“Fire two shots,” he told her.
Abby slapped the magazine into position, pulled the charging handle, and settled onto her stomach, legs splayed. At ten times magnification, the target seemed huge, and the bipod provided effortless stability. She squeezed off the first round, which struck at seven o’clock, six inches below the bull’s-eye. Her second round hit a quarter inch farther left.
“Okay, we need to move up and to the right.” Squatting, Bradley adjusted the elevation and windage dials. “Two more.”
Both shots hit too low. Abby reached for the elevation dial.
“You know which way to turn it?” he asked, seemingly pleased by her initiative.
“Same way you did, about half as much?”
With an approving nod, he said, “Go for it.”
Abby’s last two rounds struck the orange bull’s-eye, the glancing holes creating a sideways figure eight. She switched back to the iron sights and said, “Damn. That’s a hell of a difference.”
“Now comes the tough part.” Bradley reached into his back pocket and removed a small booklet along with an index card. “I mapped distances and elevations from overwatch to locations of probable attack.” He turned over the index card. “This side is from your house to those same locations. You need to memorize them and calculate each holdover.”
Abby paged through the booklet. It was the owner’s manual for the mil-dot scope.
“Final exam is at three o’clock.”
“Three o’clock? I’ll be at overwatch.”
“I know.” Bradley flashed a devilish grin that sent a pitter-patter of uneasiness marching through her.
79C
AN EMOTIONAL TUG-OF-WAR was rending Kyle’s stomach. Of course, he wanted Abby to be able to defend herself; but no, he didn’t want her shooting people. Of course, Bradley was a great guy; but no, he didn’t want his daughter involved with a twenty-year-old.
Damn it, he thought. I need to keep my mind occupied.
Since he had already tossed chlorine tablets into the pool, helped Jessie wash laundry the old-fashioned way, and watered the garden, he decided to check out Will’s handiwork with the well pump. A wooden stand held Abby’s bicycle upright, but none of the automotive belts was long enough to encircle the twenty-six-inch rim.
Maybe we should be capturing rainwater, he thought.
The gutters and downspouts on his house routed the water below grade via PVC tubes that drained into the lake. Due to the slope of the land, the discharge had cut gullies into the sand, making the outlets easy to locate.
Shoveling furiously, he unearthed the pipe all the way back to the house then began cutting the PVC with a dull hacksaw blade. A half hour later, he managed to sever the stubborn plastic. Sweat dripped from his forehead, and the exertion felt therapeutic.
Kyle dug a new trench for the loose pipe, rerouting rainwater through the screened room and into the pool, but he needed an angled connector to join the two sections. After rummaging through the garage, storage room, and laundry room, he decided his best option was a metal dryer vent.
He taped the vent around the outside of the main pipe and crimped the other end, creating a cone shape, then jammed it inside the severed PVC segment.
“Great idea—especially with the rainy season looming.”
He smiled at his wife who was offering him a bottle of water. “Well, it’s not pretty, but I think it’ll work.”
Kyle downed half the water then said, “What’s Abby up to? Maybe she can give me a hand with the other side.”
“I’ll help you,” Jessie said. “Abby’s studying.”
He chuckled at the notion, eyes narrowing. “My daughter? Studying what?”
“Bradley gave her a bunch of stuff to learn. Something about doping the scope,” Jessie said with a dubious shrug.
Kyle felt a prickle of dread rush through him. “They’re spending too much time together. I think it’s time for one of those mother-daughter chats.”
Of course, he needed Bradley to protect his family; but no, he didn’t want any additions to that family ... especially in a world with no doctors or hospitals.
80C
ABBY’S EYES WIDENED. Why was Gramps slogging up the hillside during the middle of her overwatch shift?
Huffing, Gramps leaned against the four-foot block wall. “Damned hill keeps getting steeper.” He took a few breaths then solicited her rifle with waggling fingers. “You need to sit down and face the back wall while Bradley sets up the test.”
