by Mic Roland
“What about you and Jess, and Heather?”
“Well…” Nick stalled. “On the bright side, I’ve finally developed a taste for rice cakes.” He forced a smile. “Jess bought, like, a case of those for the diet she kept wanting me to start, but I never did. I guess I started it last week. Now that’s pretty much all we’ve got. That and what’s left in the freezer. That’s getting pretty sparse too.”
“So, when you were telling those guys that you didn’t have anything to spare, you weren’t just handing them a line.”
“No. We don’t have anything to spare. Of course, even if we did, I still didn’t like the look of them. I wouldn’t have given them any anyhow.”
“I’ll talk to Margaret and see if we might have something we can spare.”
“Oh thanks, man,” Nick shook Martin’s hand like he had just landed a million-dollar account. “And if there’s anything we can do to help you guys out, you just let me know, okay?”
Martin waved as he left, but his mood was not light. He was not sure what Nick could help with. He and Margaret were already supplying the Oldhams with water and apparently some food too. He resolved to ask Margaret about that.
Martin reconvened the house meeting around the dining room table. “That is precisely why we need to have watches. It was only because Susan was outside watching and listening that we knew what was going on and in time to deal with it.”
Heads nodded around the table.
“But, this also tells me that we have to ramp things up.”
Margaret cocked her head. “How so?”
“Well, four hour shifts is a good start. That’s far better than the six hour shifts we were doing. We’ll be less fatigued, sharper. But for those who aren’t on watch to actually sleep or do other chores, they can’t be indoor-backup. Each watch has to be able to stand and react quickly — on their own. To do that, each watch needs to be armed.”
The pushback came as a flood. Susan shook her head. Judy protested loudly. Adam and Trish tried to decline on moral grounds.
Martin stood up with his hands out to silence the revolt. “It doesn’t matter how you feel about it. Each watch needs to be armed. This is one of those house rules I mentioned earlier.”
“But I’ve never even touched a gun before,” said Trish, almost as if it were a point of pride.
“Violence isn’t the way,” said Adam, sounding like he was quoting a protest sign.
“Well, violence might just have its way with you,” Martin said. “You just saw a hint of that next door. Nick wasn’t looking for trouble, but trouble came up his driveway just the same. You might be willing to take a fall for your beliefs, but it’s not just you anymore. Whoever is on watch is responsible for the whole household. Understand? It’s not about you anymore.”
“I’ve never fired a gun before,” protested Judy with reduced zeal.
“I intend to fix that,” said Martin. “Everyone meet out behind the woodpiles in thirty minutes.”
Martin had a small table set up beside a woodpile. Two paper targets were tacked to a heavy timber backstop twenty feet away. On the table were three handguns.
Adam, Trish, Susan and Judy approached the table with caution, as if expecting one of the guns to jump up and start firing on its own.
Martin held up the .22 revolver. “We’re going to start with this one. It’s not heavy and doesn’t have any real kick. It’ll be a good introduction piece. I know you’re all nervous about guns, but they’re just tools. Someone once said, all a gun does is make holes. Guns don’t cause insanity, they don’t spread disease or invite in demons. They’re just tools, like a drill. All a drill does is make holes too. Guns just make holes farther away.”
From the fidgeting, it did not seem his soft-talk had worked very well. “Okay. Before we begin, a few rules for safe gun handling. Safety is a priority. We all want to be safe, right?” Martin waited for nods to the obvious question. They nodded, but without enthusiasm.
“Three simple rules to always remember. First, treat every gun as if it were loaded. Even if you think it isn’t. Second, never point the muzzle at anything you don’t intend to hit. Keep the muzzle pointed in a safe direction at all times: Up, down, whatever, until you’re ready to fire. Third, keep your finger off the trigger until you’re ready to fire.”
Their eyes were wider. Perhaps he used too harsh of words — like ‘fire’. “Keep those three simple rules and everyone will be safe. Okay?” He waited for more nods, which were even less enthusiastic. He did not think he was off to a good start.
He showed them how to flip out the cylinder, and see that it was empty. He called Adam forward, thinking that he might be the least opposed to trying the revolver. Perhaps, Martin reasoned, if Adam shot first, it would encourage the other three.
“First off,” Martin said. “Let’s figure out which eye is your dominant eye.” Adam blinked at him blankly. “Go like this.” Martin made a triangle of his fingers. “Hold your hands out and look through the triangle at that tin can on top of the backstop.” All four made the triangle. “Okay, now stay focused on the can, and slowly bring your hands back to your face. Your triangle should land over your dominant eye.”
All four smiled at accomplishing that task. They did something, and it was not scary.
“That’s the eye you’re going to aim with.” He showed them the front and rear sights and how they should line up. He showed Adam how to hold the revolver with both hands, arms extended and to line up the sights on the black dot of the target. It must have seemed like a variation on yoga or pilates. All four seemed relaxed. They were just learning how to stand. Putting on the glasses and hearing protection started to make things suddenly serious again.
