“Now I’m going to show you how to load the clip,” he says. “You slide the bullets in this way, one at a time.” He demonstrates by doing the first one, and then he hands me the clip and a bullet. “You try it.”
I do so, and manage to drop the bullet four times before I finally get it in place. Several bullets and drops later, I finally load the last one in on the first try.
“Okay,” Hurley says. “Hang on to that a second.”
I hold the clip while he removes his other gun from his shoulder holster. “Watch closely,” he says, “because there will be a test.”
He drops the clip out, opens the slide, and checks to see if there is a bullet in the chamber. There is one, and he shows me how to pump the slide to eject it.
“Now I want you to follow me. Pick up the gun the way I showed you.”
I do as instructed, holding it in my right hand with the grip in my palm and my index finger down the length of the barrel.
“Next I want you to pop the clip in.” He inserts his and I mimic his actions on my gun. “Now I want you to grab the slide, pull it back, and let it go so it snaps into position like this.”
Again I follow his lead, startling when the slide snaps into place with a rapid, loud snick.
“Okay,” he says, “your gun is now ready to shoot. Normally you should wear eye and ear protection but since I don’t have anything, we’ll have to do without.”
Hurley then shows me how to line up my sights and take a proper stance with my feet spread apart and my arms extended. “Now breathe in, then out and squeeze the trigger when you exhale.”
“But what if I miss and the bullet goes flying off into the woods, hitting something . . . or someone else?”
“Don’t worry. This is private land and there’s about forty acres of it. Plus there’s a high ridge back behind these trees that will stop any strays.”
Dubious, I close one eye and line the sights up with the turkey target, breathe the way he told me, and pull the trigger. The loud explosion nearly deafens me and it startles me so much that I yelp. I hear the bullet thunk as it hits a tree and just when I’m starting to feel pleased, thinking I might have hit the target, I see bark disintegrate two trees over.
“Okay, not a bad start,” Hurley lies. “Let’s try it again.”
“I suck.”
Hurley laughs. “Most people suck the first time. You’ll get better with practice.”
For the next hour we aim and shoot, aim and shoot, aim and shoot. Hurley takes a turn at it to show me how it’s supposed to be done and obliterates the turkey’s head with a series of six shots.
“Show-off,” I mutter.
He smiles and says, “I know you’re competitive by nature. So beat me.”
“You mean with a stick?”
He gives me a warning look but there’s amusement behind it.
“Okay,” I say, resigned to my humiliation. And humiliating it is. Over the course of the hour I slaughter every tree surrounding the one with the target but manage to miss the tree with the paper on it every time. My shots go left, right, high, and low. By the time we’re done, my shoulders ache, my ears are ringing, and the woods are begging for mercy.
“I guess I need more practice,” I say, unloading the clip. I then open the slide, check to make sure the chamber is empty, and set the gun down. I may not be able to hit the broad side of a barn but I am much more comfortable just handling the gun.
I help Hurley take the guns apart and he shows me how to clean them. Then we put them back together without the clips. “It’s best if you’re going to carry a gun to have a secure holster for it, like one of these,” he says, handing me both of his. “Over time you’ll figure out what kind of holster works best for you.”
“You say that like you think I’m going to be carrying one of these on a regular basis,” I say. “That’s not going to happen.”
“You never know. And until we get this mess straightened out, I want you to have a gun with you.”
I frown, examining the holsters as I try to imagine myself packing.
“There are smaller guns, like little Derringers you could carry in your purse, though it’s illegal to carry concealed in the state of Wisconsin,” Hurley explains. “But that said, you’d be surprised how many people do it.”
He has me put on his shoulder holster and practice pulling his gun from it, but it feels awkward and my boobs keep getting in the way. The second holster comes with loops to run a belt or strap through, but given the girth of my hips, I’m not too keen on adding anything there.
“You can also get an ankle holster,” Hurley says.
I glance down at my feet, both of which are swollen—one because I sprained it when I was Tasered, and the other because of my broken toes and the Frankenstein shoe—and wonder if anyone makes a cankle holster.
“For now, just keep this one close at hand so you can grab it if you need to,” Hurley says, handing me the second gun.
A cold blast of wind blows against us and, as I take the gun, I pray it isn’t an omen.
“You hungry?” Hurley asks.
“Always.”
“Then let’s get some lunch. Shooting always gives me a ravenous appetite.”
Chapter 39
Since Hurley handled the breakfast duties, I decide it’s my turn to demonstrate my culinary talents by fixing us lunch. In honor of the upcoming holiday, I fix turkey sandwiches and top it off by ripping open a bag of chips and popping the lid on a soda. Ever wary of the spider contingent, I opt for a noncaffeinated beverage this time.
The weather outside has shifted, and dark, heavy clouds are rolling in, churning above us in an ominous meteorological dance. Once more I wonder if it’s an omen of some sort. I’m starting to feel twitchy and useless sitting here doing nothing.
Hurley must sense my restlessness because he heads over to one of the shelves and returns to the card table with a Scrabble game.
“I hope you don’t mind getting your ass kicked,” he says. “I’m pretty good at this. Callie and I used to play all the time and she was a serious contender. She even played in tournaments.”
“They have tournaments for Scrabble?” I say, thinking it sounds ridiculous.
“Go ahead and laugh,” Hurley says. “But the woman won hundreds of dollars at it. And not only is there a national tournament, there’s a world competition, too.”
I guess I shouldn’t be surprised given that the Trekkies of the world hold huge conventions all the time. It seems the nerds and geeks in our civilizations are quite adept at using their hobbies for networking and profitable gain.
We start out simply enough with mostly three- and four-letter words and a nearly tied score until Hurley plops down all seven of his tiles, hooking onto an R I just played and making the word ROUNDERS through a double word score.
“That’s good for seventy points,” he says, writing down his score. “Twenty for the play and a fifty-point bonus for using all my tiles.”
“Great,” I say, pouting and staring at a rack that includes the Q.
I study my letters for a moment and then plop them all down playing to his S. “Too bad proper nouns don’t count,” I say, looking at the word QUINTONS.
“Interesting,” he says with a smile, “but not acceptable.”
“I know, but it seemed so appropriate.” I take back the O and N, and play the word QUINTS instead, again using his S and landing the letter Q on a triple letter score. “Thirty-six points,” I say, jotting down my score and feeling pretty good about the fact that I managed to come up with just over half of what Hurley scored with his last play. If the scowl on Hurley’s face is any indication, I still have a chance.