Radical

by E. M. Kokie

  Dad pulls through slowly, as if waiting to be ambushed.

  After another half mile or so, an open space emerges. A large gravel parking lot. A few benches and a picnic table next to it. Beyond that, some grass and then a gravel road. A large post-frame building with wide doors for equipment. A smaller building that looks like it could be offices. Poles in the ground for something else next to it.

  There isn’t even a sign like these snooty clubs usually have.

  Dad pulls in next to some other trucks. Maybe twenty cars and trucks parked around the gravel lot. Plates mostly from Michigan, like ours.

  Dad’s looking around, dipping his head to see past the cars and trucks. He’s starting to look more and more skeptical about leaving Mark here.

  “Daniel,” Mark calls out the window before he even has the door open. “Daniel,” he yells again, louder, adding a wave as he jumps out of the truck. Daniel and the two guys he’s walking with turn around. They don’t wave. The two other guys start walking again, but Daniel holds up at the edge of the lot.

  “Hey,” Dad calls to Mark. He motions Mark over to his side of the truck, and when Mark doesn’t move says, “Come here.”

  Mark rolls his eyes and lurches around the truck and over to Dad’s window.

  “Thanks, Dad,” Mark says, to forestall any lectures. “I’m pretty sure Daniel or one of the others can give me a ride home. So . . .”

  Dad looks hard at Mark, then across at the buildings again, around the lot, squints at the trees behind the buildings, then back at Mark.

  “Dad,” Mark whines.

  “Where are the ranges?” Dad asks.

  Mark points back toward the buildings.

  All I see are trees.

  Where are the ranges? Screw the ranges — where are the sportsmen? Where are the poseur wannabes in their expensive shirts and stuff? Where’s the clubhouse? We may not have seen a lot of sportsmen’s clubs, but this doesn’t look like any kind of club, let alone a snooty gun club.

  If there are ranges here, they are well hidden.

  A guy walks by the truck in full tactical gear.

  Dad turns off the truck and opens his door.

  “Come on,” Mark gripes, but Dad gets all the way out of the truck. Then he puts his keys in his pocket.

  “I just want to check things out,” Dad says.

  Mark looks over his shoulder. Daniel is standing with some guys on the path near the buildings. “Look, there’s Daniel’s dad. Okay? You know Mr. Trace wouldn’t be involved in anything weird.”

  Daniel’s dad is standing next to a man wearing a polo shirt and khakis. He’s the first country club–lawyer type we’ve seen here. He looks like he could be in a sportsmen’s club.

  “Dad,” I say, “I want to get to the range before it gets crowded.”

  “You’re embarrassing me,” Mark says, trying to block Dad’s path.

  Dad stares until Mark steps back. “I want to say hello to Mr. Trace. That’s all.”

  Mark groans, but he follows Dad across the lot toward the men.

  When they get there, Mark does introductions. Daniel walks over, and his dad puts his hand on Daniel’s shoulder while Daniel shakes Dad’s hand. Like they’re saying, This is the boy that sprang from my loins. I see your son is a boy as well. We have sons, and they are grand. Don’t mind the girl waiting in the truck — who can shoot better than either of them.

  Another man walks up. Handshaking all around. Mr. Country Club does that thing where he reaches out with his nonshaking hand and draws Dad closer.

  Mark is grinning and nodding so hard he looks like a bobble-head doll. Then he bumps fists with Daniel and they head over to where the other guys are waiting, and the whole group starts down the path toward the trees. And still Dad is talking to the two men.

  At this rate we’ll never get to the range before the wait is three deep. I reach over and lay on the horn. Dad turns and waves me off, then goes back to the talking and smiling. Daniel’s dad crosses his arms. Country Club guy touches his chin like he’s got a great idea. More talking and now gesturing. Dad looks back toward me, and then Mr. Country Club is motioning toward the truck and over. Dad is nodding. And then all of them turn their backs on the lot and more gesturing and nodding, now toward the buildings.

  Ten more minutes and they’re still talking.

