightening around his mind. This old woman, part of the ruse, was meant to lull him into complacency.

"Yeah, sorry, didn’t hear you. In a bit of a rush this morning," Jim muttered, trying to mask his impatience.

The Citroën’s lights flashed again, its locks clicking open. Jim’s mind raced as the old lady kept prattling on. He glanced over at a group of teenagers kicking a football, a young mother pushing a stroller, and a man walking his dog. Were they all part of it too? How many people were in on this?

“Is that Michael’s car, hun? He’s not about, is he?” she craned her neck, scanning the yard.

Jim fought back his frustration, forcing a smile. “No, he’s tied up with something at the moment.” He grimaced at his own word choice. “I’m just dropping the car off for him. I’m really pushed for time—sorry.”

“Well, tell him I was asking after him,” she said sweetly.

“Will do,” Jim replied, slipping past her and heading for the Citroën. He jumped into the driver’s seat, slamming the door shut before speeding off down the road. He didn’t check his mirrors, narrowly missing an oncoming van. His mind was a maelstrom. The bank. I have to check the bank.

Jim pulled up in front of where the South Slate Bank should have been. His jaw dropped. He just sat there, mouth open, eyes wide in disbelief.

The 30-story concrete structure, a building that had towered over the surrounding area for decades, was gone. In its place stood a small, two-story dental practice with a fresh, modern sign: McGil & Matherson Dental.

Jim gripped the steering wheel so hard his fingers ached, tension radiating through his arms. His breath caught in his throat as he stared in disbelief. Buildings don’t just disappear. The South Slate Bank was simply... gone.

Jim’s pulse pounded in his temples as he parked the Citroën a few blocks away from the vanished bank, trying to calm his nerves. His stomach churned with dread, not just because the South Slate Bank was gone, but because of what had been in that vault. The memory clawed at him, rising from the depths like a long-buried sin he had never truly forgotten.

In that safety deposit box had been the one thing that could ruin him—documents linking him to an unsanctioned black-ops mission a decade ago. A mission that had gone sideways, leaving innocent civilians dead. The files were meant to be burned, but Jim had kept them as leverage. Insurance in case he ever needed it. If those records ever surfaced, there would be no coming back for him. Court-martial wouldn’t even begin to cover it. Prison, disgrace, maybe even execution—it was all in that box.

And now, it was gone. Erased. Like the bank had never existed.

He felt the weight of the world shift around him. At first, he’d thought this was an elaborate setup—a mind game played by some rival agency or powerful enemy. But this... this was different. He could feel it in his bones. Dr. Brettell. Jim remembered the conversation, Brettell’s cryptic words: “You’ll see it in time. It’s all different.”

Brettell had known. The changes weren’t just superficial—they went deeper, into the very fabric of reality. People, buildings, entire histories, all shifted without warning.

His hands loosened their grip on the steering wheel, the fear now replaced by cold determination. If the South Slate Bank could vanish, along with the incriminating evidence inside it, what else had changed? He needed to know what was left of the world he thought he knew, and what it had become.

There was only one course of action now. He had to track down Dr. Paul Brettell. Brettell was the key to understanding this nightmare, and if Jim was going to survive, if he was going to make sense of these shifts in reality, he needed answers.

The world was different. And it was up to Jim to find out just how different.