Author and writer, living independently.
Author and writer, living independently.
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At the Range
The off-road Bug is waiting on the apron and after they climb in Chester says, “Just need the lap belt this time.” He arms the security system while the engine warms up. “Ever fired a gun?”
“Not in real life...” but Nate had ‘killed it’ in video games many times, except against Marcus’s brother... ....and of course there were those drone killings, which should count but he doesn’t want them to.
“Here’s your chance,” the man nods over his shoulder. The tiny back seat holds two rifle cases, a black bag with bulging cargo pockets, targets stapled to cardboard, and their lunch.
Huh. “We really gonna shoot guns?”
“Rifles and pistols. No piece of paper will be safe.”
Chester drives them snappily yet sedately along the runway. Nate had automatically braced his feet, then relaxed. The Bug pops along to the side road they had taken earlier, then tracks up to the dump in third, where the seagulls hardly react because they immediately turn off onto a side trail and putt onward.
They reach a clear area and Chester turns the car around, shuts it down and opens the door. “This gully dead-ends with a nice backstop.” There’s two high heavy tables, a wide bench, and in the distance a low steep hillside.
Nate wants to see the guns.
Chester puts both rifle cases on the rough weathered bench and unzips them for the boy to see. “Don’t touch them yet.”
Cool! The smaller rifle has a smooth wood stock and a scope that looks too big for it. The heavier rifle looks mean and serious, with a complicated black stock, ‘rails’ top and bottom, and an adjustable buttstock that sticks out on a tube. Its sight is a sturdy-looking little screen that sticks up like a tiny TV set.
Chester sets the range bag on one of the tables and lifts out boxes of ammo, magazines, and two pistols. One has a heavy barrel that reminds him of what the GIs carried in the old war movies, and the other is slender and long, like a stretched-out version of the Nazi pistols from those same movies.
Nate automatically reaches to touch them but Chester holds his hand away, “We’ll go through gun safety first.”
He makes sure he has Nate’s attention.
“The first rule is: A gun is always loaded and ready to fire unless you have just checked it and seen that it isn’t. It’ll kill somebody even without a magazine because there still might be a round in the chamber. So you do this,” he takes the GI pistol and locks its slide back, makes a show of looking into the ejection port, “Always look to make sure.” He holds it over for Nate to see inside, “See, that’s where the bullet goes. You have to look and know that it’s empty, and that there’s no magazine inserted.
“Second rule: Always keep it pointed away from anything you don’t want to shoot. Even if you’ve just checked to see it’s unloaded.” He makes sure he still has Nate’s serious attention. “Third rule: Your finger is always outside the trigger guard unless you want to immediately fire the weapon. Even if you think it’s unloaded. And the fourth rule: Be aware of what’s behind your target. Never shoot at anything unless you also want to shoot what’s around or behind it.”
He starts to hand the weapon to Nate, “This weapon is cleared. Double check that,” and doesn’t let go until Nate looks into the chamber. “Always point it away,” he reminds, and lets the boy have the pistol.
The heft of it settles into Nate’s hand. Cool. It feels solid and powerful. Chester takes it back briefly to ease the slide forward, and then it feels ready-to-go. Nate holds it out and sights along the barrel toward the hillside.
“Keep your trigger finger out. Lay it along the side of the weapon.”
Chester takes it back, “Here’s how you work the slide lock,” he demonstrates, “Pull the slide back and push this up to hold it open. When the chamber is empty, ease it closed like this. But if you’re chambering a round to fire, just let it spring forward on its own so that it seats the cartridge.”
Nate tries it, almost pinching his finger in the open hole because the spring pressure surprises him.
They go through the same process with the small rifle and Nate shoulders the ‘cleared’ weapon to look through the scope, keeping it pointed away like he’s been told.
“Finger off the trigger. Lay it out along the side of the trigger guard to keep it out of trouble. Never get that finger near the trigger unless you’re ready to fire, even if you don’t think you’re going to squeeze it yet. Even if you think it’s unloaded.”
Nate hands the rifle back and Chester asks, “Is it unloaded?”
“Yeah. I checked.”
“I don’t believe you.” The man checks it himself and gives Nate a meaningful eye, “This is serious stuff. When you hand off a weapon, it’s polite to clear it and lock the bolt open, making it easy for the person taking it to double-check the chamber. The rules keep you from accidentally hurting or killing anybody.”
Nate’s eyes widen and Chester reassures, “Don’t worry. We’re target shooting, not hunting. This is a sport of skill and care.”
They set up two targets, one ridiculously close and the other farther away near the small stack of rocks that marks twenty-five yards.