Perplexed, Abby complied. She had been expecting an oral quiz and had spent the morning devouring the user’s manual, reading the section on holdover six times and testing herself. How many yards to that tree? What is its relative elevation?
Oh shit, she thought, suddenly haunted by Bradley’s devilish grin. He’s placing actual targets.
Abby’s right foot bounced. She gnawed a thumbnail, staring at the index card. Beneath each distance and elevation, she had scrawled an approximate scope adjustment.
Just SWAGs, she thought, Scientific-Wild-Ass-Guesses.
This was more nerve-racking than any NRA competition. With iron sights, on level ground, Abby was confident in her abilities; this was going to be a crapshoot.
A few minutes later, her parents and Will showed up.
“What are you guys doing here?”
“We’re spectators,” her father said, “just like competitions.”
Bradley arrived and squatted beside her. “You’ve got five targets. Nail it on the first shot, ten points; second shot, eight points; double miss, zero points. A total of fifty is perfect and forty is passing.”
“The first time I get to try this—and it’s a test?”
“It could be worse,” he told her, his tone unsympathetic. “The targets could be shooting back.”
Abby’s mind pored over variables: temperature, humidity, wind speed and direction. She had been so engrossed with elevation and distance, she’d neglected the basics.
Gramps returned her rifle and wished her luck.
I’m gonna need it, Abby thought.
Bradley had placed white porcelain dishes in various locations, each numbered in black marker. One and two were on the hillside across the street; three was above the electrical transformer box; four was in front of the garden.
“Where’s the fifth one?” she asked. How could she shoot something she couldn’t see?
Bradley’s mischievous smirk reemerged. He pointed behind her.
Number five was roosting in a tree at the top of the ridgeline.
81C
HEATHER EASED SUZANNE into the portable crib, its mesh sides freckled with bullet holes, then she tiptoed from the small office, gently closing the French doors to insulate the baby from noise. Finally, after an hour of fussing, she was asleep.
Heather adored this house, the massive rooms, the sleek modern furniture, the gourmet kitchen. If only her husband could provide an adequate amount of food, life would be good.
She returned to the family room, pangs of hunger tearing through her. Bradley’s food rationing plan was ludicrous—one measly meal per day—and Will refused to address it.
Why was he always worried about what Bradley thought? Heather was his wife; she was supposed to be his first priority.
Hunger pains grew into a firestorm of resentment, fueled by memories of last night’s argument. Will had never railed against her like that or issued ultimatums before. In two weeks he had become someone entirely different; someone who didn’t give a damn about her feelings.
She was still confounded by his anger. She had only stated the obvious. It was entirely inappropriate for a girl Abby’s age to be running around with a rifle.
Her time would be better spent babysitting ... or learning manners, Heather thought, recalling Abby’s blue-eyed death stare.
During tonight’s dinner, she intended to voice her complaints about the food rationing, and she began rehearsing her argument.
I appreciate you
r generosity. That’s good, she thought, soften them up with a compliment.
However, it’s a medical fact that nursing mothers require additional calories. So I’m asking everyone to donate a portion of their food, not for my sake, but for the baby’s.
They would have to be cruel and heartless to object.
Then Bradley’s definitely out, she decided.
Billy was playing with a truck, spinning in circles on the family room floor, making vroom-vroom sounds. Heather shushed him. “We don’t want to wake the baby,” she told him. “Suzie is sleeping.”
“Guzie gleeping,” he whispered.
A booming crack startled Heather.
The baby began to wail.
Damn you, Bradley. And your stupid guns.
Didn’t he understand there was an infant in this house?
Then she realized the inconvenience was actually an opportunity.
82C
BRADLEY DETECTED A glint of angst in Abby’s blue eyes. A voice inside him asked: Would you have passed this test your first time shooting with a scope? He deleted the question, reminding himself that the circumstances were drastically different.
Abby struck the first plate with one shot; the second plate took two tries, just as Bradley anticipated. “Eighteen points, cumulative,” he told her.
