Cream??

John sat alone in a booth at a coffee shop seemingly frozen in time. The quaint and humble Diner could easily double as a 1960's museum proudly displaying its wear and war-torn scars from decades of patrons both 'kind' and 'not so kind' to its care or wellbeing.

"Cream?" Asked a voice aged with years of smoke and cheap liquor.

"Excuse me?"

"Would you like cream with your coffee sir?"

John smiled as he looked up at the waitress, "Oh,.. no... no thank you, never touch the stuff."

His response was met with quick and immediate pause. A small pause mind you, but long enough to seem a little out of place.

Steeped in this awkward moment, She gave a slight nod, turned and walked away.

John watched her walk back towards the kitchen then simply shrugged it off and returned his attention to the menu.

It was then that 'Simply Awkward' turned to ‘Abject Apprehension’ as everything in the restaurant fell completely silent.

The clatter of plates and silverware, pots and pans. The murmur of conversation, the rustling of handbags.

All of it.

Everything.

Silent.

Peering over his menu he was met with the cold gaze of each and everyone in Destiny's Diner.

"What?" John asked, looking around for a response.

Silence.

He took a breath to say something. He had no idea what, but just something to cut the silence.

Before he had the chance the entirety of the patrons and staff stood and exited through the kitchen and out of the back of the Diner leaving John sitting alone in his thread bare booth.

"Hello?"

The word fell as empty as the Diner.

John rose to his feet slowly as his mind desperately grasped for rhyme or reason to the last two minutes of his now thwarted attempt at a peaceful breakfast..

His cellphone ringtone tore through the deafening silence nearly launching him off his feet.

Fumbling through his jacket pocket for his phone he found the screen to read "Restricted Number"

The phone vehemently refused any additional information and finally fell quiet stating simply...

'1 New Voicemail'

It wasn't until that very moment John turned to peer through the broad glass windows facing the dirt parking lot. They were gone. All the cars parked there earlier, were gone.

The Phone let out a tone to remind him of the pending message.

Icy tentacles of fear reached into him, clawed at him.

John looked at his phone, then retrieved the message.

“You should’ve taken the cream”

Shear panic ripped any logical thought or prudent action from him as he found himself on a dead run bursting out of the front door of the Diner.

Tearing keys from his pocket as he ran to his car, the only remaining car in the Parking lot, the reflection in the driver’s side window shown a man that was anything but in control.

It was when his pocket finally relinquished his car keys that John heard a Hum. No.. not a hum… it was a buzzing. Like Bees. Yes, it sounded just like a swarm of Bees.

In the reflection he could see something hovering behind him.

He spun around to see three drones. All three the same. About two feet across, 6 blades each and all three of them had a digital screen with the number 10 displayed, then 9, then 8

“A Count Down?!” John screamed as he ripped open the car door, threw himself in the driver’s seat and cranked the engine.

To his surprise, it roared to life.

With his right foot mercilessly pinning the accelerator to the floor he slammed the BMW M3 Coupe into Drive leaving dust and chaos in his wake.

Almost a mile down the dirt road he could still taste the grit and what he could only describe as wet sneakers coating his tongue and mouth.

“Where we headed?” announced a voice from the backseat.

John slammed on the brake with both feet sending the BMW careening into a flat spin.

The force pushed his head against the driver’s side window until the car finally came to a stop throwing his head into the steering wheel announced by a prolonged horn blast.

Opening the door he rolled out and then pushed himself to his feet.

John Finny was not a fighting man. He had no military background, no training in martial arts and a serious fear of firearms. He sold insurance. Everything he knew in life was in exact opposition to the skills this situation was more than screaming for… so… John magnanimously turned to his left and puked.

“John… John… John… We really don’t have time for that do we?” came a toying voice.

Wiping his chin with the backside of his left hand, John steadied himself and stared over at the young man leaning against his car. He looked to be maybe 25 years old or so, slim build, clean cut, no facial hair and a look on his face that could only be described as a cross between the Gerber Baby and The Joker, with a little Tom Cruise mixed in there too.

“Who….” John Turned and spat on the ground trying to clear the rancid taste from his mouth. “…the Hell are you?”

“I believe there to be far better times and places for that discussion John.”

John took one step towards the car.

“Wait, how in the Hell do you know my name!?”

The stranger held a playful grin and a calm demeanor that was absolutely maddening.

“John, I think we should talk about this in the car.”

