Once again we headed for the front door. It was completely blocked by the people. My oldest two let out a war cry and began throwing people away from the door until the way was clear. The three of them broke through the screen door and headed for the car. I turned in the doorway to look back into my living room. There were people lying about everywhere but they were getting up. The people I'd shot were coming out of the hallway. I looked at all the family photos on the far living room wall. I couldn't believe I had to leave them behind. I just knew the people would destroy them along with everything else.
The kids were already in the car and had started it. On my way across the lawn I saw several of the people pushing a gurney up the drive. They were carting away the girl I'd pushed down on the front steps. She rolled over and gaped at me with wide eyes. She screamed, "You will pay for this!" I flipped her off and instantly felt the foolishness of it. If these people couldn't be killed, they probably couldn't be insulted either.
I turned toward the car and was aghast. It wasn't my Durango, but instead a beat-to-shit 1977 Monte Carlo. It was missing, blowing blue smoke, and pinging. It must've belonged to the people and they must've stolen my Durango away. Whatever. It was our only way out.
The kids and I drove down the street, slowly but surely. The car backfired several times, and with that last backfire I woke up from this horrible dream to hear more backfiring from the car outside my bedroom window. Like any good mother, I surveyed the house, checking to make sure the kids were okay and that there were no other people anywhere around. The phone rang. For a moment I was frozen in place. I shook it off and answered the phone. My husband was calling to tell me he'd landed in D.C. and would call later with the phone number of his hotel room. I didn't say anything at first. "You okay?" he asked. I told him I'd had a bad dream, that was all.