Target three was sixty feet below overwatch, and Abby’s first shot was two yards too high.
“Miss. Re-engage.” Scrutinizing her, Bradley detected no disappointment, no frustration, only unrelenting concentration. Her composure surprised him, especially since he had invited an audience to maximize her stress level.
Maybe she’s used to it from competition.
Abby fired a second round which clipped the top edge of the plate. “Hit. Eight points. Twenty-six, cumulative.”
That’ll be her final score, Bradley thought, estimating only a ten percent chance of Abby striking either of the last two plates.
Target four was planted in front of the garden; and instead of a dinner plate, he had used the saucer of a teacup, simulating a gunman prone on the ground.
Abby fired. Bradley’s head bobbed forward, lips parting. Her first shot hit eighteen inches low, when he had expected it to sail high into the lake. “Miss. Re-engage.”
Abby didn’t speak or turn around.
A woman on a mission, he thought, assuring himself that the warmth drubbing through his veins was just respect.
She fired again. Bradley blinked, incredulous. The tiny saucer was a blanket of dust and shards, a ghostly shadow on the grass.
She hit the damned thing!
Gramps’ elbow plunged into his side, gloating and prompting him for the score.
“Hit. Eight points. Thirty-four, cumulative.”
The final target, another saucer, was wedged in an oak tree high above the overwatch, mimicking an attacker lying in wait atop a roof or hillside.
Kyle, Jessie, Will, and Gramps moved behind Abby. For this target, she would have to shoot from a standing position—without benefit of the bipod.
Bradley watched her intently, noting that just before firing, the gun barrel jogged slightly left. The bullet struck the tree trunk a foot below the saucer, three feet to the left. Much closer than he had thought possible. “Miss. Re-engage.”
None of Abby’s other shots had been off left to right; they had only required vertical adjustments.
Did she pull it left deliberately? If it had passed beneath the saucer through open air, she wouldn’t have been able to assess her shot.
Bradley focused on the gun barrel. No leftward jog this time, and the saucer popped like a white balloon, splinters raining onto the ground.
“You’ve got to be freaking kidding me,” Bradley said, a smile invading his face. “Hit. Eight points. Forty-two, cumulative. Congratulations, you passed, Squirt.”
Abby’s pout evolved into a simper. “Thanks, Sexy!”
Then Kyle’s head snapped toward Bradley.
83C
SHE HAD ACTUALLY DONE it, called him Sexy—right in front of her father. Bradley stood dumbfounded until Kyle’s interrogating glare moved on to Abby.
She said it; she can explain it, he thought, starting down the hill.
Will scampered after him, snickering. “Okay, what’s going on between you two?”
“Nothing,” he said gruffly.
“You’re full of shit. Bradley, it’s obvious. You’re freaking making love to her in a glance.”
He held his breath as if to prevent the remark from seeping into his brain. “Nothing has happened, and nothing is going to happen.”
“Why not?” Will bounded ahead of him, walking backward as they crossed the street. “It’s clearly mutual. What are you waiting for?”
“About two years. She’s only sixteen.”
“Seriously? If I were you? I’d jump right into that situation.”
Bradley stopped abruptly on Gramps’ front lawn. “Besides, it would be wrong to jump into that situation and walk away a few days later.”
“Walk away?” Will repeated, concern rising along with his pitch.
“I have to report for duty. I’m freaking AWOL.”
“You can’t leave. We-we need you. Here.”
Bradley exhaled through gritted teeth. “With you here to protect Gramps, I planned to head over to MacDill Air Force Base.”
“I’ll do what I can.” Will rubbed a hand over his mouth, head shaking. “But I think Abby’s better qualified.”
Bradley recoiled, feeling as if his best friend had pitched an iron noose around his neck.
An awkward silence persisted until Will changed the subject. “Hey, I finally managed to get the well pump rigged.”
Bradley walked toward the pink bicycle, trying to erase the memories it stirred, then climbed aboard and began pedaling.
