There was a school rampage.  I was in the back of the car with someone, maybe my brother Stuart, when it started. Four people wanted to destroy everything.  They had machine guns.  During the shooting, bombs started to rain down from the sky.  The car provided ridiculously good shelter. We stayed crouched out of window view, and felt cold debris raining down stinging our backs.  Having our backs as the nearest body parts exposed may not have been the best idea, but we didn't have a lot of time to think.  Several times I felt the urge to raise my head and look.  We didn't know how close they were, and I thought we might be better off running if the opportunity arose.  But I knew better.  Spatters of blood came through the window.  At some point the firing finally ceased, and we managed to get out of the car- somehow, we got hold of three of the shooters.  There was a little boy named Blake on the other side of a cyclone fence.  I ran to him and told him to run and call the police; then I noticed I was standing right next to a payphone.  Blake came through.  The police came.  There was still one shooter loose, though.  I was very relieved when I saw my father amongst the scatter of people, and I ran to him.  He wore janitor's overalls and had a broom.  Upon reaching him, I faltered.  Was it really him?  It looked like him, but I wondered.  I gave up.  I was too relieved to care if it wasn't.  I hugged him.  My carelessness was unwise.  It was the fourth shooter.  I woke up.