Chapter 7: The Endless Jingle
Chapter 7: The Endless Jingle
The highway stretched endlessly before them, a ribbon of cracked asphalt cutting through the pre-dawn darkness. James had lost track of how long they'd been driving—hours, certainly, maybe longer. Time seemed to have lost all meaning since they'd fled their hometown, each mile marker blurring into the next as Kenny pushed the stolen ice cream truck through the night.
They'd switched drivers twice, pulling over at deserted rest stops to let exhaustion claim whoever wasn't behind the wheel. But sleep brought no peace—only nightmares filled with clicking legs and pink, pulsing cocoons. James had given up trying to rest, instead staring out at the passing landscape and trying to process the magnitude of what they'd witnessed.
"We need gas," Kenny said, his voice hoarse from hours of silence. "And food. Real food, not just the crap we grabbed from the gas station."
James checked the fuel gauge. The needle was hovering just above empty, and his stomach felt like it was eating itself from the inside. They'd been surviving on energy drinks and stale candy bars, too afraid to stop anywhere that might be... compromised.
"How far are we from home?" James asked, though he wasn't sure why it mattered. Home didn't exist anymore—not in any meaningful sense.
Kenny glanced at the road atlas spread across the dashboard. "Maybe sixty miles? We've been heading southeast, staying on the back roads." He rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. "I figure the farther we get from the mountains, the better our chances."
The logic made sense, even if it was based more on hope than evidence. The infection had started in their isolated community—or at least, that's where they'd first encountered it. Maybe distance would mean safety. Maybe they'd find a place untouched by the spreading plague.
A green highway sign appeared in their headlights: "Millbrook - 5 miles. Population 3,847."
"There," Kenny said, pointing at the sign. "Big enough to have supplies, small enough that we can get in and out fast."
James wanted to argue, wanted to suggest they keep driving until they found a major city with hospitals and government resources. But the truck was running on fumes, and they both looked like hell—dirty, exhausted, traumatized teenagers who would attract attention no matter where they went.
"Okay," he said finally. "But we're careful. In and out, no talking to locals, no drawing attention."
The exit ramp curved down into a valley, and Millbrook spread out before them in the early morning light. It was the kind of place that existed in a thousand variations across rural America—a main street lined with modest businesses, residential neighborhoods radiating outward in neat grids, farmland stretching toward the horizon.
It looked normal. Safe. Untouched by the horrors they'd left behind.
But as they drove down Main Street, James felt a familiar unease creeping up his spine. The town was too quiet for this time of morning. There should have been people heading to work, kids walking to school, the general bustle of a community starting its day. Instead, the streets were empty, the businesses dark.
"Maybe it's Sunday," Kenny suggested, but his voice lacked conviction.
They found a gas station on the edge of town—a small, independent place with hand-painted signs advertising bait and fishing licenses. Kenny pulled up to the pumps while James went inside to pay and grab supplies.
The store was cramped and cluttered, its shelves stocked with the kind of random merchandise that seemed to accumulate in small-town establishments over decades. An elderly man sat behind the counter, reading a newspaper and sipping coffee from a chipped mug.
"Morning," he said without looking up. "Pump four?"
"Yeah," James replied, grabbing a basket and moving toward the food aisles. "Pump four."
He filled the basket with bottled water, canned goods, and anything else that looked useful for life on the road. The normalcy of the transaction was almost overwhelming after the nightmare of the past few days. Just a teenager buying supplies at a gas station, paying with crumpled bills and making small talk with the clerk.
"Y'all passing through?" the old man asked as he rang up the purchases.
"Yeah, just traveling," James replied, not trusting himself to elaborate.
"Long way from home, I'd guess. You look tired."
James forced a smile. "Been driving all night."
The clerk nodded knowingly. "Well, you picked a good place to stop. Millbrook's a nice, quiet town. Nothing exciting ever happens here." He chuckled at his own joke. "Course, that's how we like it."
James paid for the gas and food, eager to get back on the road. But as he headed for the door, the clerk called after him.
"Hey, you might want to stick around for a bit. There's supposed to be some kind of festival today. Ice cream social, I think. The whole town's excited about it."
Ice cream social. The words hit James like a physical blow, and he had to grab the door frame to steady himself. "What... what kind of festival?"
