By the timethe sun is high overhead, my hands are stained with carbon and oil. My shoulders ache. But I can put a magazine into the center mass of a paper plate at fifteen yards without flinching.
"Enough with the pistol." Kade wipes sweat from his forehead. He walks to the table and picks up the shotgun.
It looks massive. Archaic.
"Mossberg 500. This isn't a precision instrument. This is a room broom. At close range, you don't need to be perfect. You just need to be pointed in the right direction."
He hands it to me. Heavy, the wood stock smooth and worn.
"This kicks. Hard. If you don't pull it tight into your shoulder pocket, it will bruise you. If you lean back, it will knock you on your ass."
"Can't wait."
"Stance is even more important here. Lean forward. Cheek weld on the stock. You and the gun are one solid piece of geometry."
He moves behind me again, his hands adjusting my stance. His palm presses flat against my lower back, pushing me forward. "More."
He moves my left hand further out on the pump. "Rack it like you hate it. Violence of action. Baby the slide and it jams. Slam it back, slam it forward."
He steps back. "The log. Twenty yards."
I shoulder the weapon. A cannon. I find the bead sight, lean into the aggressive stance, and pull the trigger.
BOOM.
The world shakes. The stock slams into my shoulder like a hammer strike. I stumble back a step, gasping, barrel pointing at the sky.
"You leaned back." Dry.
"Jesus." I rub my shoulder. "That's not a weapon, that's punishment."
"It stops fights. One round of buckshot is equivalent to getting hit with nine nine-millimeter bullets simultaneously. It ends things. Again. Pull it tighter."
I grit my teeth. I pull the stock so hard into my shoulder it hurts before I fire. I lean forward until I think I'll tip over.
"Rack it."
CLACK-CLACK.Distinctive. Terrifying.
BOOM.
My feet stay under me. The log disintegrates—bark and wood chips exploding into the air.
The power of it is intoxicating. Terrifying, but intoxicating.
"Again. Cycle the action."
CLACK-CLACK. BOOM.
CLACK-CLACK. BOOM.
We spend the next hour turning logs into mulch. My shoulder throbs, a deep ache already promising purple by tomorrow. My ears ring despite the plugs.
But the noise doesn't scare me anymore. Neither does the kick.
"Last one."
I fire the final shell. The recoil is familiar now—a brutal shove I know how to absorb.
