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patchwork up with about seven layers of medical tape to make sure that it didn’t move.
    By this time, I had calmed down a lot. I was still anxious, but my breathing had steadied and I wasn’t shaking as badly. I crossed over the debris in the hallway and went to my room to grab some fresh clothes. After that, I got Dave’s gun and stuffed it in my pants. I still hadn’t reached pure survival mode yet. I didn’t bother checking how many rounds I had, nor did I look for more ammunition. This is usually the part in the movies where someone yells, “Grab the rifles and all the ammo you can carry!”
    Unfortunately, this was reality. There was no way I could have foreseen what the world was turning into. I had one thing on my mind: Go to where the help was. I thought that somewhere there had to be somebody in charge. What Dave was trying to tell me before still hadn’t completely sunk in. When 911 doesn’t answer, no one is coming to help you.  Chances are there is no where you can go for help, either. You’re on your own. But I hadn’t evolved to that level of survival yet.
    My shoulder was really starting to pulsate with pain.  Any motion with my left arm was met with sharp and reverberating stabs of agony.  I grabbed a long sleeved shirt out of my closet and made a half-assed sling to cradle it.
    I started thinking about where the FEMA camps could be.  There were schools everywhere, but they would have to set up in a large field.  That meant high schools and middle schools, probably Eastern Florida State College, too.  The closest one I could think of was Palm Bay High School.  It was about four or five miles northeast of where I lived, just over and across the highway.
    I scrambled for my car keys and walked by Dave’s room one more time.  He was still lying there, motionless.  I was relieved that I couldn’t see his face.  I thought I had just killed my best friend of ten years. 
    “I’m sorry,” I whispered to him, and then darted out the door.

Chapter 3
    There and Back Again
    March 20 th   Morning
     
                  Outside, I immediately noticed some of the sounds had died down.  That car alarm was still going off, but I didn’t hear any traffic in the distance and the far off gunfire was much more sporadic.  I shut the door behind me and saw little reason to lock it as I headed to my car.
                  I started to open the car door when I noticed something across the street.  Our neighbor, John, was standing in his bay window, blankly staring out into the street. 
    I didn’t know many people in our neighborhood, nor did I care to, but John seemed like a pretty good guy.  I’m pretty sure he was over fifty and had kids my age.  He was a big, burly man with long curly hair and a handle bar mustache. Most weekends I would see him in his garage, working diligently on his Harley.  The appliance repair business he owned was doing well, and I knew he was near retirement.  We regularly chitchatted near the mailbox.  On more than one occasion, he came over to help us fix grandma’s old dryer.  He had a lot of personality, and I always enjoyed our conversations.
    John was just standing there, wavering slowly back and forth.  I couldn’t get a good look at him because the shadow of a large oak in his front yard darkened the window.  I briskly crossed the street and called out his name.  I knew he had a gun or two, and didn’t want him thinking I was a looter.  I figured he probably heard the gunshots at our house as well, and was looking for nearby thieves. 
    I needed someone to tell the truth to.  I wasn’t a murderer. I wanted John to see the scene so that when everything went right again, he could tell people of my innocence.  Slowly, he turned to face me just as I stepped onto his front yard.
    When I reached the cover of the tree’s shadow, John’s image cleared up.  He was standing there, shirtless and covered in red.  Thick blood surrounded his