One of the would-be cannibals/road bandits/Mad Max enthusiasts had taken upon himself to incorporate the business end of a push broom, mounted hat-wise, into his post-nuclear wardrobe. As I put him between Bessy’s iron-sights I felt that since his mohawk was artificial, I was at least obligated to shoot someone.
The powerful .303 round took the hat clean off his head, leaving him intact but throwing him backward with the force of a linebacker.
His two friends, brought back to the reality of projectile weapons and the fun they bring to a confrontation, dropped their home-brewed weapons and sprinted away. Junior and I watched them go as they tore opposite paths through the ashen waste.
Looking up at the school, I could see it was worse for wear – windowless and heavily sandblasted, but still whole.
We walked up to the third bandit, who was trying to convince himself that his head was actually still attached and not a dissipating pink mist. I put a boot squarely on his chest.
“Does this place have an A/V Room?

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