by Joey Ruff
“What did you bring?” I asked.
“You’ll fucking see,” he said, with a grin.
The gun range was beside the hedge maze, so we stopped at the maze, first. At one time, the garden at the center of the maze had held every possible expensive, beautiful and exotic flower that would survive in the Washington state climate, but in more recent years had been converted to a menagerie of plants and herbs to make a voodoo man like Solomon Huxley green with envy. Jono and I had been hunting the Midnight on our own for over ten years now, and while I wasn’t exactly adept at potion making, I did have a library of books that served as recipes and could come through in a pinch. I found that many of the ingredients were better to have on hand for just such an occasion.
We didn’t spend long in the garden, but I was getting a sense of pride from showing off the various features of my inheritance. Not only that, but I was enjoying it. After the garden, we moved over to the range.
He pulled the cases from the back of the Rhino and carried them over. Unlike some of the other things I’d shown London, the range wasn’t fancy. It didn’t need to be. It was a simple, open-air range with paper targets mounted at twenty, fifty, and one hundred yards, all built into the side of a hill. Four shallow stalls lined up next to each other, each having a counter, a stool, and a roof overhead. Although, I did have a bath house, complete with electricity and plumbing, as well as a fridge stocked with pop and beer.
As I went over and grabbed a couple cold longnecks, London opened the first of his cases. What he pulled out looked like something Rambo would carry. There were two rifles. The first was all black metal, and about as long as my forearm, with a longer, narrow barrel that stuck out maybe a foot from the rest of it. With the large telescope on the top, it looked like something a sniper would use. He held it up briefly for me to see, then immediately went to work on it, unfolding the buttstock and opening the tripod that was mounted under the barrel. He talked the entire time he handled the weapon, just like the salesman that he was.
“This here’s an LSAT. You know what that is, brother?” I didn’t, but he didn’t give me a chance to answer anyway. “It’s a light machine gun – 5.56 mm cased telescoped ammo. She spits out 650 rounds a minute, and she’s belt-fed, but only about one hundred rounds on the belt. What I fucking love about this bitch is how anorexic she is. Can you believe she’s 40% lighter than a SAW? This bitch weighs only 9.8 pounds naked. My dick weighs more than that,” he added with a wry grin. “You feel me.”
He set the gun down on the counter of the nearest stall and picked up the second gun. This one was more of a desert brown color, and it was shorter and thicker than the first.
“This little lady is a Honey Badger. It gets its name because it’s pretty badass, ya feel me. Honey Badger don’t fucking care, brother. It doesn’t give a shit. This bitch will fuck you up.” He laughed long and hard for a minute. It must’ve been a joke I didn’t get.
“I just call her Honey. This bitch was developed with a standard M4 upper and lower receiver, a short barrel with a very short gas impingement system and fast rate of rifling twist, detachable customized silencer, and a collapsible stock.”
“I’m not much of a gun person,” I told him. “I can shoot one, sure, but I just see a couple of machine guns there, and…”
“Hold the fuck on, brother. The LSAT is a machine gun,” he said, pointing to the first. “But the fucking Honey Badger is an assault rifle. You gotta respect.”
“What’s the difference?”
He laughed. I didn’t. He must’ve realized I was serious, then, because he stopped, cleared his throat and said, “Assault rifles use fucking magazines usually around 20-50 rounds. Machine guns are usually bigger, and designed to fucking provide supporting fire for a whole fucking squad. Laura here,” he pointed to the LSAT, “is belt fed, not magazine, and she has two modes. Safety and fuck your mother. That’s what we called it in the Corps.” He laughed. “Because she’s so horny she doesn’t care if you’re related and she won’t stop ‘til she’s spent.” He laughed harder this time.
“Honey swings both ways, semi and full auto.”
He set the second gun down next to the first. “That seems like a lot of firepower to just keep on-hand,” I told him.
He shrugged. “No such thing as too much firepower, brother. Just you fucking wait ‘til the government comes to try to take them all away.”
He looked at me as though waiting for a response, so I nodded.