Chester loads toy-like cartridges into the magazines for the smaller pistol and rifle. “We’ll start with .22s, then go up to the .45 and .308 after you get used to it.” He hands safety glasses and earmuff hearing protectors to Nate, “Eyes and ears,” and dons his own while the boy discovers that you put the glasses on first, so the earmuffs can fit over the top.
He then demonstrates the target pistol with three shots to the farther target; feet planted apart, one slightly in front of the other, holding the pistol with both hands, arms out straight.
The snap of the shots echoes back from the nearby hills.
He shows how to work the safety, “Move it down, so it’s in the way.”
They walk to the target and Nate is surprised at the three neat little holes hidden in the black of the bullseye. Chester covers them with little squares of black masking tape.
Back at the shooting table, Nate aims at the closer target and is elated when he sees a little hole inside the largest ring, but this distracts him and the next two shots miss the paper entirely.
Chester shrugs and smiles, “You’re flinching.”
He teaches basic shooting skills. How to hold the pistol so each hand helps the other. How to work the trigger, “Don’t pull it. You don’t even squeeze it. If your grip is secure, all you need to do is reach your finger in and ease the trigger back until you’re surprised it fires.” And how to take a breath, let a little out and relax with it.
He draws a basic sight picture in the dirt, then they find Nate’s dominant eye. “Keep both eyes on that rock way over there. Okay, hold your finger out and cover it. Now, close just your left eye. Is your finger still covering the rock?”
“No.”
“Both eyes open again, and line up your finger. Now close just your right eye. Are they still lined up?”
“Yep.”
“The left one is your dominant eye. Always look at your front sight using your left eye. You can quickly blink the right one to make sure you’re looking through the left.”
It’s a lot to remember and Nate gets flustered, so Chester coaches him through a few shots.
“Now you got it,” the man reassures, “Here, I’ll give you a fresh mag... Now just take your time with each shot. Even set the pistol down in-between if you want. Get the feel of it.” He steps away and pretends to be busy with the rifles.
This is so outrageous. Nate squeezes... No. He takes a breath and regroups. Gets set again, and... his finger works separate from the rest of his hands. *Pop*, the pistol fires. He can’t see where it hit, but knows that it’s in the bullseye somewhere.
The rest of his shots fire off just as easily, but he can see that the hits are scattered.
At least there had been that one good one.
Chester counts the holes. “Ten. Got `em all on the paper.” His eyes glow and he nods.
“But only two in the middle...”
“Nonsense. For a first time, you’re almost a marksman.”
Nate has an even better time with the .22 rifle, quickly forgetting that it feels like a toy. Chester had plopped down a small sandbag for a forestock rest, and after Nate’s first five shots at the farther target, they go out to tape the holes and move it farther out next to another pile of rocks. The fifty yard line.
Nate likes the scope. It’s easy to aim and the crosshairs look really cool, similar to a drone’s selection cursor. At the farther distance his hits are more scattered, but all of them except one are within the circle. The rifle fires with a thu-whap that he can hardly feel, and he goes through three of the little box magazines.
“You’re about ready for varmint hunting,” Chester says, “Take a break.”
They wipe their hands with towelettes before exploring what Nettie packed for them. Thick million-grain sandwiches with rich meat and cheese bedded in crunchy greenery that tastes of mustard. Silly drinks that are almost but not quite like real sodas. An apple each.
It’s time to shoot again.
“I brought the big guns so you know what you’re in for.” Chester hands Nate a cartridge while he loads the magazine, and it rests heavy in his hand, no longer the toys he’d been firing.
They don eyes and ears. The breech of the .308 AR-10 is already open and Chester turns on the optics, slaps the full mag into place, and hands the rifle to Nate, “Weapon is ready to charge. Check it,” making sure to catch the boy’s eye, “Pull this charging handle back a smidge and let it go. Then that puppy’s ready to shoot. Settle in first and get set, pull it into your shoulder. Be careful. That trigger’s light and smooth, and it’ll kick.” With the rifles he had decided to keep it simple and not demonstrate the bolt locks.
It’s heavy and serious, and once he finds it, a bright red cross shows him the aim point on the tiny screen, just like in a video game except better, because the backdrop is real.
The kick hurts and the loud *Boom-Crack* ups the fun level. Nate hardly notices where he hit and just wants to do it again.
“Not too bad,” Chester says, “Take your time. Hug it into your shoulder more.”
That last tip helps, but after a few more shots Nate’s shoulder starts hurting as if it’s bruised. It’s a relief when the bolt locks open after the last shot. “Wow that was cool.”
