Subterraneans and Soft Serve

Waiting for the world to end, or just something better.

While the countries of Earth resolved themselves to dispute artificial boundaries, drawn and re-drawn over thousands of years, our successors waited. While humans fought for scraps, climbed corporate ladders and sunk into oceans of apathy, an heir apparent aimed to sit on the throne. Even while dreamers peered up at the stars and opined for a heavenly existence devoid of worry and toil, the ground beneath us swelled with anticipation. Clandestine inhabitants rose up from under our feet and capitalized on our constant state of discontent.

I could not judge my fellow humans for letting our recent adversaries go unnoticed, being no different myself, distracted by the nagging biological urge to marry and settle, to improve my circumstances beyond the business barely keeping me afloat. Only when they invaded, did my focus shift from a faltering relationship with a woman who struggled to express her love, to the subterranean creatures plastered across digital devices everywhere.

“Are you seeing this?” my employee Dennis asked, as we watched the flat screen TV from behind the counter of the Dairy King. A news reporter expressed shock at the drilling machines breaching through steel reinforced concrete, mechanical moles breaking the surface of our roads and realities. Massive tanks — agents of destruction — fired missiles into skyscrapers, shaking the foundations of proud men, turning them both into rubble.

“Yes, I see it. I doubt we’ll have any customers today,” I said.

“Customers. You’re worried about customers?”

“Go home, Dennis.”

Dennis left. He gathered his belongings while I gathered my wits, wiping down tables with an eye on the chaos ensuing. With precision, millions of aggressors, poised and ready to strike, destroyed the plans of presidents and princes. Explosions brought screams, the rattle of the windows inside the Dairy King a sign no royal court would be left untouched or unsullied by nefarious forces hiding undetected for God knows how long.

The landline phone rang. Taking an order for an ice cream cake, or perhaps reservations for a corporate function, were ridiculous prospects that would confirm our world was incapable of navigating shifting sands.

“Hello,” I said into the receiver.

“Michael? Oh, thank God, it is you, Michael. The cell towers must be down, and I couldn’t reach you on your mobile phone,” a woman said.

“Hi, April, I’m surprised you’re calling,” I said.

“I’m sorry about last night. I was just in a mood. You know how I get after an argument with Daddy. He called, wanting me to drive down immediately, to escape those things attacking,” April said.

“And you want me to come.”

“We’re practically married, Michael. This is your opportunity to show Daddy you’re a good man — capable. It will change his mind about things. I know it will.”

“I don’t care what your father thinks of me.”

During the deafening pause, while she carefully considered the weight and force of her words, another explosion rattled the windows. A few posters fell from the walls, loosely hung in place, fragile wood frames splintering as they crashed to the floor. The TV screen fuzzed, then sputtered, colored wavy lines indicating the signal would soon be lost. A moment of clarity broadcast tall creatures, humanoid in nature, skin milky white and pale from lack of sun, firing weapons with precision. They rode both machine and biological beasts of burden from a prehistoric age long since passed.

“You should go,” I said.

“You won’t come? You’re going to throw years away, a future together, because of one lousy fight? I’m willing to wait for you, so we can go together,” April said.

“We were all waiting for something. I waited for you a long time. You were waiting for someone better.”

“Fine, Michael, I will find someone better,” April said, spoken to reassure herself more than me.

The phone went dead, then the TV screen went black. Before emitting light no more, the fluorescent tubes on the ceiling flickered, omens of a dying existence. Emergency sirens blasted warnings into the sky, softly wailing, louder still, then softly again, ushering in a new age ruled by beings who aimed to conquer a preoccupied race of humans.

I thought to clean the counters and empty the register, to set everything in a state of conclusion and perform the rituals of one final closing. Outside cars honked their horns in the shopping plaza’s parking lot, drivers intent on issuing demands behind the wheels of branded chariots, unable to concede defeat. When at last, I thought, I will simply walk out the front door and fight or die, a regular named Cynthia walked through it. The bell jingled delightfully.

“Hello, Michael,” Cynthia said.

“Uh, hey, I’m afraid the power is out, so no flavor of the week,” I said.

Cynthia chuckled. Sweaty and harried in workout clothes, she arrived from the adjacent gym. Cynthia’s body shrunk in size over the months, the results of a dedicated persistence in her routine. I paid attention enough to recognize the change, just smart enough never to comment, appreciative of her natural beauty from our first meeting. She would tease interest, cast invitations into more intimate conversation. I always declined and kept our interactions short. She knew of April — the past April.

“I’m sure you can scrounge a few pints from the freezer, unless... you have somewhere else to go,” Cynthia said.

“I don’t. This is it, but I’m not sure it’s safe for either of us here,” I said.

“Is anywhere safe?” Cynthia asked. A plume of smoke and fire rose up in the distance behind her in reply.

I ran into the back room and flung open the door of the walk-in freezer, rummaging through bins of generic expired soft serve and artisanal flavors. Did she have a favorite? The question lingered too long, struck me as a trained response to please one’s previous master. After I had several random pints stacked in hand, I walked back to the front, where Cynthia sat, arms crossed, her body and mind shrinking in a well spring of insecurity.

“We can eat whatever we want and go back for seconds. It’s on the house. I know the owner,” I said, attempting to ease those doubts prickling her skin and causing the goosebumps rising up on her arms. I placed the cartons on the table and slid them aside.

“I wanted to leave,” Cynthia said.

“Is someone waiting for you?” I asked.

“No. There’s nobody.”

“Two people with nobody in mind.”

“You’re on my mind. I don’t even like ice cream.”

Her arrival had been calculated, decided immediately when the Earth birthed a horde of thunderous war mongers from depths unknown. I pondered the previous impossible distance between us and the broad expanse of waiting that shrunk infinitesimally small, squeezing us together into our present surroundings.

“Thank you for waiting for me,” I said.

“What should we do?”

“We can do anything. But whatever we do, we should decide soon. There’s no sense in waiting anymore,” I said.