Time Riders

CHAPTER 9

2066, New York

Dr Paul Kramer looked out at the dark streets of the city, the boarded-upbuildings, the discarded vehicles left rusting down the backstreets. Every so often theircoach passed a pedestrian, a small scruffy corner shop, a light glowing through a grimywindow.

New York was a rundown relic of the thriving city it had once been. There were whole blocksthat were now little more than deserted shells, populated by feral packs of dogs andpigeons.

The coach was heading down Central Park West, off Broadway. Kramer had seen films made sixtyyears ago that showed these streets full of life and colour and hope. Now it was a dismal andgrey place, a city dying piece by piece, block by block.

The coach slowed down as it passed a police precinct building, the windows protected by metalgrilles.

‘No need to drive too cautiously, Karl,’ said Kramer. ‘You’ll makethe police suspicious.’

Karl Haas, driving, picked up the speed a little.

Kramer twisted in his seat and looked back down the coach. His men, two dozen of them, satquietly in their seats, lost in thought, pensive. All of them fighting fit, wearing combatfatigues, ready for their mission. The aisle between both rows of seats wasclogged with their kit: crates and canvas carry-bags full of weapons.

He smiled proudly.

Good men, aren’t they, Paul?

‘We’re nearly there,’ he said to Karl.

Karl nodded and then barked out to the men behind them: ‘Make ready!’

They stirred immediately and he could hear the rattle of firearms being racked and readied touse. They were all experienced, many of them ex-military… all of them firmly committedto Kramer’s plan. None of them married or leaving children behind.

A one-way trip away from this dying world clogged with nine billion people — most ofthem starving. What Kramer was offering these young men was hope,a chance to change things for the better.

In the thigh pocket of Kramer’s combat pants was the one little thing that was going tomake that possible for them: a black notebook.

Karl turned a corner on to 79th Street. The intersection was busier than normal with a fewpedestrians hunched over and miserable, shuffling their way home. Ahead of them was the grandbuilding itself — the American Museum of Natural History. Like so many others, it wasboarded up, covered in pigeon droppings and mostly dark, waiting in vain for better days.

Kramer felt his heart sink at the sight of its once-proud entrance now darkened with urbangrime and defaced with graffiti. This once-great nation deserved better; this city deservedbetter. The museum was a pitiful reminder of a grand time when Manhattan really was the centreof the world.

He could cry, honestly… he really could.