He thumbed the last round into the magazine and slid it into the gun. Next he racked the slide, turned off the safety and took careful aim. A slow deliberate squeeze of the trigger and the gun went off. Johnny repeated the slow squeeze for the remaining fourteen rounds before he stopped to evaluate what he’d done.
The shots were all over the place, but at least 90% of them were on the paper this time. Not bad for someone who up until a few weeks ago had never held a gun let alone fired one.
He ejected the mag and began the reloading process again. Johnny put the mag back into the gun, his gun, his late father’s gun.
He released the slide and turned off the safety. He took aim and squeezed the trigger. The whole process was becoming more familiar, more fluid. Part of him, the part that had just wanted a regular life, wondered at the ease with which he learned this new skill. Another part, from his father?, was annoyed with his clumsiness with the weapon and slow pace at which he still had to take with each step.
“People died” that part says to him.
“Your friends were hurt because you didn’t know what you were doing. Would you mess around with an unknown drive train before a race? But you thought it was okay to get into a gun fight after watching a bunch of TV and looking up some FAQ’s on the internet.”
His sights waver, he sets the gun down and takes a breath. Not his fathers, just the perfectionist that pushed him to learn all he could about motors. The part of Johnny that would push him to work on a bike till it was done or he fell asleep standing up.
Another deep breath and he finishes off the mag.
He wants to continue but the throbbing in his hands plus the three empty boxes of ammo tell him he’s done for the day.