Words. Thoughts in flight, fledged from the lips or caged on the page.
Thursday, 10 July 2014
Don’t close your eyes!
“Don’t close your eyes!”
Suzanne’s lips creased into a smile. “No, I never do. Not even when I kiss a man.” She laughed, her voice doing things to me that weren’t at all constructive to our chances at this moment.
I placed the heavy lump of the gun into her hand, watching her gauging its weight as she familiarised herself with it. Taking the butt into her palm and curling her finger through the trigger guard. Tentatively applying a little pressure on the trigger while holding it muzzle-down toward the ground.
“Now, push that little lever forward and up. The one on the left-hand-side. Yes, that one. Now bring your arm up, keeping it straight but not locked. Then look down your arm and through the sights.”
“Like this?” She turned to look back at me, her arm rising and veering to the right as she did. Her aim shifting to threaten the rear of the Buick sedan parked in front of us, its occupants clamouring to get out when they saw the barrel swerving toward them.
“Yes. But no. Keep your eyes front and open when you’ve got that catch off. Even when your finger’s relaxed. We’ve enough problems now without you shooting someone who’ll be fighting alongside us!”
“Okay. Sorry. Like this?” She raised the gun again, biting her lower lip and closing one eye to aim, focusing her attention on the pyramid of cans I’d arranged on the trestle-table backed up against the wall.
“Kinda. But with both eyes open. If you have to shoot, you’ll find it easier to find your target, aim and then fire that way. And without the delay or parallax switch you’ll get from closing the eye and then aiming. You might not have much time if you’re being shot at. You’ve got to drop your man fast before he puts you down, you know?”
“Dropping my man, that’s gotta be good, right,” Suzanne chuckled, her voice dropping into a throaty growl. “I know, I know. Focus. Gun in hand. Focus all the time…”
“Your life might depend on it.” I looked over my shoulder and then back, judging the time by the colour of the skies and the height of the sun above the horizon. Time was running out. She’d have to be ready whether she was ready or not. There was no point teaching her how to reload: if she’d not managed to hit anyone before her gun was empty, she’d be dead already.
“Okay. Now push the safety back forward. But pull your finger free from the trigger first. You don’t want to shoot a hole through your foot.” I grinned, giving her a brief respite from stern ‘teacher.’ “I know those heels are killer but your foot’s irreplaceable. A bullet through your instep’ll slow you down. Even with a gun in your hand, you'll still need to be able to run. More often than you’d imagine.”