Bring On the War Mice

by Ryan Schneider

After a time, Parker entered his room. He left behind the sounds of silence in the hallway, the quiet breathing of the underground world around him.

  The decorative motif of the room was unmistakable: small. Two sets of close-quarters bunk beds, a small desk with a small lamp, and a small closet. The room felt like a broom closet. Which meant he was the broom. How four people could live and sleep in such a tiny space was baffling. But, he realized, this installation was originally conceived not only as a research facility but as a haven in case of nuclear war or environmental disaster on the surface. Space had to be maximized and comfort had to be sacrificed. He looked around the cramped room and realized comfort invariably takes a back seat to survival.

  An artificial window loomed above the desk. It showed the black branches of a tree silhouetted against a night sky strewn with stars.

  Beneath the bunks he found four green rectangular footlockers. He couldn’t tell what they were made of. One of them had writing stenciled in yellow: PERKINS. He pulled it forward. It was extremely light but he sensed also very durable. The electronic padlock hung open, with a small slip of plastic attached bearing a six-digit code. He lifted the lid. Inside he discovered seven pair of pants, seven T-shirts, seven pair of socks, and seven pair of underwear, all neatly folded, and all of them black. Were these someone else’s clothes? There were also two pair of clean black boots, much like those he’d seen Igby wearing. He took out a T-shirt and held it up. Though it was black, it looked similar to his red shirt he’d put on that morning while hurrying to meet Bubba for breakfast at The Cloud Deck. Now that he’d met the magnificent Colby Max, he was glad he’d gotten water all over his Colby Max T-shirt and had exchanged it for the red one prepared by Mrs. Black. He unfolded a pair of pants and held them up. They too appeared to be his size. Carefully, using only his fingertips, he picked up a pair of underwear and held them up by the elastic waistband. Again, he thought they could fit him. Slowly, carefully, he brought the underwear close to his face. He found the seat of the underwear and carefully smelled the area. They smelled clean. Apparently these weren’t someone else’s clothes. And apparently even Top Secret underground cities had dress codes. Everyone he had seen thus far seemed to be wearing some sort of uniform.

  A sharp knocking sounded at his door. He set the underwear back into the footlocker and stood up. Who could be coming to visit him? They were supposed to be getting some shuteye. General Ramsey said to be ready at seven a.m. Parker hated getting up early in the morning, and after the day’s excitement he knew waking up tomorrow would be difficult, tempered only by one thing: he was going to get one step closer to flying a real Go-Boy Battle-Suit.

  He reached for the doorknob, thinking it must be Bubba come to visit for a minute to trade insults about Colby. Or perhaps it was Sunny, come to give him another birthday kiss, one for the other cheek.

  The door opened and he saw neither the smiling face of Bubba nor the soft eyes of Sunny. Before him stood a short, thin, greenish-blue alien with big black eyes and a small mouth.

  Parker gasped. He took a few steps backward. He thought of screaming, of crying out, calling for help, calling for Bubba. But he didn’t. He looked at the little alien and his fear slowly subsided. Though the large head was out of proportion with the body and the eyes out of proportion with the face, Parker found the creature had a kindness to him. Parker had the distinct impression the alien was smiling. As they looked at each other, Parker’s apprehension faded altogether. This was the same little man he’d seen piloting the flying saucer in the massive hangar.

  “Hello,” said the little man. His voice was soft and warm, inviting.

  “Um, hi,” said Parker.

  “May I come in? The ice cream is melting.”

  “Um, sure.” Parker stepped aside and the little man entered. He wore a snug black bodysuit that clung to his petite body, complete with attached booties and a high neck. In his hands he held a white bowl of pink ice cream.

  “I brought you strawberry. That is your favorite, isn’t it?”

  “Um, sure.”

  “General Ramsey would not have chosen you for this mission were you not able to say anything other than ‘um, sure.’”

  Parker realized he was indeed stammering. “Right.”

  “It’s not exactly Shakespeare or Glufferbishnit, but it’s a start.”

  “Glufferbishnit?”

  “She was a creator where I come from. The greatest who ever lived,” said the little alien. “I’ll let you read some of her works sometime. Only a few of her greatest works have been translated into English, but it’ll give you a sense of the power of her talent. Would you like some strawberry ice cream? My hands are getting cold.”

  “Um, sure,” said Parker, before realizing he was stammering again. He reached out and took the bowl. He held it in his hands and stared mutely at the little alien.

