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My Michelins smoked as I squealed out of the gas station. There was a thunk as I drove over the Diesel sign, a 1 and 4 flying off to my left, a 5 and 99 to my right. I didn’t hear any more shots, but I wasn’t taking any chances. I sped towards Lisa’s house hoping she would know what was happening. Horns honked as I weaved between Hondas and Toyotas. Every driver wore a vest.

As I pulled up in front of Lisa’s house I heard the echo of distant gunshots. A man walked by across the street with an M-16 in his hands. I waited until he was gone and raced to Lisa’s door. I held down the doorbell button while I wailed away on the door. There was a startled crash inside, followed by loud cursing that easily drowned out the doorbell.

The door opened and I was relieved to see Lisa wasn’t wearing a bulletproof vest. But she was wearing a strange, bulky bodysuit. Without a word she grabbed my wrist and pulled me inside. “What’s going on?” she asked, loudly. All I could get out was, “What’s that you’re wearing?” She gave me a little half smile, spun around, and asked me what I thought. She told me it was the latest thing; it could stop a 45-caliber bullet without even leaving a bruise.

“What is going on?” I yelled.

She stared at me blankly. I told her about what happened at the gas station, the bulletproof vests, and the man with the M-16. She stared at me for a short while and said “So? Oh, you forgot your vest! Here, take my old one.” And pulled a bullet scarred vest out of the closet. I couldn’t help but ask how many times she had been shot, and why. She looked at me strangely and said I should go home and sleep it off.

I threw up my hands in frustration and put on the vest, shrugged my jacket on over it, and got back in my car. I shook my head as I waited for a Caravan, with a 50-caliber machine gun on top, to drive by. I sped home as quickly as I’d come. A BMW riddled with bullet holes was sitting outside my neighbor’s house.

I locked my car, ran into my house, and locked it up tight. Without bothering to take off my jacket, I dove into bed. I couldn’t get the line, “There’s no place like home” out of my head. Finally, I fell asleep.

Lisa woke me up the next day. She looked worried. “Are you all right? You were acting pretty strange last night.”

“Uh, yeah, I think so.” I said. Everything looked normal. It must have been a dream! I told her all about it.

“You sure have a good imagination!” she said when I was finished.

We both laughed while I climbed out of bed. I was so relieved it was a dream; it had seemed so real. Of course it had to have been a dream. Nothing that strange could be real.

I realized I was still wearing my jacket so I took it off. Lisa’s face suddenly froze in a shocked expression. I asked her what was wrong. She had trouble speaking at first, then asked, “Why are you wearing a bulletproof vest?”

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This was the eleventh assignment in a creative writing class I took several years ago. I don't remember what the assignment was. I liked my Strangeness story so much that I jumped at a chance to continue it. It gets kind of Twilight Zone in this one, which is what I wanted. ;)