John recognized the far off buzzing sounds coming into earshot. Although it was much more pronounced than before. He turned to see at least 20, maybe 30 drones off in the distance and closing fast.

The stranger stood awaiting a response. Blue jeans, white t-shirt and the same unchanged expression.

John figured a smarter man would think of something clever to say, or do, or some sort of hand gesture at the very least. John sold insurance.

“Get In”, he grunted.

They both got back into the car, the stranger opting for the passenger seat up front this time. John hit the gas and they were on their way.

“Who… the hell….. are you?”

The long protracted annunciation was dipping with angst and held with it a definite demand of an immediate answer.

“My name is Jim” was his complete response.

Although the stranger seemed content with his response as a whole, John was less than amused.

The cutting gaze from John’s eyes accompanied his response.

“and…..”

“And what?”

John screamed, “What the hell is going on!”

Jim made no recoil or aversive reaction at all.

“Well, it’s like this….”

John interrupted, “I should’ve got the cream?!”

Jim smirked, “Something like that.”

“Jim. What is going on! What am I supposed to do and why am I having to do anything at all!?”

The impact of the first drone on the windshield was enough to produce a crack and a sound loud enough to cause John to duck and veer the car to the left.

Following this, a hail storm of drones descended on them smashing into the car from all sides.

John struggled to keep their speed as the windows became more and more cracked and debris showered over them.

“Faster” Jim announced in the midst of the chaotic modern day Hitchcock inspired nightmare.

Pushing passed his instincts John pressed the accelerator to the floor.

“Why is this happening?” he gritted through clenched teeth.

“Keep going!” Jim responded pointing forward, “Get to the other side of the overpass”

For the first time Jim’s words held some emotion. A little stress dripped from the tail end of his statement.

It was the hailstorm from hell, is all John could think of. Cacophony and chaos reigned as John tried to find small points of the windshield where he could catch a glimpse of the road in a vain attempt to maintain control.

“You’re almost there!”, Jim called out, more angst wrapped around his words.

The Driver’s side window burst inwards allowing one of the malevolent machines to enter the car, blades thrashing and cutting john’s face before he was able to thrust it out with his hand through the smashed window.

This was followed by the two rear windows exploding giving access to two more.

Glass, blood and pain mixed together in a cocktail garnished with the blades of two determined war machines now described the inside of John’s BMW Coupe. Slouching down as low as he could he left his foot pressed to the floor pushing the accelerator what felt like through the bottom of the car.

The light dimmed as they careened through the underpass at a speed John could only guess.

Bursting to the other side, the sun once again flooded the car, the engine stopped and the brakes slowly engaged bringing the car to a stop.

John lifted his head and slid back up in the seat.

There was no buzzing.

There was no nefarious machines crashing into the vehicle.

There was only quiet.

John could smell the hot engine mixed with perspiration. The blood on his face was sticky and full of grim.

“Well played Sir!, Well Played!”

Jim announced this as he forced opened the door, and with no other words, got out and started to walk away.

John pushed open the driver’s side door and pulled himself out only to see….. nothing…

No cars.

No Drones.

No Jim.

Nobody.

John stood on a dirt road 100 yards past an overpass… alone.

“Wha…. What… the ……” he trailed off.

The car stood sat, it’s wounds boldly apparent and deep.  It looked as though he had driven through a war zone only to stop, turn around, and drive back through the other way.

This was not a dream or his imagination. Not a trick or hallucination. The car pretty much was all the confirmation he required to prove that.

After what seemed like hours, John got in the car and turned the ignition.

Once again, to his surprise, it started.

It was about 10 miles later when he came across a service station and pulled in. There was still no rhyme, reason or possible explanation John could fathom of what or why the accounts of today occurred.

The Station was old. The stains from rust on the sign spoke to it’s character and the smell of decades of spilled gas seeping up from the asphalt in the midday sun truly was a defining trait.

“You need some help?” said an old voice wrapped in overalls with old dirty red baseball cap.

John looked over.

“I just don’t think you’d ever believe a word I have to say.”

The old man smiled, “Oh you look like you did pretty good. Have a seat and I’ll take a look”

Puzzled and still dazed, John walked over to the chair placed just outside the front door of the station and collapsed onto it.

He reached over and poured coffee that seemed closer to motor oil than a beverage, into a white Styrofoam cup and looked over at the old station attendant.

The man looked over a John and asked, “Did you want cream?”