  A car pulls up next to the truck. The driver takes off her sunglasses and tilts the rearview mirror so she can see herself. She likes what she sees. She takes her time gathering her long dark-red hair behind her head, and then puts it up in a ponytail. She smooths the hair on the side of her head until it’s just right, and then adjusts her ponytail and studies herself in the rearview mirror. She wipes at the side of her lip, like her lip gloss got smudged. She gets out of her car and pulls a vest on over her tight black T-shirt. Then pulls her range bag out of the trunk. Her vest is nice but far from new. Same with her bag.

  She looks at me as she fastens her vest. I turn my face, pretend I was just looking around. But when I glance back, it’s clear she knew I was watching her the whole time. Stupid. I should have just held her stare, like I don’t care at all what she thinks.

  She walks by slowly, her hips swaying in camo shorts, and then follows the same path Mark took. There are girls in this sportsmen’s club? Well, a girl, at least. A girl who feels like she needs to primp before she goes to shoot. Maybe she doesn’t even shoot, just strikes a pose and squeals at how good the guys are. I’ve seen girls like that at the range. These clubs never take girls seriously. Maybe they hold a basics class for wives and daughters, or even a pink-themed ladies’ session, but never more than a condescending nod toward their skills, never as equals.

  Dad and the men are still nodding and pointing. And now moving toward one of the buildings. Did he completely forget about me? Screw that.

  The gravel crunches under my shoes until I step over the wood divider and onto the grass.

  I can’t really make out what they are saying until I get close, and then I can hear Mr. Country Club talking. “Eventually, yes. But for now, the course, and some kind of accommodations out by the camping area.” He waves toward the far right, where I can just make out a camper behind the trees.

  “Sure, sure,” Dad says. “What are you thinking in terms of timing, budget?”

  “Why don’t we go into the office and look at the plans. I —”

  “Hello, Bex,” Daniel’s dad says when he notices me.

  “Hello, Mr. Trace.” The others turn around.

  “Why, hello,” says Mr. Country Club.

  “Oh, right,” Dad says. “The range.” He looks at his watch. “Uh, this is my daughter, Bex. Bex, this is Mr. Riggs and Mr. Severnsen.”

  “Hello,” I say, reaching out to shake their hands.

  “Nice to meet you, Bex,” Mr. Riggs says. His hand is soft and smooth. He doesn’t work with his hands.

  “I promised her we would go to the range. Uh”— Dad looks at his watch again —“maybe I could come back after. Drop Bex home and . . .”

  “Why doesn’t Bex just join the others at the range here?” Mr. Trace asks. He looks at Dad and then at Mr. Riggs.

  “That’s a wonderful idea,” Mr. Riggs says. “We can consider Mark’s guest pass a family pass. You can all see the facilities.”

  “No, we couldn’t,” Dad says.

  “Why not?” Mr. Riggs asks. “Bex can check out the ranges. Meet some of the other young people. I can show you both around on the way out to the range, and then we can go into the office and look at the plans.”

  I try to give Dad the head shake no, but he’s not looking at me.

  “We have range rifles,” Mr. Severnsen says to me, and then he turns to Dad. “There’s adult supervision. If you’re comfortable with her shooting without you there, she can use a range rifle.”

  “She has a rifle,” Dad says.

  “Yeah, but . . .” Dad’s look shuts me up. This isn’t what I wanted. I wanted Dad, to myself, at the range.
I want to shoot my rifle and my Glock. Here I’ll be restricted to a rifle unless Dad stays to supervise me.

  “Great,” Mr. Trace says, with a big grin. Mr. Riggs nods with a smile of his own.

  Dad hands me the keys. “Get your stuff out of the truck.”

  As we walk away from the buildings and toward the trees, we move into shadows, and the sudden chill makes me shiver.

  Riggs points out places, some with stakes already in the ground, where they plan to build this and that. A “proper” education center. Places for people to sleep and eat and clean up. Eventually. He chatters to Dad about other families, and about membership and how they’re still figuring things out. He points to where the indoor training facilities will go — again, eventually. And waves toward the left, where other things will go. But right now there’s not much beyond the buildings near the lot.