Martin put in a single round and handed the revolver to Adam. “Okay, now line up the sights on the dot and pull back gently and steadily on the trigger. Don’t jerk it back. This isn’t a water pistol that you have to pump.”
Adam extended his arms, lined up the sights and took several long minutes before he pulled the trigger. Pop! All four of them jumped.
“Hey! I did it!” Adam exclaimed. “I didn’t hit the paper, but I shot the gun! Did you see, Trish? Did you?”
Trish grudgingly agreed to go next. Seeing that her husband did not go insane, or become demon-possessed, she went through all the steps, with the same result. No hits on the paper. Judy wanted to shoot with her eyes closed. Martin had to explain at some length how a gun is not a firecracker. It will not simply make a loud noise, it will make a hole someplace. Her job, as a responsible gun-carrier is to know exactly where that hole will be.
Even if she never planned to hurt a person, but only try to frighten them, she was going to make a hole somewhere. She needed enough skill to be able to choose where that hole would be. That seemed to help. Judy fired a shot. There were still no hits on the paper.
“This is impossible,” said Trish. “There’s no way to control these things!”
“Yeah.” Judy chimed in. “We’re girls.” Adam frowned at being included.
Martin could see that there was too much fear in them. They were too tense, and pulling or anticipating the recoil. He could see that Adam’s masculine sense of conquering a challenge had been kindled, but the three women were stuck.
He got the idea of having Margaret shoot a few rounds. Perhaps if another woman handled a gun with confidence, they might too. He sent Judy up to the house. Margaret came down, her barn coat unzipped over her flour-spattered apron.
Martin explained that a little demonstration might help the others. Margaret took her favorite pistol from the table. Wordlessly, she demonstrated to all that it was empty. She put on her hearing protection and glasses. She pushed in a magazine and racked the bolt as if snapping a rubber band. She held the gun at low-ready until Martin said ‘go’.
Pop, pop, pop. She dumped the magazine, racked the bolt to empty the chamber and set the gun down, bolt open.
“Ha!” said Trish. “She missed the paper too.
Just proves it’s too hard.”
Martin knew better. He had Adam fetch the target paper. Adam walked back with wide eyes and showed the paper to Trish. All three holes were within the black dot.
“I wanna try her gun,” Trish said. “It works way better than this one.” Trish’s innate competitive spirit was overpowering her cultural indoctrination. That was a good sign.
Margaret rolled her eyes. She put two rounds into the little revolver. She sighted on the tin can. Pop. The can flew backward, landing between the legs of the backstop. Pop! It spun away into the leaves.
“I have to get back to my flatbread,” she told Martin. She emptied the casings from the cylinder and handed Trish the empty revolver. She walked back up to her flatbread.
“Okaaay,” said Martin. “I think we got two good lessons here. One is that it’s the person, not the gun, and two: girls can shoot.”
After that, Trish’s aim improved enough to get hits on the edges of the paper. She was still flinching in anticipation of the recoil. Judy still wanted to close her eyes, but compromised to keep one eye open. It was a start. She got excited too, when she made her first hole in the paper. Martin smiled at their progress. He was glad he stocked up on .22 rounds a couple years before the supply dried up. The group was going to need a lot more practice.
Susan continued to hang back, practicing chameleon skills. It did not work. Martin saw her anyway. Dustin took Adam to show him around for watch and to see if their practice shooting had attracted any attention. Judy had kitchen duty, so left to help Margaret. Trish stayed to encourage Susan. There was no one left to go ahead of her. It was her turn.
“I said I would have to get used to seeing them,” she protested. “Not shooting them.”
“It won’t be all that bad,” Martin assured. “I didn’t want to say it the other day, but ‘country people’ also know how to shoot. You saw Trish and Judy. They did great.” Trish beamed: she had hit the paper.
Martin showed Susan how to hold the revolver, but it was worse than a teen boy trying to hold a newborn. People can become very rubbery when asked to hold something they do not want to hold.
“No, no, no,” he corrected. “You can’t have your fingers up there like that. There’s a little gap between the cylinder and the barrel. Little sparks can leak out. No. Don’t drop it! It’s not that bad. It might just sting a little is all, but if your fingers are out of the way it won’t matter. Here, like this…” Martin tried to shape Susan’s free hand around her trigger hand. “You wrap the fingers of this hand around…”
He stopped suddenly. Both of them realized at the same moment, that he had her hands in his. They were warm. His cheek was near enough to hers to feel the warmth. Their startled eyes locked. A long moment passed.
“What will we do?” Her whisper sounded slightly afraid. It did not sound like she was talking about the revolver.
“I don’t know,” he whispered back. He felt a shiver between his shoulders.
“Are you two dancing, or what?” complained Trish. “Cumon. I wanna see if she can hit the paper or not.”
Chapter 10: Tin Man
“Excuse me,” Martin said, peeking around the bedroom door. “Just coming in for a book.”