He smiled. “So, anyway, what I got over here…” He pulled out another long case and opened it up, pulling out an even bigger gun with an even bigger barrel than anything I’d seen. “…is a more recent purchase. After that one bloke with the Bel Air at the fucking mall. I can’t be having no hipster bitch out-doing me on my fucking arsenal, brother.”
“You mean, Cassiday?” Sure enough, the weapon he was holding looked nearly identical to the weapon that was mounted on the back of Cassiday’s 1957 Chevrolet Bel Air convertible. Cars, I did know, and it was nearly a crime what he had done to his, turning it into something the A-Team would drive.
“This is Emily. She’s a fucking M2 Browning .50 Cal, brother. This bitch is a fucking Machine Gun, but I ain’t using any of that pussy tripod business here.” He held it up so I could see it. It was a big gun, and if London had been any smaller than six-foot-three, three hundred plus pounds, he may have strained under the weight. “I’ve converted her into a sniper rifle, using a bolt-on pistol grip kit that converts the M2 to fire semi-automatically, activating the fucking trigger on the side plate, which helps at aiming at stationary targets. They say you can hit targets at over 2000 fucking yards with her like this, but I’m only accurate to about 1600.”
“Well, the furthest target out there’s only 100 yards, so that’s maybe a little overkill.”
When he set the gun back in its case, I asked, “How much does that thing weigh?”
He shrugged. “Don’t know. ‘Bout a hundred pounds or so?” He laughed suddenly. “You think that’s overkill? I also bought a RG-6 after that shit at the mall, brother. Fuck shit up real quick with that bitch.”
“I don’t know what that is.”
“You…what? What the fuck has Swyftt been showing you, brother. The RG is a…well, think of a fucking revolver, right? Except that it shoots grenades. My fucking GI Joes had those bitches. They are NTBFW. Not To Be Fucked With. But I didn’t bring it, which is sad.”
“Did you name her, too?”
“Fuck yes, I named her. Rita. Rita G.” He just stared at me. “Get it? It’s fucking good, right?”
“It’s awesome,” I said with a smile. He was so proud that I didn’t want to admit I had no idea what he was referring to.
“Because she was a fucking Playboy bunny, ya feel it.”
I only nodded, not wanting him to know I had no idea what he was talking about.
He lifted the last case and said, “But I did bring this.” He pulled out the metal briefcase, and opened it to show me a backpack that looked like something out of an old science fiction movie. There were tubes and a wand-like gun. I did know what that was.
“Is that an M2?” I asked.
“Fuck yes.” He slapped my shoulder with one of his large hands. “Guess you do know your weapons, after all.”
“I know my war,” I admitted. “My grandfather used a flamethrower. He was Infantry.”
“Alright,” he said, a look of awe on his face. He turned to the briefcase as he said, “Then you’d better try this bitch on.” The backpack was composed of three tanks, the two larger holding the gasoline fuel, while the third, smaller tank, held the Nitrogen propellant which streamed the flames over seventy feet.
I tried it on, feeling the weight on my shoulders. “It’s full?” I asked.
“Fuck, yes, brother. Pull that trigger and we’re having barbecue for dinner.”
I shook my head. “No thanks.”
“How does it feel?” he asked.
I sh
rugged. “It’s heavy. Where did you get it?”
“I got her for a steal, brother. They went obsolete with the fucking flame tanks. They were practically giving this shit away. I bought a cool dozen for the shop. Not sure when the demand will strike, but I hadn’t gotten a chance to try it out yet. Maybe we can set up some scarecrows or some shit?”
I flexed my shoulders. While I didn’t much care for guns, I had to admit, there was something awesome about knowing you were strapped into a live flamethrower. When I was little, I would sit in my grandpa’s lap and he would tell me stories. Not his stories, mind you. He would freeze up whenever you asked him about the things he did in the war, but he would tell me stories about some of the others in his platoon. Men he called Ferrets, as they were sent in to the trenches, using the columns of flame to scorch the enemy gunners from their bunkers. In my head, as a kid, it was a romantic notion. The Ferrets became heroes to me, sneaking up to the trench line and clearing the enemy force so your army could advance.