  I glance at Dad. He’s nodding, smiling, but I have a feeling his mind is on whatever “plans” they were discussing and whatever work that may mean for him. If there are no lines for him to supervise or tool-and-die work he deems worthy of him, maybe he can at least make some money here until something better comes along.

  We pass the beginnings of a couple of trails, different colors marking the start of each trail, and then an area that’s been cleared for construction, with pegs in the ground and string. Riggs points out a squat, square metal building, which he says they’re using to store their guns and stuff. But he also details his plans for a proper “armory” and then for more. I bet they’re handing out free passes like Halloween candy. You need paying members to fund all this.

  From the highway, if you didn’t know they were here, you’d never guess. The sportsmen club label makes sense for ranges and trails, but they’re talking about a lot more than that. Almost like a compound, but of course he doesn’t call it that.

  Riggs seems a lot younger than he must be, strolling along with his hands in his pockets. But he moves smoothly, fluidly, like he could break into a sprint or execute a roll at any time, drop to prone and pop back up again just like that.

  His clothes are expensive. Expensive watch, too. Like he’s dressed to work in a fancy office somewhere.

  “We’re hoping to have an indoor range in place by year three,” Riggs says, looking from me to Dad and back again, “and after that maybe a pop-up range. But for now we have two ranges and some cleared training grounds. Once we get an organized training schedule set up, we’ll reevaluate our needs. Maybe in addition to the tactical courses, we’ll need to add some pistol bays.”

  So they want Dad to help them build tactical courses, and maybe more. But is this help or work? Unless that’s how they get people like us in — let us work off our fees. Mom will never go for that. Mark and Dad need to be doing actual, money-paying work or we’ll be broke and living with Uncle Skip forever.

  The path widens and blends into the area behind the first range. “This is our pistol range,” Riggs says. “Target boards at twenty-five yards on the right”— he motions to the firing points to the right of us —“and at fifty yards on the left, so you can also sight in rifles.”

  Maybe twenty firing points with wooden tables behind them. Stools for those who want to sit and space between the tables for kneeling or going prone. The range is cold while two men are packing up their gear and another is getting ready to shoot. The others are talking or checking their targets while they wait to continue.

  “You know,” Dad says, looking at the guys waiting to continue with their shooting, “if you added a concrete wall in the middle, one group could stay hot while the other side is cold.”

  Riggs smiles like Dad is a genius. “It’s been requested, along with overhead cover, but we haven’t gotten to either yet.”

  It’s Dad’s turn to smile, and now I’m sure that at least he thinks he’s getting paid for whatever “help” he offers them with all these plans.

  “What do you think?” Riggs asks, and it takes me a beat to realize he’s talking to me.

  “Nice,” I say, but it’s better than nice. I could spend all day here.

  “You’ll have to be tested before you can shoot outside of group training sessions or scheduled one-on-one times with an instructor’s supervision,” he says to me, leaning around Dad. “We’re going to put together a posted schedule showing when teens are allowed individual practice. Always supervised, mind you. Sixteen?” he asks, but before I can answer, he says, “We have some other active young shooters. Their parents drop off their firearms and ammunition, or we’ll supply what you need to shoot here.”

  For a fee, I’m sure. Fees. Ammunition. Money. But to be able to shoot whenever, with actual targets, in this range, would rock. And that’s at least three times he’s said training. Could they be doing more than shooting?

  We move on back into shade and trees. Riggs is still talking.

  When the path widens again, we come around a bend and there they are. About fifteen kids are standing around, with two adults talking near the firing points. They’ve already set up metal freestanding targets and wooden target frames in front of three or four of the shooting tables on one side of the range. Off to the left are additional targets, barrels, and obstacles, ready to be used. The obligatory dirt berm forms a wide U around the whole area and seems high enough that no rounds should leave the range.

  On closer look, some of the kids could be adults, too. At least nineteen, like Mark, or maybe even twenty.

  We follow Riggs down front to where the two men in charge are talking.

  “Randy, Carl, hope we’re not interrupting,” Riggs says, even though it’s obvious they haven’t started yet.

  Some laughter filters through like a breeze through the trees.

