THE TRASHMAN Read Free Page B

shotgun he set near the rope. A Mossberg 4+1. I opened it and saw a chambered round. A cloth bag he set on the ground beside it held more 12-gauge shells and a box of .22 long rifle bullets.
    “The pistol’s loaded, too, with a round in the chamber. The magazine holds ten.” He fished in his pocket. “Damn. Back away from the rope. I forgot to put the extra magazine in the bag.”
    I carried the weapons and radio into the workshop. The children sat at the table playing a card game. I went to a bench near an electrical receptacle to plug in the radio. Becky came to me and reached for the pistol. The whites of her eyes were red, but she’d calmed down. I leaned the rifle into the corner where the bench met the wall and checked to make sure the safety was on before handing her the .22.
    “You’ll need to show me how to use this.”
    I nodded agreement. “Let’s finish breakfast first. World coming apart or not, I’m starving.” I held off telling her the world had unraveled and that we probably didn’t have a Federal Government.
    We ate and then washed the containers the food came in. Although I was familiar with weapons from growing up in rural Georgia and from a short time in the army—they booted me out due to a bad knee—Becky and I didn’t own weapons.
    So we wouldn’t frighten the children, we told Jen and Will to stay inside and not to worry if they heard loud noises, that we’d be shooting at targets and it would sound like shooting on TV.
    The temperature had climbed some since morning and all we needed were lightweight jackets. Sam was on his front porch. I shouted to let him know we would be firing the pistol. He shouted back to plug away at a massive oak tree twenty yards from the rope at the front of the shop.
    I showed Becky where the safety was located on the .22 and then demonstrated firing it, talking her through the steps.
    “Honey, real life shooting isn’t like the movies where someone draws a pistol and starts blazing away. The object is to hit what you’re shooting at, and unless you’re a well-practiced sharpshooter, hitting a target, be it paper or a person, is harder than you’d think.
    “The first thing is to get comfortable on your feet. You want to face your target with one foot slightly in front of the other.”
    She glanced at my feet. “Does it matter which foot?”
    “I don’t know. Whichever feels best. Do you see the knot, looks like a big wart a couple of feet below the first limb? That’ll be the target.” I raised the pistol to point at the tree.
    “Now look at my hands. See how my free hand supports my gun hand. Notice both arms fully extended. Once your hands are set, undo the safety, take time to aim—lining up the sights onto the target—and slowly squeeze the trigger.”
    I lowered my arms, ejected the magazine so it wouldn’t auto-reload, and demonstrated the firing position again, this time actually letting off a shot at the knot. I hit the tree five inches down from it and three inches to the left.
    “You missed,” Becky said.
    I had to chuckle. “At this distance that was a fine shot with a pistol. Actually, I was close enough to the knot that if it were centered on a man’s chest he’d be in a world of hurt.”
    I showed her how to work the action to make sure there wasn’t a round in the chamber and then had her dry-fire the .22 a number of times. I explained about keeping her eyes open and letting her breath out as she aimed and why it was important to not jerk the trigger. That the point was to be surprised when the firing pin hit the bullet.
    I returned the magazine to the receiver and had her fire a round. She hit the tree in line with the knot, but a foot low.
    “Put the safety on and relax,” I instructed her.
    “I missed by a lot.”
    “Not really,” I told her. “I want you to shake your arms to loosen them and fire another round. Do everything the same as before, except aim a foot above the knot.”
    Her second shot was an inch to