“It’s a good shooter. Recoil would be worse if it didn’t have that muzzle brake.” Chester takes the rifle from him and points to the end of the barrel at a crude version of what was on his computer screen. It’s a simple cylinder with backward-pointing holes instead of the curved angled grooves. He sets the weapon aside so it’s barrel can cool.
The randomly scattered bullet holes are easy to see, even though the target is farther away. “Well I suck with that rifle,” Nate grouses.
“The bigger gun takes some getting used to,” Chester says. “I think you’re ready for the .45.” He passes over the 1911 pistol that has its slide locked open, “Weapon is clear.”
Nate checks the empty chamber. It’s big and easy to see.
Once loaded, the pistol is heavy. The first huge booming shot at the closer target takes him by surprise. He’s ready again but Chester puts his hand on Nate’s shoulder to stop him. “Remember the basics. Finger off the trigger, take a breath and sit with it, keep a firm grip but don’t choke, let your finger be free to move against the trigger.”
Nate’s next few shots are exhilarating, but Chester points out that his aim has gotten worse. The large holes are easy to see. He’s been flinching.
“Put the safety on.” The man takes the pistol and, “Here, try a fresh mag,” changes to a magazine that has a dummy round loaded on top. Hands the pistol back, “Careful. It’s loaded and ready to go. Just need to take off the safety.”
The already chambered shot goes up and to the right. The next one doesn’t fire but the pistol’s muzzle jerks up anyway.
“Flinching,” says Chester, “I snuck in a practice round.”
“Yeah...” Nate frowns at himself. Had the pistol started scaring him?
“Try getting on top of it. Lean forward more. Make the recoil feel good. It’s power. Start liking it.” Chester demonstrates, firing off three quick shots at the farther target with the muzzle hardly moving.
This is like the advice Nate’s wrestling coach had given him. He growls two breaths to pump himself up and carefully squeezes off a shot at his ridiculously close target. It’s better. He growls a breath and leans his palms into the pistol, moves his finger around before sticking it in and pressing the trigger.
A hole rips into the dark bullseye, easily seen.
He sends off two more slow careful shots, feeling the kick of the pistol as a source of power, and feeling good through the next magazine.
“That’s enough for today,” Chester says, and they go off to retrieve the targets. “Well, what do you think?”
“That was so wild...” Nate is worn numb.
“It gets better over time.”
“So... We’re practicing killing people?”
“If you want to look at it that way. But in its purest sense, target shooting is a sport.” He looks over at the boy, “You feel tired? Like you’ve had a workout?”
“Uh, yeah.” It’s funny. He really hadn’t done much, but his whole body aches. All he wants to do is rest and regroup. “Would you ever kill anybody?”
“If I had to. Almost no chance of it coming to that, though, if you use your head.”
“But you could.”
“I could also run over people with my car or troll them online. Lie, cheat, and steal. It’s moral choices.” Chester can see that the boy isn’t convinced. “Guns do make it easier to make bad choices,” he admits, “But they’re still bad choices. Wrong. Immoral...” He starts packing up, “That’s not what we’re doing out here.”
Nate is still stuck with his question. “There’s a lot of shootings,” he muses, “Guns are all over the place.”
“People use them for the wrong reasons.”
Nate squints at him, “They are made to kill people, right? That’s what people do with them.”
The man is silent. Thoughtful. Frowning. “You’re right.”
“So they’re bad... Just really fun.”
“It’s not the thing that’s bad. It’s the people.” Chester sighs, “It’s just... It’s all been so perverted. The second amendment is a constitutional right. Our freedom to defend against tyranny. But now companies pump out military-style guns and gear, and hype the fear, just to make lots of money.”
Chester starts scrutinizing the ground, bending and picking up spent cases. ‘Policing his brass’ to clean up after himself.
“The Violence Industrial Complex,” Nate recites from Social Societies class, and joins the search for spent cases. The .22 ones are hard to spot.
“Well, that’s a way of putting it,” the man observes, “And unfortunately true.” He drops his cases into a cloth bag, continues looking for more, cleaning up the site. “Lobbyists and big money. The foundation of our nation.”
Nate looks over and laughs, “You’re a flaming liberal.”
“A gun-toting flaming liberal. And I just want to target shoot like I always have, maybe get an antelope once in a while. It’s all been so twisted.” He’s done cleaning up. “Let’s get out of here and putz on home. Got some guns to clean.”
“Uh, thanks for letting me shoot.” Nate realizes that Chester had done all this just for him. The man hadn’t shot any for himself and it makes him profoundly embarrassed, grateful.
“You did really good. Come out a few more times and you’ll be able to hit anything you target.”