Future Bob

Chapter Six

For a moment, Bobby thought the trap had worked.

Darius Cross stood frozen, one leg forward, arms locked mid-stride like a statue struck in motion. The crackling feedback of the EM coils buzzed through the tunnel, the glow from the device pulsing in sync with Bobby’s racing heart. And then—He moved. Just a twitch. A slight tilt of the head. Then the fingers on his right hand uncurled slowly, mechanically—like a puppet breaking free from invisible strings.

“No…” Bobby whispered. “No, no, no.”

Cross’s eyes flicked up. Locked onto Bobby’s. They were no longer cold—they were angry.

He stepped forward, snapping the last of the trap’s restraint as if it were nothing but cobwebs. Sparks exploded from the makeshift rig. The copper wire turned black and melted. The bait phone died instantly, screen going dark like a blink.

Bobby turned and ran. His legs moved on impulse, dodging broken bricks, going under low pipes, feet splashing through shallow water. His lungs burned while his mind screamed.

The trap didn’t work.

The tunnel twisted, bent left. Bobby dove through a side hatch and slammed it shut behind him. He kept going on hands and knees, grinding his elbows and knees against the damp, grime-covered floor.

He reached the far grate and pushed upward. It didn’t budge. He pressed harder, sweating profusely. He was panicking.

Finally, it gave way, and he stumbled into the back lot of an abandoned gas station, lit only by a flickering streetlamp and the faint hum of a neon sign half-spelled out as “U--MART.”

He gasped for air. No sound behind him. No footsteps. Did I lose him?

Bobby backed toward the alley, keeping his eyes on the tunnel entrance. It stayed still. Dead still.

He turned and froze.

Darius Cross was already standing at the other end of the alley. Perfectly still. No sound. No footsteps. No chase. He was just—there. As if reality itself had coughed him into place.

Bobby stumbled back. “H-how—how did you—?”

Darius didn’t answer. Instead, he raised his left wrist. Strapped to it was a sleek black device, flush with blinking blue symbols and a glassy face. It looked like a hybrid of a watch, a remote, and something not from this century. He pressed a button. The air around him shimmered—like heat waves on asphalt—and then his body blurred. Just for a second. And then he disappeared. Gone. No footsteps. No running. Just vanished.

---

Bobby stood alone. His knees trembled. His stomach twisted. He was trying to grasp the possibility of what he had just seen.

“Whattt... what the hell was that?” he breathed.

"A teleportation device? From the future?"

It had to be. The man hadn’t just moved fast—he’d folded space. Stepped through time.

Bobby backed into the alley wall and slid to the ground. His head throbbed—pounding erratically. His pulse thundered. The trap had failed. And Cross could now appear anywhere.

---

He raced home after checking over his shoulder at every turn. Slammed the door. Locked it. Deadbolt. Chair wedged under the handle. His mother knocked once, annoyed. He said nothing.

Back in his room, he turned on all three monitors, lit every lamp, and opened his notebook with trembling hands, still shaken by the earlier ordeal.

He wrote energetically—with unmeasured rush:

“Trap FAILED. Time window too short?”

“Cross broke through EM feedback—WHY?”

“TELEPORTATION CONFIRMED. WRIST DEVICE. Advanced tech—future-grade?”

“He’s not human. Or not just human.”

He underlined it five times.

BUZZ.

The phone lit up.

Message from Future Bob:

“He has the device. I couldn’t stop him from getting it. You’re seeing what he became after the 2nd reset. His tech is unstable—but powerful. It won’t work forever. He has limits.”

“You need to adjust your trap. Use dual frequency. Add a dead zone. Force his device to miscalculate re-entry coordinates. You can delay him—but only if you scramble his lock-on signature.”

Bobby read it twice, then again.

Dead zone? Re-entry coordinates?

Another ping:

“Don’t try to beat him head-on. That version of me did. And he died. Set traps. Use interference. Make him teleport into a closed loop.”

“Also—don't let anyone help you. Not even the one who says she knows about Cross. She’s lying.”

She?

Bobby hadn’t met any girl. Yet.

---

He gazed at the messages until his eyes got tired.

Darius Cross could teleport. But the device wasn’t perfect. It had rules. Limits. Weaknesses. He just had to find them.

Another idea sparked. He dug out the old electromagnetic field reader from his science kit—modified it with an extra copper coil and a salvaged motion sensor. Then connected it to his signal scanner.

If Cross used his device near Bobby again… maybe Bobby could trace the jump signature.

Or even better—jam it.

He wired the rig into a small lunchbox and added a burst frequency generator that could fry electronics for five seconds. It wasn’t a weapon. But it was bait.

He put it near the school dumpster, where Cross had last followed him. Then he waited. And watched from the library window above.

Students filtered out. Lights dimmed. Nothing happened for hours. But just before dusk… the sensor pinged. A sudden electromagnetic pulse—short, sharp, unnatural. Then... footsteps.

From the alley near the dumpster, Bobby saw him. Cross. Slowly moving toward the rig.

The frequency reader began to hum. Bobby’s hand hovered over the trigger on the scanner jam. He held his breath.

Waited—And then…He pressed it.