Will strode to the outdoor spigot and twisted the handle. Water dribbled out. “Come on, Sexy! Pedal faster.”
Bradley tendered a one-finger salute and doubled his speed. The flow only increased marginally.
“It won’t work for a shower,” Will said, “But at least it’s plan B if the pool goes dry.”
Bradley hopped off the bicycle and inspected the jerry-rigged contraption. Will had spliced automotive belts together using U-shaped nails to create a loop large enough for the bike rim.
“The belt won’t last forever,” Will told him, “But we can always make another one. I guess I shouldn’t say we, since you are leaving. But hey, with you gone, maybe Abby will fall for a cute mechanic who knows how to use his tool.”
“You are an asshole, you know that?” A menacing frown contorted Bradley’s face. A warning not heeded.
“That could work out well for me. Ditch the wife; end up with the boss’s daughter; inherit his dealership.”
Bradley’s thumb and index finger dug into a pressure point in Will’s shoulder, forcing him to walk.
“Ow, ow, ow. Damn it, Sexy, that hurts ... Where the hell are you taking me?”
Bradley busted out laughing and continued his forceful escort. “Home to your lovely wife—”
“Come on, Man. Have a little mercy. Beat the shit out of me instead.”
Bradley opened the front door and jokingly shoved Will into the house. He heard his best friend gasp.
“Heather?” Will hurried toward the kitchen, shouting, “Don’t bother hiding it! We already saw it!”
Bradley’s frown traveled from the menagerie of empty cans that cluttered the countertop to Heather. “You broke into my grandfather’s house? And stole from us?”
“I didn’t break in,” she said, eyes rolling. “The door was unlocked.”
Red-faced, cheeks puffed like a human bomb, Will smacked the empty cans off the counter, launching them across the kitchen. “I can’t believe you did this!”
“It’s his fault!” she shouted, thrusting a finger at Bradley. “If his food rationing plan wasn’t so unreasonable, I wouldn’t have had to do it!”
84C S
KIPPED
85C SKIPPED
( ( ( 45% Complete ) ) )
( ( ( DAY 13C ) ) )
Wednesday, February 26th
86C
AS BRADLEY TREKKED TOWARD Sugar Lake Road, he spotted Abby beside the garage, rifle propped against her leg. At her feet on a bed of white sand, the scope manual and index card were held in place by Abby’s grenade paperweight.
“What’re you up to so early?”
“Working on my SWAGs.”
“Your Scientific-Wild-Ass-Guesses were pretty damned good yesterday.”
“Not good enough,” she told him. “Four misses, four chances for someone to shoot back.”
Bradley had expected the victory to make her cocky, but Abby appeared humbled by it.
She’s so damned unpredictable, he thought, bending down to retrieve the index card. Beneath it was a Mildot Master, an analog calculator designed like a slide rule for determining range, bullet drop, wind drift, and angle of fire. “Never used a scope before? You’re full of crap!”
“If you don’t believe me, ask Gramps—”
“I did.”
“And?”
“I think you’re both screwing with me.”
“I’m not ... But it’s a very tempting idea,” she said with a flirtatious sparkle in her eyes.
Bradley looked away. Heat stole into his cheeks, and he swore under his breath knowing his face was bright red. “Gee, look at the time. Got to relieve Will from overwatch.”
“Hey, wait. I need a favor.” Sensing his reluctance, she said, “Relax, it’s just a scope question. I’m having trouble with the crest of the hill. Which adjustments are closer? Original or new?”
Lips puckering, he reached for her rifle. After sighting both, he pointed to the pencil and snapped his fingers. Her new set was an improvement, but not where she needed to be.
After scribbling the corrections, he returned her rifle. “I’m glad you’re not letting that victory go to your head. You’ve still got a lot to learn.”
“I know. Can you teach me about leading the target?”
“Later. After overwatch.” Bradley held out the index card, then as Abby reached for it, he jerked it away. “You’ve really never used a scope before?”
Powerless- America Unplugged Page 63
