Alex Scarrow - City of Shadows

‘Turn it over.’

He did and noted the logo on the back in the centre. An apple.

‘This is some sort of prototype Apple product?’

Grohl took it back off him. Pressed a button at the bottom and the screen glowed brightly. He slid his finger across the screen.

‘Jesus! That’s…’

‘Touch-the-screen technology. Very fancy, huh?’

Cooper nodded. It wasn’t fancy, it was stunning. But he still wasn’t sure what he was doing all the way up here this morning. There was enough work the FBI needed to be doing chasing down whatever leads they might have on the horrific events of yesterday.

‘Jesus, Coop, even the military doesn’t have anything near as slick as this little beauty.’ Grohl’s thumb found an icon on the screen and tapped it. ‘Check it out. This is where it gets real interesting, though.’ He turned the device round and showed him the screen. Cooper squinted at a page of text.

‘What am I looking at?’

‘System software information. Look at the software version date.’

Cooper’s stomach did a queasy turnover in his belly. It was showing the year as 2009.

‘And the device’s calendar is set to 2010. You ever see anything like this gadget? It looks like something right out of Star Trek.’

Cooper shook his head. No, he’d seen nothing as advanced as this, not even mocked-up prototypes at a gadget show.

‘Damon, it looks to me a bit like a super-advanced version of those new Apple iPod things the kids are all asking for Thanksgiving.’

‘Oh, and this thing is also designed to make phone calls.’

‘It’s a phone as well?’

‘Oh yeah, only… it doesn’t connect to anything because it’s using a telecoms protocol that doesn’t actually exist…’ His eyes met Cooper’s and Cooper understood what word his friend was leaving unsaid and dangling in the space between them.

… Yet.

7.24 a.m., 12 September 2001, outside Branford, Connecticut

Abel swung the Volkswagen Beetle into the car park and climbed out of the vehicle, the engine still ticking as he crossed the tarmac towards the source of the signal, a large white vehicle with wide perspex windows at the front and back. It looked like some kind of habitation module on wheels.

Faith strode beside him. She withdrew the handgun from the waistband of the jogging bottoms she was wearing, stolen from some hapless runner what seemed like a lifetime ago.

‘They are here,’ she said.

Abel nodded and reached for the handle of the vehicle’s rear door. It failed to turn. He grabbed it tighter and twisted it hard. Something snapped softly and clattered on to the floor inside. He pulled open the door and stepped up inside the vehicle. The RV lurched gently under his weight.

Inside his eyes picked out a mess of bin liners and plastic bags piled down the vehicle’s central aisle towards the driver and passengers’ seats up at the front.

And a small, yellow cubed android was sitting on one of the seats. Big ping-pong-ball eyes batted lashes as its pickle-shaped nose quivered. ‘You’re not supposed to come in here,’ it said with a cautionary tattle-tale voice.

Abel’s mind detected a squirt of data. A broadcasted alert. The yellow robot was beaming an alarm signal. A fainter signal approximately a quarter of a mile away registered an acknowledgement. He dropped back on to the ground outside and turned to Faith.

She’d picked that up too.

‘The acknowledgement came from over there,’ she said, pointing towards a large squat white building, sporting signs of big-brand retailers. Between them a sea of tarmac beginning to fill with cars parking up: early-bird shoppers.

‘They are inside that building,’ said Abel.

‘My God.’ Rashim shook his head with disbelief. He looked around the mini-mart and then reached into a freezer unit and picked up a shrink-wrapped pack-of-three Ma Jackson’s Shaked n’ Baked Tennessee Chicken Drummers. ‘This is real? Real food?’

Sal nodded. ‘Those? Real chicken legs? Uh-huh.’

‘From what was once a real live chicken?’

‘Of course.’

His eyes widened. When he’d come from only the wealthiest could afford vat-grown meat and even then it wasn’t really proper meat. ‘Meat on the bone’ was muscle cells grown on plastic rods shaped like bones. It tasted vaguely savoury, with a gelatinous texture, a meat-gel lollipop at best. Everyone else lived on synthi-soya alternatives.

‘There’s so much!’ He shook his head again. ‘There’s just so much of this real food!’

‘Yeah, well.’ Sal took the drumsticks off him and dropped them in the shopping trolley. ‘Best make the most of it, right?’

Maddy’s call. Since this food supermarket inside the mall was already open, she decided that since they’d stopped they might as well stock up on some essentials. The RV had a fridge that worked, they might as well put something edible in it and the little kitchen cabinets located above it. Maddy said she wasn’t sure whether they were staying in Boston or moving on. But it probably wouldn’t hurt for them to have a few luxuries aboard the TimeRiders’ ‘tour bus’.

‘This way, Becks.’ Sal led the trolley. Becks pushed it dutifully.

‘Affirmative.’ Her language pack was installed now. Just the default library. Her voice was monotone, completely without any expression. Sal turned to look at her. She was wearing a beanie hat to cover her still-smooth head, and baggy jeans and a jumper hung loosely on her slight frame. Her pale face had a slack, vacant look to it. At least that part of her looked convincingly teenager.

And at least she wasn’t drooling now.

‘My God!’ Rashim’s voice echoed from the next aisle along. A moment later he appeared at the end of the freezer aisle gazing wide-eyed at something sitting on the palm of his hand. She waved him over.

‘What’s up, Rashim?’

He hurried over and held his hand out. ‘Are these strawberries real too?’

Great. He’s found the fruit counter.

Liam put some more boxes of Coco Pops in the trolley. Bob looked down at them.

‘You already have five boxes of Coco Pops.’

‘Aye, well, ’tis better to be safe than sorry.’ He nudged Bob’s arm. ‘Anyway, you like them too.’

‘They are acceptable to my digestive system.’

‘Oh, come on… admit it, you actually like them. I’ve seen the way you gobble ’em down.’

‘They are low in protein. I require large amounts of Coco Pops to sustain me.’

Liam offered him a sly grin. ‘I’ve seen you slurp that chocolate milk, like a cat lapping cream.’

‘The milk is the more beneficial food component of the two.’

Liam shrugged distractedly. ‘Ah well.’ He surveyed the other cereal boxes stacked along the aisle. ‘Hey look, Bob. You can even have Coco Pops with funny pink teddy bear shapes in it.’ He picked the cereal box up and held it closer to get a better look at the far too colourful package design. ‘What do you reckon those little teddy bear fellas are made of?’

Bob scowled disapprovingly. ‘Probably nothing particularly nutritious.’

‘Maybe not, but it looks fun.’ Liam dropped the cereal box in the trolley. He smiled up at Bob. ‘You remember what fun is, don’t you?’

‘I can supply a definition of the word and several thousand cultural references to the word including — ’

‘Never mind.’

7.25 a.m., 12 September 2001, North Haven Plaza, outside Branford

Maddy brought the tray over to the booth and sat down opposite Foster. He wasn’t looking so good this morning. Perhaps a couple of sleepless nights hadn’t helped. Perhaps it was the artificial lighting in this coffee shop. He’d looked healthier in Central Park: sun on his face and a fresh breeze ruffling the tufts of snow-white hair on his head. Healthier and happier back there.