Jason, still in his insulated one piece, grabbed his rifle and headed for the roof again.  I opened my window once more, and took a deep breath.  John came up behind me and said, “Don’t hesitate, just shoot.  There’s no one left to hurt except those that deserve it.”  And he took up his position in the other room.

Five more Wheelers came roaring down our quiet road; unknown to us, four more continued on into Moose Creek.  They drove the RV’s around the other machines and the bodies on the ground.  And we started picking them off, although they shot back, the Militia from Midway had followed them; and once Paul saw the tracks pull into my road he knew they had them.  My road is a loop, the Wheelers didn’t know this.  Half of our Militia went to the other end and boxed them in.  One of the Wheelers raised his hands in surrender, but we weren’t taking prisoners.

I lost a few windows, but it was over in a matter of minutes.  At least this skirmish was over, and no one else was hurt.  There were now nineteen dead Wheelers, two men from town, and my brother and his wife.  But things weren’t over yet.

Paul and Donna climbed out of their new scout car, weapons drawn.  The road was a mess with bodies and 4 wheelers, some of the machines overturned, a few still running.  One of those laying on the ground moved, twitched; Paul walked over and silenced him.

“Deborah?  Are you guys okay?” Donna called out nervously.  Paul continued walking among the dead, counting it seemed.

I grabbed my jacket and stepped out the door, glass crunching underfoot. “We here are alright, but my brother…………… they’re both dead,” I choked on that word: Dead.  It just didn’t seem real, not yet anyway.

“Donna!” Paul called out.  “We’ve got a problem.”  He made his way back to where we were standing.  “I count nine here, plus the ten in Midway.  We’re missing five of these scumbags.  We need to get into Moose Creek, pronto.”  He turned to me, “I’m leaving two pickups here, plus Vinnie and Josh, to help get these pieces of crap off the road.  They’ll just push the machines off to the side and deal with them later if that’s ok.”

“Go take care of the town Paul, we’ll finish up here.” I gazed out at the road.  I don’t think I have ever seen that many dead in one place.  Come to think of it, I’ve only seen one other dead body; that brought a fresh sense of loss, when I mentally corrected that number to three.

The Moose Creek Militia caught up to the Wheelers at Fram’s where they were attempting to take gas.  Only Fram’s wasn’t open, they had shut down understanding the possibility of the situation.  The pumps didn’t work without the generator running the power.  The Wheelers were frustrated and there was no one to bully or force to do their will.  Not until Marilyn Hapson made the mistake of pulling into the parking lot.  The five prisoners, now grubby from days of travel and creating havoc on unsuspecting locals, turned to big blue pick-up truck.

As Marilyn got out of the driver’s door, much to the dismay of Pastor Carolyn who was riding shotgun, she also took with her Rob’s 12 gauge shot gun.  Marilyn didn’t have the same reservations as Rob did about a loaded gun in the car, and she didn’t see any reason to keep it in the backseat either.

One of the prisoners smiled and started walking toward them, hands open and showing empty.

“Lovely lady, perhaps you can help us. My friends and I here are just trying to purchase some gas so we can get back home, but the pumps don’t seem to be working,” his gait was slow but steady, maintaining eye contact with Marilyn, who swung the shot gun up to firing position.  “You won’t need that, we mean you no harm,” he kept coming.  When he reached what Marilyn guessed to be ten feet away, she fired, not only knocking him off his feet, but blasting him fifteen feet backward, just as the Militia arrived.  Later, when asked why she waited so long, Marilyn admitted she was a terrible shot, and just wanted to make sure she didn’t miss.

The remaining four prisoners we had been calling The Wheelers, surrendered.  Rising from behind their stalled machines, they raised their hands in defeat.  Donna raised her freshly loaded shotgun, while Paul stepped closer.  The various vehicles belonging to the other members of the newly formed force came to a stop; the men and women emptied into the parking lot, creating a seemingly impenetrable line of rifles, shotguns and handguns.  One at a time, the prisoners dropped to their knees and assumed a well-rehearsed position:  face down, arms out spread, ankles crossed.

Paul stepped even closer.  “We don’t have a judge here in this little town, so you four are stuck with me, and I find you guilty.” At which point he shot each of them in the back of the head.

The men and women of the Moose Creek Militia were stunned into silence, but only momentarily.  From in their midst, Beamer started to clap, soon everyone was applauding and whooping it up.

Paul sat in the passenger seat in the cab of the flatbed truck, with Bob Lickin at the wheel, on the radio with Sheriff Lacey.

“Sheriff, I’m not asking if you will take these prisoners back, I’m asking where you want them,” Paul listened for a minute.  “No you don’t understand!  We will not keep these bodies.” There was a short pause.  “Yes, bodies.  Every last one of those scum are dead.  We lost four good people in Moose Creek, plus whoever these guys killed along the way, and it was a unanimous vote that we will not keep them.  If you don’t tell me where to take them, Bill, I’m going to dump them right here and right now.”

Moose Creek now has a reputation, and we’re pretty much left alone.