The Dodge slid to a stop in a surge of gravel near the entrance and Misty killed the engine. She pointed at a pile of rusted oil barrels at thefar end of the crater, over a hundred yards away. “Go set up some beer cans on those. We’ll use ’em for targets.”
I was about to ask where the beer cans were when I looked down. Dozens of empty beer cans and bottles lay scattered across the gravel like wounded soldiers after a terrible battle. I climbed out and had a sudden flash of irritation at being ordered around like a servant, but what was I going to do about it? Absolutely nothing. I collected five empty, sticky Budweiser cans and held them against my chest as I jogged through the puddles and mud toward the pile of barrels like an obedient puppy.
I pulled one of the barrels down, rolling it against several that were standing upright. Then I set the cans up, propping them one by one up against the barrels behind the barrel lying on its side. This way, I could track the path of the bullets by wherever they left holes in the barrels around the cans.
When I got back, Misty already had the rifle loaded, bracing it casually on her hip.
I skirted around a blackened fire pit and felt something stick to the bottom of Grandpa’s boot. I twisted my ankle around and reached down to pull off whatever it was, when I saw it, twisted and semitransparent, wedged into the waffled sole. I flinched, jerking my hand away.
For a heart-stopping second, I thought it was one of the worms. Then I figured out what it was, even though I’d never seen one before. A condom. Used, by the look of it. My stomach rolled and dropped somewhere down between my feet. A hot, tight feeling crawled over me, scary and exciting at the same time. I looked up and Misty winked at me again. I shrugged and tried to grin back, scraping off the condom on the gravel.
“So, what do we do first?” she asked.
“Well, we need to brace the rifle, get it steady, find out where it’s shooting.” I looked at the truck. It was too high; we couldn’t brace the rifle across the hood. “You got a blanket, or something like that?” I asked. “We’re gonna have to lie down.”
Misty gave me an amused look and I suddenly realized what that had sounded like. I giggled nervously. “I mean, you need a pad … or something … to, uh, put on the ground,” I finished lamely, sweeping my hand out to indicate the rough gravel.
She handed the rifle to me. I carefully laid it out on the tailgate, examining the scope as she opened the door. Misty came back and set a balled-up blanket next to the gun, saying, “Will this work?”
“That’ll work, uh, just fine.” I shook out the blanket, trying to ignore the slightly musky smell, and it fluttered out to the ground. I smoothed it down and grabbed the rifle, kneeling on the blanket. Misty dropped to her knees next to me, close enough that I could smell her perfume. Fat Ernst’s toilet, I kept reminding myself, and managed to focus on the rifle instead.
“Okay. Go ahead and lie down,” I told Misty. She gave me another bemused snicker and leaned forward until she was on her stomach. “Get into, uh, a prone position. Okay, good. Prop yourself up on your elbows there, at an angle, and”—I almost said and spread your legs a little, but caught it just in time, choking out—“and, and there you go.” I handed the rifle to Misty, desperately trying not to look at how the fabric of her jeans clung to the ripe, curving cheeks of her ass. Fat Ernst’s toilet …
She settled into position, left elbow forward just a little, right arm out to the side.
“Okay good, good. Now, when it feels right, go ahead and take a shot.” I had barely finished the sentence when she pulled the trigger. A distant puff of dust, just about five inches over one of the barrels. She jerked the bolt back, then slammed it home.
“Give yourself a sec, then take another.” Again, the rifle cracked before I finished. Another little burst of gravel, this time off to the right of the barrel. “One more time.” The bullet whizzed above the barrel once again.
“Okay, hang on.” Still kneeling, I bent over the scope, and gently inserted a dime into one of the two adjustable knobs. I counted four clicks as I twisted the dime counterclockwise. “Try it again.”
The first round was off to the right, but the second shot nailed the can, crumpling the top half and sending it flying. “Nice shot,” I said, reaching for the box of shells just as Misty pulled the trigger once more. A dry snap; the gun was empty.
I inserted the dime into the second knob, twisting it clockwise for two clicks. Then I loaded the rifle, handed it back to Misty.
She hadn’t moved; her eyes were still focused on the cans at the far end of the quarry. As she concentrated, I couldn’t help but steal a quick glance at her behind. I ripped my eyes away and handed the rifle back to her. She fired off the five rounds in rapid succession and missed every time, throwing the bullets all around the can.
They weren’t landing in one area, so I couldn’t tell if the scope was sighted in. “Let me try it real quick,” I said, and added quickly, “if you don’t mind.”
“No, that’s okay. I’d like to watch you shoot,” Misty said, and scooted over on the blanket.
I eased myself down next to her, grateful that I was lying on my stomach and could hide the growing bulge in my crotch. I loaded the rifle, then pulled it up tight into my shoulder.
“You’re putting the crosshairs right in middle of the can, right?” I asked.
“Of course.”
Through the crystal clear Zeiss scope, the red and white can looked enormous. I settled the crosshairs right into the center of the huge “B,” let my breath out slowly, and squeezed. The gentle snap of the trigger was like touching a DaVinci sketch.
The can rocked slowly, but it wasn’t hit. I searched through the scope until I found the bullet hole—directly under the can, about a foot down, a small fresh hole in the barrel. I brought the crosshairs back up and fired again. Same thing. The bullet struck the oil drum just to the left of the original hole. A third round. This time, the bullet nicked the edge of the first hole, nearly grazing the second. All three holes could have fit inside a dime. Okay.
The rifle was sighted in. It was shooting low for me simply because the drop was different. In other words, when my cheek was settled on the stock, my eye occupied a different point in space than Misty’s, but it should work fine for her.
I found the can in the crosshairs one more time, then raised the barrel until I was pointing somewhere above the can, about the same distance from the can to the holes in the barrel. I squeezed the trigger, and the beer can popped off the oil drum, spinning end over end until it disappeared behind the barrels. I’d hit the bottom edge, and that had knocked it into the air.
“Nice shot,” Misty said. She sounded genuinely impressed. “Now let me try.”
I loaded the rifle and handed it back to her. “Just breathe nice and easy. Squeeeeeeze that trigger, real gentle like.” I propped myself on my elbows, bringing the binoculars up.
Her first shot was low, second shot high, but the third shot sent another can bouncing off into the gravel. “There you go.” Misty nailed two more cans, whispering, “Fucking A plus, you little cocksuckers,” then reloaded.
There was something sweet, almost delicious in hearing her smoky voice wrap around a word like “cocksucker.” It was almost more than I could handle. I thanked God again for being able to lie on my stomach, hiding an erection that would not be denied.
A sniggering voice floated out across the Quarry to us. “Well, well, isn’t this just cute as a goddamn button.”
My erection died faster than if I’d seen Fat Ernst naked. I’d heard that voice all night, in my nightmares. I glanced over my shoulder and saw them. Junior and Bert, standing in front of their truck in the middle of the road at the top ridge of the Quarry, silhouetted against the gray sky. Bert waved.