  “Everything okay?” asked the alien.

  “Um, su–” he stopped himself, then said, “Actually, no. To be honest, everything is most definitely not okay.”

  “Things always look their worst on an empty stomach. You didn’t eat much at dinner.”

  “How do you know what I ate at dinner?” asked Parker. “How do you know I like strawberry ice cream? And why are you bringing it to the Barracks? General Ramsey specifically said chow is not allowed in the Barracks. And who are you, exactly?”

  “Those are all excellent questions, Parker. That’s good. As Morra Glufferbishnit herself once said, ‘Sthe-ah emrbpo tahrbpoke ohpoke-oo thtdeme oo-eee-oolpemrbk.’”

  Parker listened in utter amazement as the little alien spoke his native language. It had a clicky sing-song cadence to it. “What does that mean?” he asked.

  “Roughly translated, it means ‘Brilliant minds ask simple questions.’ As for your first question, I knew your feelings when you opened the door. I therefore knew you were hungry and had therefore not eaten much at dinner. As for the strawberry ice cream, it’s my favorite so, actually, I guessed it might be your favorite, too. I’m bringing it to the Barracks so you can eat it in your room where you can have some peace and quiet and hopefully regain your appetite.”

  “But General Ramsey said—”

  “I know what General Ramsey said,” said the alien. “Don’t worry about General Ramsey. What General Ramsey doesn’t know won’t hurt you.” Parker had to admit he liked this logic. “Besides,” the alien continued, “you won’t last long flying Go-Boy on an empty stomach. Ice cream is high in calories and it tastes good. And this is all natural, no corn syrup or artificial things. It’s the perfect treat for a finicky appetite. It’s quite a delicacy where I come from.”

  “Where do you come from? And who are you?”

  “I was getting to that. My name is Carl. I am from a planet much like Earth but a great distance from here.”

  “Your name’s Carl? Is that your real name?” It seemed . . . ordinary.

  “When I’m here on Earth it is. Back home everyone calls me Itlemrb. But I like Carl better. Why do you ask if it’s my real name? Is something wrong with Carl?”

  “Uh, no, nothing is wrong with Carl,” said Parker. “It’s just kinda weird. For an alien, I mean.”

  “You don’t like it?” asked Carl. “Does it mean something silly or disgusting? Is it a girl’s name? Because as you can see I am clearly not female. I don’t understand why no one told me when I picked ‘Carl’ that it meant something silly or disgusting or feminine.” Carl took short little paces around the tiny room as he spoke.

  Parker stood there, holding a freezing bowl of strawberry ice cream and racking his brain for a means by which he could convince a neurotic alien named Carl that the name ‘Carl’ was an honorable and respectable or at least perfectly normal name on Earth. It wasn’t as common as John or Joe but it was all right as names go. He wished Bubba were here. Sunny, too. They’d get a real kick out of this. Bubba would enjoy the strawberry ice cream and Sunny would be a more respectable, qualified person to interact with
a being from another planet. If Igby were here, he’d probably listen quietly because he was probably already friends with Carl, given their sharing of employment at Candyland. And Carl and Colby could perform Shakespeare or perhaps a play by that Morra Glufferbiscuit person, assuming plays were what she wrote.

  “Your name is fine,” said Parker. “It doesn’t mean anything silly or disgusting. And it’s definitely a man’s name. In fact, I think it is a very manly name. If I were an alien visiting Earth from another planet and I had to choose an Earthling name, I would definitely choose a name like ‘Carl.’”

  “Really?” asked Carl.

  “Absolutely.”

  “Oh, good. Here.” He held up a spoon.

  “How did you know I needed a spoon?” asked Parker. He took the spoon.

  “As I said before, I can sense your emotions. I sensed longing mixed with anxiety. I assumed a spoon was the logical solution to such emotions when holding a bowl of strawberry ice cream.”

  “Thanks,” said Parker. He dipped the spoon into the ice cream and tasted it. It was cold and creamy, sweet and fruity, and absolutely delicious. He felt the tiny strawberry seeds in his mouth and he crunched them between his teeth. “Do you want to share?”

  “No, thank you,” said Carl. “I’ve eaten three gallons of it so far today.”

  “Three gallons!” exclaimed Parker. “Who eats three gallons of ice cream in one day? Not even Bubba could do that.”

  “As I said, strawberry ice cream is a delicacy where I come from. Ever since the Roswell crash back in 1947.”

