Hashtag Dad Jokes

Pitch dark. Black. Empty.

Aware only of his existence, Finian floated. Suspended in whatever this was or is or might be, he tried to speak, to yell even. Nothing. His attempts to do anything at all: yell, flail, see, hear - anything that might prove he was something more than this “nothingness” pervading his entire being - proved fruitless, save for a list of failures and falsified theories. It was as if he had ascended to a higher plane of existence, but was the only one who had discovered the process. He could think, but nothing else. So, he did the only thing that was allowed. He let his mind wander through its corridors, back alley ways, into rooms it did not even know it had and then, finally, it made the long trip back to the foyer. Finishing, Finian felt confident - perhaps for the first time since he had awakened - that this was going to be a very long eternity.

From some distant point in this endless sea of desolate emptiness, however, an otherworldly sound - imperceptible at first - began slowly meandering its way through his ear canal and into his brain. Unable to clear his mind of its persistent fog, Finian could do nothing as this - “wistful echo of something from another life maybe” - continued to bore itself deeper, getting louder until, finally: “In The Mood by Glenn Miller”, he thought, as a string of memories flooded over him. “Perfect. Just what I needed in this, my moment of existential crisis”, he quipped.

That “moment”, which started as an eternity, quickly eroded, however, as colors began materializing. Confused, Finian could do nothing but comply, as blurs of color began to coalesce into shapes and patterns and then actual objects. Like a locomotive, everything smashed into his senses at once - music, people, atmosphere, the smell of recirculated air, the realization that he was not alone. He was at a party - his party. “You alright, Fin”, a female voice asked kindly. “You went topside on me for a second there”.

“I must’ve spaced out”, thought Finian, turning to her as his eyes focused. A concerned half-smile was all he received in return.

Shaking his head, Fin repeated himself - remembering he could speak. Massaging his neck, while attempting to clear his mind, the fog slowly ebbed.

“It’s ok, I guess. I know how this ‘pomp and circumstance’,” she playfully air quoted, “must feel to you, but it really is a big deal! You landed the dream job; you get to go topside - OUTSIDE - and then you get to come back and tell me ALL about it”, she ended, with a soft nudge.

“Yeah, but how safe is it really, Sarah? Most scouting parties never come back, and those that do, well, let’s just say they aren’t ‘quite the same’, are they”, Fin air quoted, mockingly. “I know becoming a Peacekeeper was what I’ve wanted since we were kids. Hell, it’s what I wanted when I sat in this chair an hour ago! But, now that it’s happened, I’m more scared than anything.”

He paused for a minute, clearly deep in thought. “What if I go out there,” Fin started earnestly, “and never come back? What if whatever’s out there is worse than we all thought? What if I never get to see you again?”

He could tell Sarah’s wheels were turning, as her face ran the gamut of emotions - grasping for the right words to say - but, eventually, her expression evened, she gave a large exhale, and flipped her wrist in dismissal. “Too many ‘what-ifs’, too much doom-and-gloom, and too much …’loser talk’, Sarah whispered into Fin’s ear with a wry smile and air quotes… for a man with your body, and not enough smiles and drinking! Drink up, buttercup, and forget about all that for ONE NIGHT! Be that happy-go-lucky man I married six months ago; be the ‘hashtag Dad Joke’ man of cheese that I have come to love so very much,” Fin’s wife said, giving him butterfly kisses. “I’ll get us both another drink.” Sarah chuckled drunkenly as she stood, finishing with a flirty punch to his right arm, a slight stumble, and coyly sashaying toward the side door. She was off to the bar, again, “and why not - it was open for us, as graduates and ‘immediate family of the graduating party’”, he caught himself air quoting. “Plus,” Fin thought, “if they can keep us drunk enough to sign the papers, we can’t back out”.

“Speaking of,” he said, rolling his eyes and lifting his glass, “here’s to not getting eaten by whatever the hell is up there!”

As Finian sat there, listlessly sipping the last of his watered down bourbon, a different sound began creeping into the banquet hall. Just like the music from before, it started as a fleeting idea that slowly metamorphosed into something tangible. It had a different cadence than the lively music being articulated by the band; less metronomed and more free-form. To Finian, it had an archaic, death metal sound. While the noise grew, others rose up to match - creating a symphony of chaos and screams, destruction and gunfire. Quickly closing distance was a frantic attempt to control whatever was in the main hall, but the echo reverberating through the banquet room did not sound at all victorious. It became increasingly clear that something topside had found its way into the Vault.