"Oh, some vendor's been going around the region, organizing these community events. Real nice fellow, from what I hear. Got one of those old-fashioned trucks, plays music and everything." The clerk's eyes took on a dreamy quality. "Supposed to have the most amazing flavors. Real special stuff."
James's mouth went dry. "When... when is this happening?"
"Should be starting any time now. Town square, right in the center of things. You can't miss it."
James stumbled out of the store, his mind reeling. Kenny was still at the pump, but James could see his cousin's face had gone pale. Through the truck's open windows, he could hear it—faint but unmistakable.
The ice cream truck's jingle, drifting through the morning air like a funeral march.
"We have to go," James said, grabbing Kenny's arm. "Now. Right now."
But Kenny wasn't moving. He was staring down the street toward the town center, his eyes wide with a mixture of horror and fascination. "Look," he whispered.
James followed his gaze and felt his knees buckle.
People were emerging from the houses and businesses, moving with that same measured pace they'd seen in their hometown. Men in work clothes, women pushing strollers, children skipping alongside their parents—all of them converging on the town square with expressions of anticipation and joy.
And there, parked in the center of it all, was an ice cream truck identical to the one they'd stolen. Pristine white paint, colorful decals, and that same cheerful melody playing from hidden speakers.
A figure in a spotless white uniform stood beside the truck, serving treats to the gathering crowd. Even from this distance, James could see the man's perfect smile, could sense the hypnotic quality of his presence.
It wasn't the same Ice Cream Man they'd encountered—this was another one, another host for the spreading infection. But the scene was terrifyingly familiar: smiling families accepting pink cones from gloved hands, children laughing as they tasted flavors that would transform them into something inhuman.
"How many are there?" Kenny whispered.
James watched as more people joined the crowd, all of them eager to sample whatever delicacies were being offered. The vendor moved with mechanical efficiency, serving cone after cone of that familiar pink substance, his smile never wavering even as his customers began to change.
Some of the early arrivals were already showing signs of infection—the vacant stare, the too-perfect posture, the way they moved in subtle synchronization with each other. But the newcomers didn't notice, or if they did, they didn't care. The compulsion was too strong, the call too sweet to resist.
"We have to warn them," James said, taking a step toward the crowd.
Kenny grabbed his arm. "Warn them of what? Look at their faces, James. They're already gone."
It was true. Even the people who hadn't yet tasted the ice cream were moving with that same dreamy quality James had seen in his own town. The infection didn't require direct contact—it spread through proximity, through the very presence of the thing that wore human form.
"Then we run," James said. "We get as far away from here as possible."
But as they climbed back into their stolen truck, James realized the horrible truth that Kenny had already grasped. This wasn't an isolated incident. This was a pattern, a systematic conquest that was playing out across the entire region. Maybe the entire country.
They drove through empty streets toward the highway, passing house after house where no one answered their doors because everyone was at the festival. At the town square, the crowd had grown larger, and more ice cream trucks had arrived—a convoy of corruption spreading its sweet poison to anyone willing to accept it.
James counted at least five trucks before they lost sight of the town center, each one surrounded by eager customers who had no idea they were witnessing their own apocalypse.
"Where do we go now?" Kenny asked as they merged back onto the highway.
James stared at the road atlas, but the colored lines and numbered routes seemed meaningless now. Every town they might reach, every community that promised safety, could already be compromised. The infection was spreading faster than they could run, carried by those cheerful white trucks to every corner of the map.
"I don't know," he admitted. "Maybe nowhere is safe anymore."
Behind them, the sound of ice cream truck jingles grew fainter but never quite disappeared. The melody seemed to follow them like a curse, a constant reminder that they were alone in a world that was no longer entirely human.
As they drove toward an uncertain future, James couldn't shake the feeling that they were still playing their assigned role in someone else's plan. They were witnesses, carriers of the truth about what was coming. But truth without power to act on it was just another form of torture.
The sun climbed higher in the sky, burning away the morning mist and revealing a landscape that looked deceptively normal. But James knew better now. Beneath the veneer of small-town America, something alien was taking root, spreading from community to community with the patience of a species that thought in geological time.
The ice cream trucks would keep coming, and people would keep gathering to sample their wares, and the infection would keep spreading until there was nothing left of the world they'd once known.
All they could do was run, and hope that somewhere ahead lay a place the trucks hadn't reached yet.
But deep down, James suspected that place didn't exist.
The jingle followed them into the distance, sweet and eternal and utterly inescapable.
Characters

James

Kenny