  Parker stared blankly at Carl, a spoonful of ice cream seemingly stuck in his mouth.

  “I see by the knit of your brow and the slight dilation of your pupils that you have no idea what I’m talking about,” said Carl.

  Parker put the spoon back in the bowl and swallowed the cold, smooth ice cream. “You’re talking about the UFO that crashed in Roswell, New Mexico. Actually, I know all about it from a science project Bubba and I did last year on sub-space quarks and the potentiality of interstellar binaries. At least, that was the topic of the report. We ended up doing a presentation on unidentified flying objects. Our teacher said our presentation was inane and off-topic. We got a ‘D.’ But me and Bubba – I mean Bubba and I – didn’t care because we had fun and everyone said our presentation was the best. Anyway, supposedly a ship crashed with three aliens on board. Only two survived and were taken to the nearby military base, where they later died, too. Or it was just a military weather balloon, like the Air Force said.”

  “No,” said Carl, “it was no weather balloon. A passing ship experienced a malfunction. The pilot did some pretty fancy flying and managed to get her ship to Earth. Despite her valiant efforts, it crashed in the desert. Sadly, she perished. The other two travelers were indeed taken to the base. They were treated for their injuries and eventually regained their health. During that time, they were studied and questioned by people from your government and the governments of your allies. They shared much of our technology with you and quite by accident were given strawberry ice cream. Eventually they were picked up by a passing freighter and returned to our home planet, along with their deceased pilot. The freighter was loaded with a vast supply of strawberry ice cream. The two star travelers are credited with introducing the delicacy to our people. An epic tale was composed, celebrating the event. Strawberry ice cream is highly sought-after, for it is pleasing not only to the palette but also to the mind and body. Of all the UFOs spotted here on Earth since that time, most of them are travelers from my planet visiting Earth to enjoy a nice bowl of strawberry ice cream. Some of us like ice cream cones or milkshakes. But mostly it’s enjoyed all by itself.”

  “You guys come all this way just for strawberry ice cream?” asked Parker.

  “Sure. It’s a relatively short ride from my galaxy to your Milky Way Galaxy.” Carl stopped and grinned, covering his mouth with his long spindly fingers.

  “What’s so funny?” asked Parker.

  “Forgive me. It’s just that my people find it so funny that your Milky Way Galaxy is named after one of the key ingredients in the strawberry ice cream that is so treasured by us.” Carl’s smile dried up suddenly and he spoke with great respect. “Without Earth and her inhabitants, we would not be where we are today.”

  “Us?” said Parker. “What do you need us for? Can’t you make strawberry ice cream on your planet? And by the way, is it all flavors of ice cream you guys like so much or is it just strawberry?”

  “No, it is thus far only strawberry. To date, we have tested twenty-seven-thousand, four-hundred eighty-two flavors in all. Next Friday we’re testing the twenty-seven thousand, four-hundred eighty-third. Someone told me it’s chocolate-covered cactus flavor but she was wrong last time about the barbecue-flavored cotton candy so I guess we’ll just have to wait and see. It’s downstairs on Level Nine, one floor above the Restricted Area. You should come along. Last time there was karaoke. I do a decent rendition of Transcendental Tal’s song “Flower Child.” I love that song. There was something special about America in the 1960s. I wish I could have visited Earth then. Or perhaps I’m giving in to the tendency to romanticize the past.” Carl looked off into space.

  Parker had the distinct impression Carl was remembering something with a bittersweet fondness. Similar emotions rose within himself, heartache by proximity, perhaps, and he found himself reliving the last time he visited Central Park, before The Attack, before he and his dad moved to Sky City South. When his mom was still alive . . .

  A perfect spring day in New York. Bright sunshine and a cool breeze. Dad and I assemble the kite while mom unpacks lunch. I hold the kite while dad holds the string. I throw it in the air and he runs backward, then trips and falls on his butt. Mom laughs but pretends it was a sneeze. Dad gets up and we try again. This time he doesn’t fall down, and the kite takes flight. He lets out more and more string, then hands me the spool. The wind falters and the kite dips. He shows me how to pull on the string to make the kite fly again. Cucumbers on my sandwich. White geese gliding on the pond. Mom and dad holding hands. All of us together. And cucumbers on my sandwich.

  “But that was a long time ago,” said Carl, and Parker sensed him trying to shake off the bitterness of his own memory. Flying the kite that day in Central Park did indeed seem long ago. Yet he remembered it like it was yesterday. That was the funny thing about loss; the timelessness of it.