“Okay,” Susan said softly.
Martin went straight to the bookcase, avoiding eye contact. “I’m looking for a book Jake gave me.” He rummaged through his ‘miscellaneous’ shelf of books that defied categorization.
“Ha. Here it is.” Martin was embarrassed that he had to blow dust off the top. Trapper’s Bible. “Jake gave me this. He likes to hunt and trap. I think he wanted us to have more in common.”
Susan stared at her book, also avoiding eye contact.
“Listen,” Martin said quietly. “At target practice yesterday. I wasn’t trying to…”
“That’s okay,” she half-whispered, looking at the wall. “I didn’t mind.”
It was getting warm. Martin assumed it was because he had his coat on indoors. “I’ve gotta go.” She only nodded.
“What are you rummaging for?” Margaret asked.
“Peanut butter.”
“It’s not even close to lunchtime,” she protested.
“Not for me. The book says to use peanut butter as bait. I’ve been reading in that book Jake gave me last Christmas. There’s a chapter on small animal snares. Figured I could…Ah ha. There it is.” He took down the jar.
“Figure you could what?”
“Maybe set some snares out back. If I can catch some squirrels or rabbits or something, it’ll be quieter and save our .22 rounds for practice. That bunch needs a lot of practice. See? I got a roll of wire from the workbench and some tools.”
“How much peanut butter are you planning to waste? It’s part of our supply of proteins, you know.”
“Waste? Such an optimist. But, the book made it sound like you only need a little. How’s this? Looks like about a tablespoon.”
“Okay,” she said reluctantly. “It better work. But, just peanut butter? Don’t you need something more substantial? What about these two flatbreads? They got a little dark and hard. I was going to give them to the chickens.”
“The book didn’t say anything about flatbread, but I’ll take them. Who knows? Maybe squirrels prefer little peanut butter sandwiches.”
Margaret swatted him on the shoulder. “You’re just mocking me now.” They shared a smile.
Martin crunched down the path to cross the little bridge and entered the pine woods. He scanned the ground for traces of animal runs, as the book described. Nothing looked like the illustrations in the book. Did he even have animals in his backwoods?
He knew squirrels cavorted in the trees along the swamp, so decided to try some snares there. He set up a leaning-pole on the big maple he bagged a squirrel on last time. Around the pole he twisted the wire, making loops like the book showed. A dab of peanut butter on the pole and he was finished. It all looked crude and not as tidy as the drawings. He hoped it would work.
While setting up another leaning-pole, he heard leaves rustling. Perhaps it was the squirrel he heard yesterday. Shooting a squirrel was less bush-craft-y than he wanted to be, but it was not a competition. The pot needed filled, regardless of method. He swung the .22 around and knelt in a good stable position. He waited for the squirrel to come bounding out of the brush. When it stood still to look around, he would squeeze off a shot — hopefully a head-shot this time.
The rustling never came closer. Martin grew curious and skeptical. He cautiously investigated.
“Oh hey,” said a startled Andy. “Sorry about straying back on your side of the line, Mr. Homeowner, sir.” Andy looked thinner and dirtier.
“Martin. My name is Martin.”
“Right. Um…Martin, sir.”
“No ‘sir’. Just Martin. Why are you here, Andy?” Martin sounded like a judge asking a defendant about his third DWI.
“Yeah, okay. No-sir Martin. Well, to be honest, ya see…things are getting kinda…well…it looked like a whole ton of cattail when we got there, but…well…we’re doing an eat-out, kinda just like the muskrats.” He hung his head as if confessing.
“You’re catching muskrats?” Martin did not know there were muskrats in the area. He thought the college kids might have some trapping tips.
“No, not eating them, eating like them. They go in cycles, ya know? Population grows when food is plentiful. Lots of cute little muskrat babies running around going cheep, cheep, cheep…or whatever sound it is they make. Never actually heard one, but they look so cute, I figured they had to sound cute too.”
“Go on.”
“Oh yeah. So, they keep multiplying and eating until they’ve eaten more than the land can sustain. They ‘eat out’ their habitat. Population crashes. The weak get sick and die. Most of the rest starve. Death. Dead muskrats all over.” Andy got a tragic look on his face. “We’re doing like the muskrats.”
“You’re running out of food in your camp?” Martin asked the
obvious to keep Andy talking. He wanted to know more.
“More like ran out. We dug up all the cattail we could find. The swamp pond is empty. We still find some roots, like this burdock I found back there. It was on the other side of the road, No-sir Martin: not on your side, so don’t get all mad and stuff.”
“I’m not mad, Andy, and it’s just Martin. Not no-sir Martin.”
“Oh, sorry. So, I thought maybe there were still some beechnuts under here that I didn’t see. Really sorry about being all tresspassy. Wasn’t trying to, like, stomp on your rights and all.”
If Andy looked that scruffy, Martin wondered about the rest of the group. “How are the rest of you doing?”
