Future Bob

Chapter Seven

Bobby pressed the trigger.

The jammer in the lunchbox came alive with a low, vibrating hum—like a hornet trapped in a glass jar. A burst of compressed electromagnetic static filled the air, silent to the ear but deafening to anything even remotely electronic.

Across the courtyard, Darius Cross jerked mid-step. His eyes widened—not in fear, but in surprise. His hand shot instinctively toward the device strapped to his wrist. The glowing symbols across its face flickered—then went dark.

His body staggered as if gravity had shifted. One foot slid, unbalanced. He stumbled forward, caught himself, and looked up—straight at the library window where Bobby was watching.

Bobby hid down immediately—his heart pounding.

It worked.

He didn’t know for how long. The pulse wasn’t strong—maybe five seconds of disruption, maybe less. But for the first time since this nightmare began, he had made Cross falter.

He peeked back over the windowsill. The man was gone. Not teleported—vanished. No shimmer. No burst of light. No sound. Just absence.

“Crap,” Bobby muttered, snatching the homemade jammer and backpack and bolting from the library. He raced down the side stairwell, out the emergency exit, and sprinted around the back of the school toward the trap zone.

The lunchbox device lay open and smoking near the dumpster. The air still buzzed faintly, like static after a lightning strike. Bobby crouched, scanning the area.

Nothing. No sign of Cross. No broken wrist device. No footprints. Not even a shadow.

It was like he’d been erased from the scene entirely.

---

That night, Bobby sat cross-legged on his bedroom floor, surrounded by a tangle of wires, circuit boards, and an array of scientific junk that would give any parent a heart attack.

He recorded everything.

Cross = teleportation disrupted at approx. 2.1 seconds.

Device blanked. Possibly force-restarted.

No return trace signal. Location unknown.

New theory: jam signal causes spatial displacement or temporal stutter.

He pulled out his notebook and flipped to the most recent Future Bob messages. He hadn’t heard from him since yesterday.

He tapped the screen. No new texts. His gut twisted. Where are you, B?

---

By midnight, he couldn’t sleep. Every creak of the house made his muscles tighten. Every gust of wind brushing the windows made him flinch.

He opened his closet and stared at the remains of the first trap—the melted copper, the half-burned capacitors, the dead phone.

Then, he stared at the corner of his room where the new rig sat: the jammer, the sensor, the upgraded scanner he’d built using parts from an old Bluetooth speaker and his mom’s broken treadmill.

He didn’t want to admit it—but he was starting to enjoy building these things. Not because of the danger. Because it made him feel like he mattered. Not just a weird kid anymore. Not invisible. He mattered enough to be hunted through time.

---

At 3:17 AM, the phone buzzed. He bolted upright, snatched it.

One new message.

“Good. He felt that. He won’t make the same mistake again.” – B

Another one followed immediately:

“His teleportation anchor is failing. Each jump costs him. The more he uses it, the less stable his link to our timeline becomes. That’s your leverage.”

Bobby’s eyes flew across the screen.

“You need to set the next trap near a signal relay point. Power, data, movement—he needs those things to stay tethered. Scramble them. Then isolate him.”

“Use the triangle pattern. You’ll remember. It worked on my third attempt.”

Bobby froze.

He didn’t remember anything about a triangle.

Then he looked at his wall.

On a poster next to Einstein’s tongue was a doodle he’d made months ago: three arrows in a triangle—circling inward—labeled “Coil,” “Pulse,” and “Feedback.”

He didn’t know why he drew it then.

But now… he did.

---

The next day, Bobby didn’t go to school. He faked a cough. His mom didn’t notice. She was too busy with her phone. His dad just nodded, mumbled something about picking up milk, and left.

Bobby spent the whole day at the abandoned electric substation three blocks away—a fenced-off graveyard of rusted transformers and overgrown wires.

He crawled under the fence with his backpack full of salvaged gear. Inside, the world buzzed—like the bones of a large beast still dreaming.

He set up his new triangle pattern around the main transformer box:

One node for feedback loop.

One for directional pulse.

One for EMP burst.

Each one linked wirelessly through an old walkie-talkie frequency. He tested the signal strength. It spiked at all three points.

Then he placed the bait: a melted chip from the original trap, wrapped in copper wire, tied to a compass needle that spun slowly without stopping.

He hid behind a junction box, legs tucked under him, finger resting on the manual trigger switch.

He waited.

The sun dipped low. Shadows grew long and sharp. Then—the compass stopped. Dead still. The wind stopped too. The air thickened. Then, a sound.

Pop!

Like air being punctured.

He peeked over the edge.

Darius Cross stood at the far end of the substation. His coat flapped gently in the dead air. His eyes scanned the yard. His hand hovered near his wrist. The teleportation device blinked faintly—but slower than before.

Bobby felt a surge of hope. It’s weakening.

Cross moved forward. Bobby tensed. Waited. The man stepped between two of the triangle’s coils. Bobby flicked the switch.

WHRRRRRRR-KRACK!

The entire yard lit up in a burst of pale green light. Electricity shot between the triangle points. The compass needle shattered. The scanner beeped violently. The air felt like fire made of radio waves.

Cross stopped. His body jolted. He tried to press his wrist device—but it glitched. Sparks flew. He staggered sideways, trapped between the magnetic fields.

Bobby hopped from his hiding place, heart in his throat, aiming the jammer directly at him. Then—

A third figure appeared. Out of nowhere. Not teleported. Walked in.

A woman.

Late twenties. Sharp black jacket. Hair in a tight bun. Holding something that looked like a future-grade taser.

She stepped right into the triangle without flinching.

“Bobby Stokes,” she said, calm and clear.

He froze.

She smiled lightly. “Ive no intention to hurt you. I can help.”

From inside the trap, Darius Cross snarled, his face twisted with effort and rage.

“She’s lying,” a voice echoed in Bobby’s head—not real sound, but memory.

Future Bob’s warning.

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

Bobby’s breath caught.

She raised her hand slowly. “I know you’ve been communicating with him—your future self. I’m not your enemy. I’m—”

The trap began to overload. The coil sparked. One of the feedback loops started to melt. Too much power.

Bobby had to choose. Keep the trap active and catch Cross or shut it down before it exploded.

“Bobby,” the woman said gently, “trust me. Let me explain. I can tell you who he really is—and who you become.”

He stared at her. Then at Cross—his mouth curled into a wicked grin, body shaking with restrained fury. Then—the feedback coil exploded.

The force threw Bobby backwards, slamming him into the fence. Lights blinked out. Smoke rose from the center of the trap.

As Bobby opened his eyes through the haze, he saw:

Cross was gone.

And the woman was still standing—untouched, looking right at him.