  “As I was saying,” said Carl, “the reason we need you is twofold. First, we need Earth because strawberry ice cream contains milk, as I stated earlier. Milk is a key ingredient in strawberry ice cream. And because the proper milk comes only from cows and cows come only from Earth, we are dependent upon you.”

  Parker wondered if there were cows on Carl’s planet, wearing four-legged space suits, chewing their grass and cud and mooing inside big bubble helmets. That would be a funny sight.

  “No, cows can’t live on our planet and, yes, that would be funny,” said Carl. “As I was about to say, my new friend, the second and most important reason is because my people are indebted to you. If not for you and the discovery of strawberry ice cream, we would not be where we are today. For that, we will be grateful beyond the span of time.”

  “Wow,” said Parker, “I had no idea. Guess I should have been eating strawberry ice cream instead of chocolate.”

  “Not to worry,” replied Carl, “that just means more strawberry for me.”

  “But how can you eat three gallons in one day?” asked Parker. “Doesn’t it make you sick? Me and Bubba and Sunny— oops, I did it again and Sunny hates bad grammar. I meant to say Sunny, Bubba, and I once entered an ice cream eating contest they had at The Cloud Deck and even Bubba could only eat about a gallon before he got sick.”

  “The strawberry ice cream caused illness?” asked Carl.

  Parker smirked. “Yeah, you could say that. There was a line for the bathroom so Bubba ran to the elevator but there was a line there too so he bar
fed in a potted plant. Sandy was kinda p.o.’d but later said the plant grew almost three inches that week and that Bubba could have free ice cream for life. I remember that every time I walk past that pot. It always makes me laugh. I was there this morning, as a matter of fact, before I saw Sandy on my way to meet Bubba. She looked tired. I think the war is getting to her. Sometimes I think I still see bits of pink stuff in the pot.”

  “Fascinating,” said Carl. “Absolutely fascinating.”

  “Sunny thought so, too. She even took a soil sample from the plant to send to some botanical research lab in California.”

  “And what did they find?”

  “Nothing,” said Parker. “Sunny’s mom thought the pink soil sample was a new kind of shampoo and washed her hair with it. So Sunny never mailed it.”

  “Fascinating,” said Carl. “What happened when Sunny’s mom discovered the true nature of her shampoo?”

  “Nothing. Sunny never told her. Her mom was so happy that her hair was so soft and smelled like fresh strawberries that Sunny didn’t have the heart to tell her.”

  “Fascinating. Not only is it an invaluable element in the evolution of my people but it also makes excellent shampoo. Should I ever grow body hair I’ll remember the cleansing properties of strawberry ice cream.”

  Parker took another bite of his ice cream but having just recounted the potted plant episode, as it had come to be known, seemed to have left him with little appetite for it. He saw Carl looking on happily and smiled, pretending to enjoy the ice cream.

  “You best try to get some sleep,” said Carl. “General Ramsey and his team will be putting each of you through the wringer tomorrow, so you’ll want to have all your faculties. It is an honor and a privilege to make your acquaintance, Parker Perkins. I look forward to speaking with you again soon. Good night and slo-fee poke distee-umblupoke. Which means, ‘never quit and never lose hope.’” Carl turned and reached for the door handle. “I’ll be in my room.”

  “Your room? Where’s your room?”

  “At the end of the hall. About ten feet from here. If you find you have a question or need anything, just think real, real loud. If I don’t respond, it may be I’m distracted by another gallon of ice cream, so please feel free to pay me a visit.”

  “I have one more question,” said Parker. “What brand of ice cream is your absolute favorite?”

  “Why, Parker,” replied Carl, “have we not been discussing strawberry ice cream all this time?”

  “Of course we have,” said Parker. “I want to know your favorite brand. You know, who makes it? Can I get it at the store?”

  “Yes, you can get it at the store, Parker,” replied Carl.

  “Is it . . .” Parker hesitated to ask. The thought of having eaten secret alien food all these years loomed in his mind. “Is it Alien Ice Cream? Like Bubba suggested this morning?”

  Carl grinned again, broadly. And this time he didn’t try to conceal his smile. “Of course it is.”

  “I knew it!” cried Parker, “I just knew it. All these years. All these years I’ve been eating Alien Ice Cream. Bubba, too. And we even managed to turn Sunny on to it.”

