was dropping low in the sky, south of Hoover Dam, when Shay woke up from a hard nap, feeling unprepared.
“If I’m going to threaten a U.S. senator with a gun, I need to look like I know what I’m doing,” she said, squeezing the pillow from Cruz to her chest. “Plus, I should probably learn where that safety thing is. You know, learn how
not
to shoot somebody.”
“You’ve never handled a gun?” asked Cruz, draining a can of Coke and holding his highway speed to a law-abiding seventy-five.
“Nope.”
“Then we best find ourselves some wide, wide open space,” he said.
They were over the Nevada border and fifteen miles into Arizona Red Rock Country, where about the only living things were lizards, buzzards, and small packs of bony wild horses. Cruz swerved off the highway at the next exit—one shuttered gas station—and took another quick turn down a ranch road that showed a thin sheen of gravel over the tan desert soil. Fenfang and X, dozing beside each other in the backseat, felt the change of texture and woke up.
“Where are we?” Fenfang asked.
“Out in the desert,” Cruz said. “We’re going to shoot the gun.”
“Why?”
Shay turned her head. “In case I ever have to.”
Two or three miles in, Cruz found a shallow arroyo with a cut bank that would work for target practice. He drove on for another mile, making sure that they weren’t close to a ranch house, then turned back to the arroyo, and they all climbed out. As X sniffed around for the perfect place to pee, Cruz walked his Coke can down the arroyo maybe twenty feet and braced it against the weedy bank.
Then he went to get the .45 from the truck, a chunk of black steel that smelled of oil and something else, something sharper and metallic. West had given him the gun in the minutes before the raid on the Singular prison, and while he’d pulled it out of his waistband when the gunfire between West and a guard erupted, he hadn’t fired it. Instead, at West’s urging, he’d pulled Shay out of the building to safety—and been left to wonder if he might have saved them both if only…
Back to the gun:
“These are very simple machines,” he said, holding it up in front of the girls’ faces. X stood between Shay and Fenfang, looking up at the gun, his head cocked to one side. “There’s a barrel, there’s a chamber to hold the bullet, there’s a hammer that hits the firing pin that hits the primer, which is a little metal button on the back of the cartridge, and that shoots off a spark that fires the gunpowder that shoots the slug out the barrel.”
The butt of the gun held a magazine, which in turn held seven cartridges with copper-plated slugs that each had a bowl-shaped indentation in the tip.
He popped a cartridge out of the magazine and showed them the primer, the small round silver cap in the center of the back end of the cartridge. “The firing pin hits this, and boom.”
“But they’re safe to handle?” Shay asked.
“Sure. You could walk around with them loose in your pants pocket and it’d be really weird if one of them went off—not that I think you should do that,” Cruz said as he thumbed the cartridge back into the magazine. He smacked the magazine back into the grip.
“You hold the gun with both hands,” he said. “Think about pointing it, rather than aiming it. Think about pointing your finger.”
He gave the gun to Shay, who pointed it at the can. “Not as heavy as I thought it would be,” she said. She touched the trigger with her index finger. “Shoot now?”
“No. This kind of gun you need to cock before you can fire,” Cruz said. He took the gun back and showed them how that was done, pushing the slide back so they could see the cartridge ready to load into the gun’s firing chamber, then letting the slide slam forward.
“Now it’s loaded and ready to fire.” He pointed the gun at the can and said, “Click off the safety here….” He did that. “And fire….”
BANG!
The
“If I’m going to threaten a U.S. senator with a gun, I need to look like I know what I’m doing,” she said, squeezing the pillow from Cruz to her chest. “Plus, I should probably learn where that safety thing is. You know, learn how
not
to shoot somebody.”
“You’ve never handled a gun?” asked Cruz, draining a can of Coke and holding his highway speed to a law-abiding seventy-five.
“Nope.”
“Then we best find ourselves some wide, wide open space,” he said.
They were over the Nevada border and fifteen miles into Arizona Red Rock Country, where about the only living things were lizards, buzzards, and small packs of bony wild horses. Cruz swerved off the highway at the next exit—one shuttered gas station—and took another quick turn down a ranch road that showed a thin sheen of gravel over the tan desert soil. Fenfang and X, dozing beside each other in the backseat, felt the change of texture and woke up.
“Where are we?” Fenfang asked.
“Out in the desert,” Cruz said. “We’re going to shoot the gun.”
“Why?”
Shay turned her head. “In case I ever have to.”
Two or three miles in, Cruz found a shallow arroyo with a cut bank that would work for target practice. He drove on for another mile, making sure that they weren’t close to a ranch house, then turned back to the arroyo, and they all climbed out. As X sniffed around for the perfect place to pee, Cruz walked his Coke can down the arroyo maybe twenty feet and braced it against the weedy bank.
Then he went to get the .45 from the truck, a chunk of black steel that smelled of oil and something else, something sharper and metallic. West had given him the gun in the minutes before the raid on the Singular prison, and while he’d pulled it out of his waistband when the gunfire between West and a guard erupted, he hadn’t fired it. Instead, at West’s urging, he’d pulled Shay out of the building to safety—and been left to wonder if he might have saved them both if only…
Back to the gun:
“These are very simple machines,” he said, holding it up in front of the girls’ faces. X stood between Shay and Fenfang, looking up at the gun, his head cocked to one side. “There’s a barrel, there’s a chamber to hold the bullet, there’s a hammer that hits the firing pin that hits the primer, which is a little metal button on the back of the cartridge, and that shoots off a spark that fires the gunpowder that shoots the slug out the barrel.”
The butt of the gun held a magazine, which in turn held seven cartridges with copper-plated slugs that each had a bowl-shaped indentation in the tip.
He popped a cartridge out of the magazine and showed them the primer, the small round silver cap in the center of the back end of the cartridge. “The firing pin hits this, and boom.”
“But they’re safe to handle?” Shay asked.
“Sure. You could walk around with them loose in your pants pocket and it’d be really weird if one of them went off—not that I think you should do that,” Cruz said as he thumbed the cartridge back into the magazine. He smacked the magazine back into the grip.
“You hold the gun with both hands,” he said. “Think about pointing it, rather than aiming it. Think about pointing your finger.”
He gave the gun to Shay, who pointed it at the can. “Not as heavy as I thought it would be,” she said. She touched the trigger with her index finger. “Shoot now?”
“No. This kind of gun you need to cock before you can fire,” Cruz said. He took the gun back and showed them how that was done, pushing the slide back so they could see the cartridge ready to load into the gun’s firing chamber, then letting the slide slam forward.
“Now it’s loaded and ready to fire.” He pointed the gun at the can and said, “Click off the safety here….” He did that. “And fire….”
BANG!
The
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