You and Keefe were the best of friends for as long as you could remember. You had even planned out your future together. You two spent every possible moment together, and usually documented it on an old camera Keefe's father gave him.

At the moment, you two were in a Wendy's parking lot, eating frosties and laughing at a joke Keefe made. This was one of the moments you documented. The camera sat on the dashboard, pointing at the both of you.

Then the song on the radio cut out as a blaring alarm rang outside. "Attention," a voice on the radio said. "We interrupt this segment to deliver an urgent message. In T-minus one hour, we shall be engaging in nuclear warfare."

You both gasp and look at each other, terrified expressions on both your faces.

The message continues, "Get to a safe place underground as soon as possible."

Keefe recovers before you do, putting his frosty in a cup holder and starting the car. He pulls out of the parking lot and onto the main road. The road is crowded and everyone—including him—are going fast.

"Search where the nearest bunker or bomb shelter or something is," he says, gripping the wheel so tight, his knuckles go white.