  “After the Roswell incident,” explained Carl, “a company was set up to make the ice cream and prepare it for shipment to my planet. The ice cream was called Alien Ice Cream as a kind of inside joke. Sometimes the obvious truth offers the best disguise.”

  “It makes perfect sense,” said Parker.

  “What makes perfect sense?” asked Carl.

  “The ice cream. You. This place. Everything.” Parker grinned. “My mom always said everything happens for a reason. I just realized the reason I like Alien Ice Cream is so you and I would have something in common when we met. Tonight.”

  Carl grinned back at Parker.

  “That makes perfect sense,” said Parker.

  “Indeed it does,” agreed Carl. “Indeed it does.”

  Neither of them spoke.

  “You best get to bed,” said Carl, breaking the silence. “I won’t be sleepy for another month or so but I’ll be in my room if you need me. Just think real loud.”

  “You’re not going to sleep for a month? Do you have imsomineeuh?” asked Parker. “Sunny’s mom has that. Ever since Sunny’s brother was killed. She hasn’t slept more than a couple hours at a time for almost a year. Sunny thinks that’s why the house is so clean.”

  “You must mean insomnia. And no, I do not now nor have I ever suffered from anything remotely resembling a sleep disorder. You see, one day on my planet equals nearly three months on Earth. So every three Earth months I go to sleep. I sleep four to six weeks and wake up again. Compared to most of my race, I sleep sixteen days, nine hours, thirty-eight minutes and seventeen-point-four-five-six-six-seven seconds less than average. Which makes me a rather light sleeper.”

  “Fascinating,” said Parker. “So what does everyone here at Candyland do while they’re waiting for you to wake up? How do they test the flying saucer I saw downstairs if you’re up here sawing logs?”

  “Sawing logs?” asked Carl. “I’m asleep, Parker, not practicing being a lumberjack.”

  “Sorry,” said Parker, “figure of speech. I meant while you are asleep.”

  “I assume they wait,” said Carl. “I’m asleep so I don’t really know what goes on. Sometimes I return home to my planet to sleep.”

  “What’s the name of your planet?”

  “If I told you the name of my planet, you’d be able to find it on a star map. If you found it on a star map, you’d want to travel there.”

  “Of course I would. What’s wrong with that?”

  “Nothing is wrong with that. It’s simply that you’re needed here, on Earth.”

  “Oh. I guess you’re right. But what if . . . .” I’m not good enough? What if I fail? He couldn’t bring himself to actually say the words.

  “What if you’re not good enough?” asked Carl. “Is that what you were about to say? What if you fail?”

  Parker nodded. He was amazed Carl had read his mind. But he also felt completely pathetic.

  “Failure is not an option, Parker,” said Carl. “I know that’s a cliché, an overused expression of might and bravado. But never before in the history of your planet and its people has it been more true. I’m sorry to be the one to have to tell you this. But this isn’t just a really cool secret government military base where you’re going to get to fly a real Go-Boy Battle-Suit. This is serious. For you. For your friends. For your dad, whom I know you love and miss dearly. This is serious for all of us. Even for me. I love your planet and its people. In all the galaxies I’ve explored, of the hundreds and hundreds of planets I’ve visited, never before have I encountered a more beautiful place inhabited by such brilliant and loving people. Yet not everyone on Earth feels this way. And they would seek to use Go-Boy Ultra to destroy that beauty and enslave the love of mankind. You can’t let that happen.”

  “I still don’t understand why it has to be me,” said Parker. “Can’t you do something? You have that flying saucer upstairs. Why can’t you go after Dr. Red?”

  “Even if I had weapons here, your people would never allow me to use them. Nor would mine. It would inevitably be seen as an attack by me upon Earth. It would be seen as an act of war. That is the opposite of why I am here. This problem must be handled by humans. And they’ve chosen you.”

  “Don’t you understand?” pleaded Parker. “I can’t do this. I know I said I could but I can’t.”

  “Parker, you’re the only one who can. Goodnight.”

  Carl turned and left, closing the door softly behind him. Parker set the bowl of mostly melted ice cream on the small desk and climbed up onto one of the top bunks. He lay back on the pillow and folded his hands across his chest. A thunderstorm of fear, pain, anger, and confusion rolled around inside him. Before even a single tear could flow down his face and drip onto his pillow, exhaustion claimed him. His eyes closed and he fell fast asleep.

  Chapter 9
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  Don’t Sweat the Small Stuff