read "Bullseye Shooting".
Joey crept to the front door, peering into the adjacent windows. He clicked on the mag-lite and scoped out the interior--all was still. Joey knew Paulie, his manager, was on vacation somewhere in Wisconsin. Given the situation, Joey figured Paulie wouldn't mind an employee borrowing some stock. He half expected to find one of the other employees inside, looting.
SNIKT
The key slid in and turned with minimal fuss. The door creaked as Joey pushed it open with his foot, flashlight and gun in hand. He checked the storefront thoroughly before securing the front door. The basement door was locked and Joey left it that way, for now.
He went behind the counter, crouched down, and punched in the combination for the safe. It beeped--louder than ever before, Joey thought--and opened. He reached in and pulled out several boxes of 10mm jacked hollow-points, along with a bunch of empty clips. Laying everything on the counter, Joey started loading up the magazines.
KA-THUNK
Joey froze. It sounded like someone was downstairs. The basement was full of reloading supplies, workbenches, and store inventory--Joey's suspicion of looters seemed more plausible. When the sound didn't repeat, Joey finished loading the clips and stashed them in a black ammo pouch; he clipped the pouch to his belt.
Rounding the edge of the counter, Joey slid open a display case and retrieved a hefty jungle-style machete. He freed it from the canvas sheath and gave it a few swings.
Hell yeah . He grinned. This'll do some damage . He slid the sheath through his belt and tightened the adjustments. His eyes found the basement door and Joey concentrated, straining his ears for any noises--he didn't hear a thing.
He grabbed a leather bandoleer from the apparel section and threaded two-dozen shotgun shells through the loops. Reaching up above the rifle racks, Joey snagged a black 12 gauge Mossberg. He dropped a slug in the chamber, cocked it open, and loaded up five more. The final ka-chik gave him a rush.
The basement doorknob rattled.
Joey pushed the shotgun into his shoulder, taking aim at the door.
THUD
Something hit the door--hard. It kept hammering away, but the door didn't budge; Joey lowered the weapon.
Damn . Whoever was down there ain't alive anymore . He shook his head in dismay--who was it? Lenny? Mike? He didn't want to know. Fully equipped and feeling confident, Joey turned away from the basement door, took two steps, and froze in mid-stride.
Flashlights shone through the front windows--at least three. Joey stepped back behind the counter, ducking into the shadows.
They tried the door; the lock rattled from the force of several blows. A boot thudded against the heavy wood. Some hushed voices… Joey couldn't make out what they were saying.
The basement door thudded; the knob spun back and forth. The people outside must have heard it, because they fell silent and flashlights poked through the dark store. Joey's hands were sweaty on the Mossberg; he swallowed and mopped spots of sweat from his forehead.
He heard wood cracking, groaning--they were forcing the door with a knife or crowbar.
Shit . I hope they ain't packin' . Joey rested the shotgun on the counter-top, taking aim at the center of the front door. He made sure the Glock was loose in its holster and the machete was ready to rock.
The door gave way with a rending snap; fragments of wood broke free and bounced on the carpet.
THUD-THUD-THUD-THUD
Whatever was in the basement drummed incessantly. All the flashlights fixed on the door. Three silhouettes stood just outside the front entrance; they wielded crowbars, bats, and knives--no guns in sight.
"There's one of them things in there," a guy said. His voice wavered; he gulped and took a short step back.
"Don't be a pussy, John." A big guy stepped over the threshold, his lower stomach protruding over stone-washed
Joey crept to the front door, peering into the adjacent windows. He clicked on the mag-lite and scoped out the interior--all was still. Joey knew Paulie, his manager, was on vacation somewhere in Wisconsin. Given the situation, Joey figured Paulie wouldn't mind an employee borrowing some stock. He half expected to find one of the other employees inside, looting.
SNIKT
The key slid in and turned with minimal fuss. The door creaked as Joey pushed it open with his foot, flashlight and gun in hand. He checked the storefront thoroughly before securing the front door. The basement door was locked and Joey left it that way, for now.
He went behind the counter, crouched down, and punched in the combination for the safe. It beeped--louder than ever before, Joey thought--and opened. He reached in and pulled out several boxes of 10mm jacked hollow-points, along with a bunch of empty clips. Laying everything on the counter, Joey started loading up the magazines.
KA-THUNK
Joey froze. It sounded like someone was downstairs. The basement was full of reloading supplies, workbenches, and store inventory--Joey's suspicion of looters seemed more plausible. When the sound didn't repeat, Joey finished loading the clips and stashed them in a black ammo pouch; he clipped the pouch to his belt.
Rounding the edge of the counter, Joey slid open a display case and retrieved a hefty jungle-style machete. He freed it from the canvas sheath and gave it a few swings.
Hell yeah . He grinned. This'll do some damage . He slid the sheath through his belt and tightened the adjustments. His eyes found the basement door and Joey concentrated, straining his ears for any noises--he didn't hear a thing.
He grabbed a leather bandoleer from the apparel section and threaded two-dozen shotgun shells through the loops. Reaching up above the rifle racks, Joey snagged a black 12 gauge Mossberg. He dropped a slug in the chamber, cocked it open, and loaded up five more. The final ka-chik gave him a rush.
The basement doorknob rattled.
Joey pushed the shotgun into his shoulder, taking aim at the door.
THUD
Something hit the door--hard. It kept hammering away, but the door didn't budge; Joey lowered the weapon.
Damn . Whoever was down there ain't alive anymore . He shook his head in dismay--who was it? Lenny? Mike? He didn't want to know. Fully equipped and feeling confident, Joey turned away from the basement door, took two steps, and froze in mid-stride.
Flashlights shone through the front windows--at least three. Joey stepped back behind the counter, ducking into the shadows.
They tried the door; the lock rattled from the force of several blows. A boot thudded against the heavy wood. Some hushed voices… Joey couldn't make out what they were saying.
The basement door thudded; the knob spun back and forth. The people outside must have heard it, because they fell silent and flashlights poked through the dark store. Joey's hands were sweaty on the Mossberg; he swallowed and mopped spots of sweat from his forehead.
He heard wood cracking, groaning--they were forcing the door with a knife or crowbar.
Shit . I hope they ain't packin' . Joey rested the shotgun on the counter-top, taking aim at the center of the front door. He made sure the Glock was loose in its holster and the machete was ready to rock.
The door gave way with a rending snap; fragments of wood broke free and bounced on the carpet.
THUD-THUD-THUD-THUD
Whatever was in the basement drummed incessantly. All the flashlights fixed on the door. Three silhouettes stood just outside the front entrance; they wielded crowbars, bats, and knives--no guns in sight.
"There's one of them things in there," a guy said. His voice wavered; he gulped and took a short step back.
"Don't be a pussy, John." A big guy stepped over the threshold, his lower stomach protruding over stone-washed
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