Under the weight of my artillery, I puffed out my chest. “You bet.”
He clicked his tongue. “No heroics, Evie.”
We didn’t enter the house. The best way to identify a threat inside was to check for compromised entry points. As we crossed the yard, I remembered the day Joel gave me my first carbine. Before he took me to the range, he ensured that I knew how to handle it tactically. He showed me low ready, muzzle down when not ready to shoot. And high ready, barrel up while looking for or locking on a target and expecting a fire fight.
Carbines in high ready, we crept around the house. I approached the bends and sliced off each piece of the corner as I went. Like slicing a pie. It enabled me to visually clear most of the new view while still remaining covered.
At the second corner, I asked, “Why do I need the side-arm and shotgun, in addition to the carbine?”
He trolled the dense trees through his scope. “Everyone prefers to shoot with a carbine, because you can plow through your ammo and your threat with a more accurate, longer reaching and heavier hitting round. However, let’s say you are going along…” He aimed his carbine at the shed and mimed shooting. “Pop, pop, pop, click. Your carbine goes dry. Instead of dropping mag and reloading, to continue to get bullets down range it’s easier to immediately draw your side arm.”
Made sense.
He looked at me from the corner of his eye. “Your pistol’s only good as a last resort concealable close-range weapon. Got it?”
“Got it. And the shotgun?”
Duh was written across his face. “Because you can blow a huge ass hole in almost anything at close range.”
Duh indeed. We continued to the next corner. The property appeared secure until we rounded the final side.
Squatting along the tree line about fifty yards away waited seven…eight…nine aphids. Under the twilight, they glowed neon green as if they’d developed radioactive herpes. I pressed the butt of the carbine into my shoulder and held its eight-pound weight steady. A deep inhale filled my nostrils with the scent of gun oil.
Thirty rounds. Nine targets. If I fired accurately, I could go with the three-shot rule. Two in the chest, one in the head.
I looked through the reflex sight of the carbine, exhaled and squeezed the trigger. The first bug squealed and rolled. Twenty-seven rounds. I took down three more aphids. Why wasn’t Joel’s carbine firing next to me? I squeezed again with a trained exhale.
Despite the queer buzzing in my ears, I slipped into a zone. Five aphids remained and how many rounds? Shit, I lost count. But I didn’t let it distract me. The damn things dropped like flies. As if they couldn’t see where the gun fire came from.
One mutant remained, hunkered next to its fallen comrades. I wanted a closer look and decided to take it. I swiveled my head to look at Joel behind me.
“Evie. Evie. What the fuck are you shooting at? Give me the gun.”
I returned his puzzled expression with one of my own. “There’s still one left.”
“One what?” He reached for my carbine.
Then it dawned on me. He couldn’t see them. I angled the gun out of his reach and took off toward the trees.
Ten feet from the lone survivor, I dropped to low ready and freed the Maglite. When I clicked it on, the bug straightened and looked in my direction. Aggression sprayed in a mist of drool. Its porcelain eyes reflected against my light. That drooling atrocity didn’t have night vision. Pupils dilated in the dark to let in light and the tiny aphid pupil didn’t dilate.
It ramped to spring and spat more snot. I killed the light. I wanted to knife that one.
I reached for the dagger in my forearm sheath and startled when Joel’s pistol popped on my left. The aphid crumpled to the ground. Its neon glow dulled. Without lowering his pistol, Joel released his Maglite. I could see his profile in the light’s halo, his eyes searching the nine bodies that lay at our feet. “How did you…I didn’t see them—”
“Joel, look at me.”
He put his arm across my chest and backed us up without lowering his pistol. Ten paces back, he stopped and met my eyes.
“I’m not fucking helpless. Stop being so overprotective. You gave me all that training. You gave me these knives.” I shook my arm at him. “Let me fucking use them.”
He blinked at me. “I know you’re trained, but you’re fucking dangerous.” A sigh. “Yet here you are, proving yourself again…” His eyes darted around. I waited while he worked it out.
Eventually, his muscled arm yanked me against his chest, squeezing. His lips moved against my brow. “You’re right. But I worry, okay? I’m an overprotective asshole and I fucking worry myself sick about you. I won’t take unnecessary risks with you. Everything I do has your safety in mind. Everything.” The last was a harsh whisper. He leaned back to peer at my face. “Next time, stick with the carbine. Like the pistol, those knives are last resort.”