Bob vs the Selfie Zombies


 
 
 
 To Me
 As this is a book about time travel, perhaps I am allowed to dedicate it to someone from the past. Perhaps I will dedicate it to eleven-year-old me. Andrew, it must seem incredible to think you grow up to become an author. But trust me, kiddo, you can do it. Just pay attention in English class, OK? Oh, and grow your hair long while you still can.
 
 ‘I never think of the future – it comes soon enough.’
 – Albert Einstein, mathematical genius.
 
 
 
 ‘Time flies like an arrow. Fruit flies like a banana.’
 – Author unknown. But still a genius.
 
 CONTENTS
 The Present Nowish
 Chapter 1
 Chapter 2
 The Future 2043
 Chapter 3
 Chapter 4
 Chapter 5
 Chapter 6
 Chapter 7
 Chapter 8
 Chapter 9
 Chapter 10
 Chapter 11
 Chapter 12
 Chapter 13
 Chapter 14
 Chapter 15
 Chapter 16
 Chapter 17
 Chapter 18
 Chapter 19
 Chapter 20
 Chapter 21
 Chapter 22
 Chapter 23
 Chapter 24
 After
 Not the End
 Acknowledgements
 About the Author
 About the Illustrator
 Copyright
 
 THE PRESENT NOWISH
 
 1
 A CONFUSING PLACE.
 A FISH-FINGER CHOO-CHOO.
 TIME GOES FAST.
 A CRACKLE BENEATH THE TABLE.
 Mum wasn’t the best cook in the world. I mean, if she had been, she’d have worked as Head Dinner Lady at a ten-star restaurant instead of in a garage as a mechanic. But she was a good cook. Even if her hands were usually covered in engine grease. She baked pies, cooked casseroles, made her own pizzas. She cooked Spanish food, Sri-Lankan, Mexican. Mum said the kitchen was her ‘happy place’, and I honestly believe you could taste that in her cooking.
 Dad – if I had to guess – would say the kitchen is his ‘very confusing place’. And you can taste that in his cooking. Which is unfortunate now that he has to prepare all our meals.
 He’s fine with the simple stuff – sausages, burgers, chips and so on. It’s when he tries to actually cook that things get . . . interesting. Chicken and pineapple pie, baked bean and tuna curry, stilton and egg pizza. It’s not the worst food in the world. It’s just . . . weird, I suppose is the kindest way of putting it. Even my dog Zem (who’s favourite things to eat include shoes, sticks and sheep poo) turns his old wet nose up at Dad’s cooking.
 Luckily, it’s fish fingers, chips and peas tonight, and the opportunities for Dad to mess it up are relatively small. Although, as he places my supper on the table, I see he has created another food sculpture.
 I started big school this year, but Dad still likes to arrange my food into the shapes of faces, animals, tanks, volcanoes, rockets and whatnot. As if I was still nine or ten years old, not eleven and a bunch of months. Honestly!
 He’s looking at me now, waiting for me to say something about his latest creation.
 ‘What is it?’ I don’t mean to sound sulky, but that’s the way it comes out.
 ‘It’s a choo-choo,’ says Dad.
 ‘You mean a train.’
 ‘Choo-choo,’ says Dad, pulling an invisible steam whistle. He grins.
 I don’t.
 ‘What’s up?’ says Dad. ‘You used to love choo-choo trains.’
 ‘I also used to like shoving crayons up my nose. I’m not a baby any more, Dad.’
 ‘No one’s saying you’re a baby. It’s just . . . you know, I thought it was fun.’
 And, looking at it again, I suppose the train is kind of cool. Four fish-finger carriages lined up on a circle of French-fry train tracks.
 ‘What are these?’ I say, pointing at a row of peas.
 ‘Passengers,’ says Dad. ‘They’re pea-ple. Get it?’
 ‘I get it,’ I say, smiling. ‘It’s awful, but I get it.’
 Dad shrugs. ‘I’m a dad. It’s my duty to make awful jokes.’
 ‘Sorry for being grumpy.’
 ‘We all get grumpy,’ Dad says. ‘Grumpy is allowed. But just . . . don’t be in such a hurry to grow up, OK?’
 ‘OK,’ I say, loading my fork with a slice of fish-finger train carriage and a few pea-ple.
 ‘It’ll come soon enough. Time goes fast,’ Dad says, clicking his fingers. ‘Trust me.’
 I scoop up a forkful of supper, but a single pea drops to the table and rolls onto the floor.
 ‘Escap-pea!’ says Dad.
 ‘Good one,’ I tell him.
 Zem, sensing food, climbs out of his basket and hoovers up the little green escap-pea. Beneath the table, something makes a muffled, crackly sound.
 My first thought is that he’s farted.
 This would be very bad news indeed. Zem is a big, old dog and he has been known to clear a room with a single – often silent – dog-guff. He has been known, in fact, to clear an entire village hall. In a competition for the world’s most toxic dog-parps, Zem would be World Champion. Although why anyone would arrange a competition like that, I have no idea.
 The crackling sound happens again. Dad and I swap worried looks. And then – just as we’re about to run from the kitchen – I remember that I have my walkie-talkie between my legs. It crackles a third time, immediately followed by the voice of my best friend.
 ‘Bob. Bob, are you there? Over?’
 Dad gives me a stern-ish look. ‘What have I told you about walkie-talkies at the table, Bob?’
 ‘Well, strictly speaking, it’s below the table,’ I say.
 ‘Hmmmmm,’ says Dad. 
 ‘Bob?’ says the walkie-talkie. ‘You there, Bob? Over.’ 
 Dad smiles and nods at me: Answer it.
 ‘I’m here,’ I say into the walkie-talkie. ‘Over.’
 ‘Ready for rehearsal?’ says Malcolm. ‘Over.’
 ‘Just got to finish my supper. Over.’
 ‘Whatchahavin? Over.’
 ‘Fish fingers. Over.’
 ‘Did he arrange them? Over.’
 I glance at Dad. His expression gives nothing away.
 ‘Train,’ I say to Malcolm. ‘Chips for tracks.’
 ‘Cool,’ says my best friend.
 Dad clears his throat, glances at my supper, mouths the