  “This is Bex Mullin, Mark’s sister,” Riggs says, turning slightly and looking for Mark in the group. Mark scowls at me. “And their father, David. Bex is going to join you all for today. And may attend some of the open sessions. As our guest,” he adds, maybe for Dad’s benefit, maybe for Randy’s and Carl’s, some sort of communication about how much I belong. Like I’m not entirely trustworthy, or maybe making sure they know I’m just a guest.

  “Welcome, Bex,” Randy says, not very convincingly.

  Carl just smiles and dips his chin.

  “Are you all set to start?” Riggs asks, looking around for someone.

  “Yes,” Randy says, “but we can hold off a few minutes.”

  “Great.” Riggs turns, and somehow I’m turned with him. “Ladies,” he calls out. Some girls who are hanging near the far end of the range look at each other. The redhead from the parking lot is in the middle of the group. Riggs waves and they start toward us, reluctantly, as if only because they have been ordered to do so.

  “Ladies,” Riggs says again, waving them close, his hand between my shoulder blades so I can’t bolt, “I want you all to meet Bex Mullin. Bex, these are some of our core girls. Karen Severnsen.” A tall girl with a dark-blond mullet clenches my hand in a hard shake.

  “Hi, Bex,” Karen says. Her arms are defined, strong, and her hand crushes mine, but her smile is real.

  “Trinny and Rhonda,” he says. A girl with pigtails and a short, soft girl both say hi.

  “And Delia.” A girl with dark skin and braids smiles and says hey. It’s good to see her here; it means they’re not into all that racial-purity crap.

  “Stacy,” says a girl with a long brown ponytail, offering her own name when Riggs doesn’t immediately come up with it. Then he acts like he knew it all along. I can’t tell if her sour look is for me or Riggs.

  The redhead is the only one left, and she hasn’t moved.

  “Cammie,” Riggs says, like it’s her rank more than her name.

  She walks forward and extends her hand.

  The queen. Or maybe lieutenant. Maybe lieutenant of the Apron Brigade — that’s what some of the guys on the forums say, as if women would only need to use the guns in their apron pockets if their men fell. Is that what this is? Because if Rigg
s felt the need to introduce me to “the ladies,” his “core girls,” then he sees us as different from all the guys he’s not bothering to introduce.

  “Welcome,” Cammie says, but her look is a challenge. Her nails are short but still sharp. One pinches into my wrist as we shake hands, like she’s daring me to squirm or pull away.

  “Hi,” I say. My voice sounds funny.

  Cammie doesn’t let go of my hand.

  “I’ll leave you all to get acquainted before the training starts.” Riggs walks, brisk and formal, back the way we came, all that easy looseness gone. “Come on, David,” he says, gathering my father without breaking stride. “The girls will take care of her.”

  Sure they will. I refuse to rub at the stinging indentation on my wrist. The girls are already moving back to the end of the range where they left their stuff, all of them together, separate from the guys.

  “Okay, everyone,” Randy says. I turn to watch and find myself near Mark, who is glaring again.

  “Wasn’t my idea,” I whisper.

  He just mumbles, “Whatever.” But it’s clear he’s blaming me.

  “Basic weapon handling,” Randy says, staring at a few still talking in back, “takes a lot more than hold, point, and shoot. I know most of you have been shooting for years, but since we don’t know you all personally, we’re going to start slow, checking the basics. Today, in small groups, you’ll take turns shooting. That way we can monitor everyone, make sure everyone is handling their firearm safely, and focus on perfecting the building blocks, so that once we are working with higher-caliber weapons, moving from the ranges to tactical maneuvers, we can be sure a sound foundation is in place.”

  “And we will be moving toward tactical maneuvers,” Carl says, maybe seeing that Randy has lost some of the older guys. “Holding positions. Attack and retreat. Flanking. Defensive positioning. Maybe even some squad work, if all goes well,” he says, glancing at Randy.

  Squad work. Tactical maneuvers. Holy crap. Thank God Dad left already — this stuff would freak him out.

  “Right,” Randy says, “but we’re going to start with range rules and safe-handling tips before we move on to monitored shooting.”