Page 71 of Anchored to the Storm

When done eating and after the kitchen was cleaned, I followed Styx into what I had assumed was another bedroom. It was near the kitchen and was way bigger than my room. To the right, there was a table and open lockers along the wall, all with weapons and ammunition.

Styx gestured to vents in the ceiling and upper part of the walls. “To clear out the gun smoke.”

There were three long aisles that reminded me of Finn’s practice batting cages. No netting to catch stray baseballs, but clear lanes for shooting practice. At the beginning of each lane, there were wooden posts with hooks for different items and a big green button.

“Now,” Styx began by showing me a handheld gun, “I will teach you names and models, but first I believe it is important to get in touch with the weapon. In our lifestyle, one of these is on you or within reach at all times.”

As a child, I remember being very aware not to touch the ones Noma had around the house. It became second nature to know their hiding places.

“Besides being deadly to the one you’re pointing this at, you must be responsible for others around you.” He exhaled. “Once you draw your weapon, the playing field changes, and all around you are now in the game.”

I squinted, not too sure of his meaning.

He delivered a curt nod. “Thank you for asking. Okay, if the need arises that you require a gun to protect yourself, not only is it common sense that your opponent will pull their own weapon to defend themselves, hence putting others in danger, but they could also steal yours and use it against you—and whoever is with you.”

A gun palmed, he held it out for me. “The choice is yours. Should never be forced. Huge responsibilities.”

I thought about all the times I’d been afraid. How Noma and I ran for our lives. How many times I hoped we could defend ourselves had the enemy found us. Then I thought of the Misfits, Harmony, Dale. Then, I thought of Saleeni.

My chest widened. Strength in me rose. “I choose to have a fighting chance.”

Styx grinned. “That’s my Baby Boy.” He guided me to a lane. “Now, with that choice, let’s let your first gun bond happen.” He pulled up my right arm. Held it straight, then placed the gun in my hand. Placing my pointer finger so it just touched the outer side of the trigger, he asked, “No need to explain that this is the trigger?”

“That one I got.”

“For practice, you are to use earmuffs to protect your hearing, but for your first fire, I prefer you to get the full effect.”

I thought of my tenth Life Date. “I’ve heard guns before, Styx.”

“Ah, but not of your own firing. Not of your responsibility.”

Damn, the old coot makes a lot of sense.

He continued, “Okay, I could give you lots of ‘stand like this’ or ‘be sure’ tips, but as you know, we are sometimes on a bike, driving, so I prefer you to learn to shoot from any position. Including this relaxed one.” He gestured to my normal way of standing. “What I will say are the most important things to remember, in my opinion: your surroundings and mission. If I pull a gun, my mission is my target. Simple.”

He pointed to the end of a lane. Hanging there was a sketch of a man. Behind the paper stood wooden panels, riveted with holes, then a brick wall.

“Fastest kill?” he asked.

I thought of the men shooting at Dad’s club brothers. How they were hit in the upper back, shoulders… “The head.”

One curt nod. “Even if it’s not a clean kill, your enemy is less likely to be a major threat with a bullet lodged in his noggin’.” He stepped back from me while saying, “This gun is ready to fire. But first, remember these steps. One: eye your mission.”

My sight closed in on the sketch’s forehead. “Done.”

“Two: who is in the room with you?” I went to look at him, but he stopped me. “Take your eye from your mission, you die.”

My heart started to pound as the true responsibility of such a weapon rested on my naïve shoulders.

“Who is in this room with you?”

Without moving an eyeball, I scanned my periphery. “One person to my left.”—Styx—“But is there one to my right?”

“Would’ve preferred you noticed that cardboard friendly when entering the room, but well done.”

Sweat was dampening my upper lip. “This is stressful.”

Curt nod. “Fast learner. Liking it.” He adjusted his stance. “Okay, three: let your gun become an extension of you. Takes some practice, but let it be your final word. The end of a deadly argument, to put it crudely. Or to simply save the ones you love.”