The Last Popsicle

The sound of the icecream truck always made me feel at home. My ears would perk up like a dog's to the sound of a can opener. If there wasn't any money in my pocket, I'd rush to my piggy bank, or the sofa, my parents were last; who needs more chores? The pitch of the music elevated as the white truck slowly peeked around the corner. The kids weren't far behind it. Some barefoot, some in sandals. I waited at the edge of my driveway with 50 cents in my hand, the exact price of a red, white and blue popsicle. The truck slowed down and the cheery young man with his red and white striped uniform and funny boat hat, waved before disappearing into the back. My hand clenched the change, anticipating my cold, sweet savior. The neighborhood kids came abounding, shouting, filled with joy.

"Ice Cream Man! Ice Cream man!" They all shouted. He looked at me and slid open the window. "What would you like?" My hand reached out, palm flat, showing I could afford whatever he had. "Patriot popsicle please." I don't know if they were actually called that, I guess I'll never know. I went on to my tiptoes and placed the coins onto his windowsill. He smiled and disappeared for a second, returning with my summer savior. He passed me the popsicle and saluted me, chuckling to himself. They kids swarmed in, fighting for who would be second. I turned around to see my parents, smiling at the chaos. I felt the melting sugar drip on to my hand, it was melting faster than a rabbit at a dog track. I licked at it to clean it up, as Papa always said, "Best not to waste."

I couldn't keep up. I tried my best to keep my hand from turning into the American Flag, something was off. The speaker of the Ice Cream Truck started to cackle with white noise. Then the engine shutoff. The only sound now were the kids shouting their orders. Is the Ice Cream truck dead? I thought to myself. "James, come inside, now honey." I looked to my mom, her face was worried. My father was staring into the sky. A green tinge swept across the neighborhood. The sky was on fire! It looked as if green fire was burning the air.

I ran to the porch and we entered the house. My father turned the radio on but there was only static. He went to the basement to look for another radio, but the light wouldn't turn on. Flash light, nothing. He slowly descended into the dark abyss. Fear and anxiety swarmed my thoughts and invaded my body. I tried to focus on my popsicle. My mother tried the phone, it was dead. My dad ordered us to come down and get in the bomb shelter. We locked ourselves there for days. We had no idea what was happening, we had no idea if our neighbors were ok, we sat in the dark, the only light source, a small candle sitting on the shelf next to the pickled carrots. It was the last popsicle I ever ate.

A few days later we heard the first noise outside. It was faint but it was enough to get my father to leave the bunker. My mother held me close, worried about all the things that could be going wrong up there. A few seconds later my dad came bursting down the basement steps. "It's the Army! They've got trucks! We're getting out of here." We quickly packed some bags with clothes and water and ran out to the front. The neighborhood was quiet. The ice cream truck was still parked in front of the house. I looked inside, maybe there was one more popsicle, ice cream sandwich, anything. There was just the stench of rotten milk and the buzzing of flies. "James, come on!"

I ran back over to my parents. They were talking to a soldier who was pointing to a series of trucks with canvas tops. Humvees were periodically spaced in between them with big guns mounted on them. I looked at the soldier, he looked down at me. I saluted, he didn't salute back. We walked to the third truck and my father lifted me up so I could step-in. There were old people, married people, young kids, all looking very tired and worn down. We took our seats toward the back. The smell was awful. I looked at a young girl sitting further into the truck, she kind of smiled and waved at me. I waved back. What happened to everything? Soldiers entered the houses and after a little wait, they came out. Nobody came out with them.

The trucks started back up and we began to move. I saw a flock of birds flying over head and noticed the sky was blue. I looked up to my mother, "The sky isn't green anymore."

She pulled me close and hugged me. "We're going to be OK now." One of the men in the truck spoke up. He was dirty, his jeans and gray t shirt were dirty. The creases on his faces were dark with dirt and blended into his thick black beard. "We ain't gunna be anything."

"Hey, watch your tone, we don't know what happened." My father said to him.

"I know damn well what it was. Solar flare, whole world's probably dark. No food, no communication, we don't even know where they're taking us." My dad didn't say anything. I looked st my mom, scared, I buried my head into her shirt. I wanted to go back into the bomb shelter. 

Eventually we were out of the suburbs and into the country. Nothing seemed to be that different out here. The cows were still chewing their cud, the horses whinnied, the scarecrows scared. I liked it better than home. It was peaceful. Maybe there would be ice cream out here. The end.