“Sarah,” Fin yelled, to no avail. There was so much going on - the curdling screams of other vault occupants, and the gunfire growing ever closer - that his cries were lost in the surrounding commotion. Frantically searching the room with his eyes, he found nothing but panic. No wife. “Sarah,” he screamed once more, as he ran for the bar door - which, for all intents and purposes, appeared vacant. Still, he tried calling out to her. Nothing. Frustration and fear was met only by more confusion and madness, but he knew where she would go; knew she would try to get to their “secret place” in the observatory. However, judging by the sound of the ensuing battle, that was not safe. His heart pulled him toward uncertainty, however; toward what he could only picture was an untimely demise, but he could not sit idly by while their world collapsed around him. “Nothing matters but Sarah,” he thought, as he pushed past the endless throng of Vault occupants running through the halls. He repeated those words at every turn, creating a mantra to break through the fatigue his body was now angrily protesting.

The hallways grew less and less crowded, as most people were running further into the Vault instead of out. With less people, however, the signs of destruction grew more evident. Bloodied bodies of occupants, ripped to shreds by claws and bullets alike, littered the corridors. Blood was sprayed, splattered, streaked, and pooled everywhere, but it was not all human. Evidence of the Turned - those poor souls who could not afford a spot in the Vaults, but whom survived the initial fallout radiation - began mixing in with the detritus. Swirls of luminescent silver, in the pooled blood Fin was running through, splattered onto the downed occupants, causing their skin to slowly melt and give off nauseating fumes. Suddenly, Fin understood what the Peacekeepers were trying to do. Early on, during Academy, new recruits had the entire layout of the Vault engrained in their memory, as well as any choke points that could be accessed during a “final stand”. Sergeants drilled close quarters control, evasion, and retreat so hard that Fin still ran them in his sleep. They were trying to lead the enemy into the observatory, and close themselves in. It was the perfect plan to contain the threat, “however, it is a horrible plan for my Sarah to be a part of!”

Working through the list of monsters that inhabit topside, Finian was running completely on autopilot - his mind preparing itself for what was about to happen, once he reached the observatory steps. Turning the last corner, his body aching for rest and protesting his every move, his subconscious keyed in on something in the rubble. “They could be closing the doors any minute,” he muttered to himself, even though he no longer heard the reports of repeater rifles, or the sounds of inhabitants being torn in half by what he could only guess was a Naga Beast; no longer heard anything from the observatory hallway at all. “But this is too important not to investigate”. Retracing his now semi-glowing steps he rounded the corner, and it was unmistakeable what his subconscious had keyed in on: a gold plated, heart shaped locket - “that certainly bears the inscription ‘FnS 4eva’”. He knew it was a bit “old school” when he bought it all those years ago, and knew the inscription was dated - “4eva” having come in and out of fashion a few times since its inception. He could not, however, pass up the great opportunity to pull one of his, as Sarah had appropriately borrowed from the past and labeled, “hashtag dad jokes”. He did not even know what a “hashtag” was, but there it lay in a pool of fresh blood. His body reeled, both from his heart dropping into his boots, and the fact that this was the first time he had slowed down since the Banquet Hall.

He knew what it meant, and memories like infomercials reminded him of his evasion training, but it no longer mattered. He yelled at the top of his lungs, clutching the locket to his chest, as hot tears poured down his face. He knew what he would attract; knew what that meant, but he wanted nothing more from this irradiated Earth than to be with her - to be with his Sarah.

Unlike the sounds before, this one was different. It was feeble, but sweet. “Fin,” he imagined it saying behind a door to his left, but again it spoke: “Fin”. Jumping at the door, he nearly rocked it off its hinges trying to get it opened. Though the swift steps of the Naga Beast echoed around the hallway, getting ever-closer; though he felt their rumble growing heavier in his feet, he did not care. Fin’s heart raced as he opened the door, his eyes focusing in the low light of the maintenance closet, and saw her - saw his Sarah - very much injured, but alive. Dropping to his knees in front of her, he heard the steps slow, smelled the hot sultry air of the Naga Beast as it billowed around his neck, and felt the droplets of saliva falling on his back - it found them. “You dropped something,” he said, shakily holding out his hand and letting the locket drop to the end of its chain. With both fear and acceptance in her eyes, she brought the locket back up to his hand and clutched them both, whispering, “I love you…James….”.The name came from her mouth, but it seemed far away. And again, slightly louder, to his confusion, “James…”. “James…”.

“James, baby, I need you to wake up”.

At once, everything came screaming back to him. He was upside down, but something was keeping him secured to his seat. “Is this for real” he thought, as droplets of something wet ran slowly up his back, and the pain of his “restraint” began setting in. The lights were blinding, but her voice was feeble yet sweet. “Baby, I need you to stay with me,” her voice strained, tears filling her eyes. “They are working to get you out.” Although his thoughts were a jumbled mess - not able to understand her meaning - he knew who she was. Around her neck was a heart shaped locket with the inscription “JnS 4eva”. He knew it was old school, and knew the inscription was dated, but he could not pass up the opportunity to pull one of his “hashtag dad jokes”…