He didn’t like that I was infatuated with the idea of war. He tried to impart to me the horror of those actions. The smell of burning flesh, the guttural wails of men burning to death. He said it wasn’t a hero’s job, being a Ferret. It was very dangerous, wearing a tank on your back, running through a field where bullets were flying all around you. Several times, he witnessed soldiers suddenly ignite under their own load as a stray bullet nicked the tank on their back.
I thought of all of that as I wore the tank, and suddenly became uneasy wearing it, knowing the device I carried was capable of such evils. “It was the worst thing we could’ve come up with,” he had told me once. “Until the bomb, of course, but it was a necessary evil. The Germans were using the damn things since the first war.”
I slipped out of the pack and handed it back to him. “It’s cool,” I said.
“Fucking A,” London said.
“Maybe I’ll buy one from you,” I told him. Then quickly added, “Empty, of course. Just to keep on-hand for sentimental reasons.”
“Okay,” he said. “And then, if those fucking squiddly bitches attack again, you’ll be ready.”
“I don’t know if I’d use it. Even on the Kittim.”
“I’ll be mother-fucked if I walk into something like that again with my dick in my hand.”
He put the flamethrower back in its case, and I handed him one of the beers. He took a swig. “Good,” he said.
“It’s local. Craft brew.”
“You do shit right,” he said. “This house. This beer.”
I took a swig of my beer and said, “Why don’t you load those things and let’s see who can hit what. Finish your beer, and we’ll shoot the bottles.”
His face lit up. “Now you’re talking.”
I took the gun, just a .45 Colt, something I was somewhat familiar with, and got down into a firing stance. I aimed at the first target and pulled the trigger. I didn’t think I hit it. I wasn’t a very good shot. It wasn’t that I was uncomfortable using a gun, I just preferred other methods. My entire life as a hunter, I’d just preferred using my hands. I was pretty strong, after all.
I fired off a few more rounds, missing the target every time. Apparently, London had been watching me, and he started chuckling.
“You’re not going to hit anything like that, brother.”
“You got some pointers then?”
“Does Madonna got pointy tits?”
I laughed a little, unsure of the answer, but guessing, at least in his mind, that she did. He sidled up beside me with a pistol of his own. “First thing, brother. Keep your wrists tight. Otherwise, they move around with the backlash. Second, what eye do you use to aim?”
“Well, I’m right-handed, so…”
“Eye dominance is not the same as hand dominance. You shoot for shit with the right eye. Close that fucking right eye and aim with your left.”
I did, lining up the sights in my left eye. “It feels awkward.”
“Sure, it does. You ever spank it with your left hand? It’s weird as shit, but it don’t make it wrong. You’ll get used to it. Give it a try.”
I pulled the trigger. The bullet hit the edge of the target.
“Check your breathing. Keep it even. Just before you pull the trigger, hold it.”
“Hold…my breath?”
He nodded. I did it. The next bullet hit just right of center.
“That’s fucking it, brother. Keep practicing. You’ll get the hang of it.”
After a few minutes of firing and several magazines worth of ammo, I looked at London and said, “Jono and I used to do this all the time. We haven’t in years.”
“What happened?”
“I don’t know. Just got busy, I guess. Life happens. Maybe I lost interest because I wasn’t that good. Jono never told me the tricks.”
“Fuck life, brother. You gotta make time for the little things or what the fuck good is life anyway, ya feel me.”
Just then, my pocket began to vibrate, and I pulled my phone out, seeing that Jono was calling. “Speak of the devil,” I said. I answered it. “I was wondering how long it would take before you would be calling me.”
“Hello, to you, too,” he said. He sounded like hell, which I had learned not to read too much into. It seemed to be his default setting these days. “I just sent you a picture.”
“I’m kind of in the middle of playing host at the moment. Thanks a lot for not calling off London, by the way.”
“I knew you’d enjoy the company.”
“Tell him I said hey,” London said.
“He says hi,” I said into the phone.
“I’m going to keep shooting,” London said. I nodded, hobbling over to the Rhino.
“Did you see the picture yet?” Jono asked.
I leaned back against the Rhino with a sigh. “Hang on.”
I pulled the phone from my ear and opened up my text menu, seeing the thumbnail image of the picture in question. I made it full screen, and saw the red circle, kind of like the top of a beach umbrella, with a big X in the center. “I got it,” I said.
“You recognize it?”
“Should I?”
“I don’t fucking know. Maybe you came across something like that in your exploits with the Rat Pack?”
I stifled a laugh. After spending some time with London, who was more innocent and purposeful than Swyftt, even if a bit more coarse, Jono’s attitude was nothing less than annoying. “You’re hilarious.”
“You recognize it or not?”
“I don’t. Sorry.”
Behind me, London said, “It’s cool if I shoot, right, brother? It won’t fucking bother you?”
“No, it’s okay,” I told him. “I’ll just be a minute. You go ahead.”
“What the fuck are you doing?” Jono asked.
London shot.
“Are you okay?” Jono asked. He didn’t sound concerned, more annoyed.
Behind me, London swore and laughed. “I think that was dead-center,” he said. He shot again.
“Yeah,” I said into the phone. “Good. London and I are just at the range. He brought a few of his newer guns. Might as well make the most of it, right? Since you sent him to check on me.”
“Great. Sure. Can you check the fucking symbol and let me know?”
“Yeah. I’ll check it, Jono. I’m not sure when. I’ve got some stuff here I’m sorting through here, too. Plus, I’m not by the house right now, and I’m not exactly getting around too quickly. Give me a little bit, okay.”
“Whatever,” he said. “What do you mean, your own stuff?”
For a moment, I considered blowing him off the way he did to me so many countless times. In the end, I said, “Have you heard of an Ouroboros?”
He seemed to consider that a minute. “Sounds like something, but can’t place it. Where did you hear it?”
“It’s definitely something,” I said. “Chess said it. I’ll figure it out.”
London pulled the trigger. The gun�
�s report left my ear ringing for a second.
“Well, you’re fucking occupied,” Swyftt said. “I’ll let you get back to it.” He sounded really hurt. I didn’t know what it was. Just a crack in his voice. Like he was about to cry, or maybe had been crying.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
“Fan-fucking-tastic, mate. I’ve just had the best day of my life so far. Too bad you couldn’t come with. I almost got to eat alligator, but the sodding bacon was made from pig. Can you believe it?”
London fired off another shot.
I wasn’t sure what Jono was talking about. “Bacon’s supposed to come from a pig,” I said. I was starting to get a little worried.
“Not you, too. Piss off, Ape.”
The line went dead before I could say anything else. I stared at the phone for a minute, wondering if I should try to call him back. He sounded in a bad way.
London came over to me, Honey in one hand, and a couple fresh, cold ones in the other. “Everything okay?” he asked, handing me a beer.
I shrugged, pocketing the phone. I should be used to Jono by now. He’d been living with me for over a decade now. “I guess. I think something happened. He’s been acting weird lately. Even for him.”
“Swyftt’s a big boy. I’ve seen him handle some of the meanest bitches around. He’ll be okay.”
“How long have you known him?”
“Shit. That little fucker and I go way fucking back. I was there on his first case. First one, dammit. Just took the training wheels off. He was a bad-ass back then, too. Course, he wasn’t like your typical vanilla, feel me?” He took a long swig. “Shit, that was crazy shit, too. Nagas in Russia. Shit went sideways, quick. Even as a rookie, that motherfucker saved my fucking life. That was fucking twenty years ago. After that, let’s see, there was the thing in Berlin. Another with some fucking wizard and a dragon. Just a little, baby dragon. That shit was crazy. Nagas again. Hell, we fought those little bitches so many times. There was the grindylow, the little ice monster things, the wolves.” He took another sip. “I don’t fucking know, brother. Probably a few I’m missing. We been on more missions together than anyone, except him and Huxley. He was a fucking great partner. He’s one to have in your corner, that’s for damn sure. You lucked out there.”
