Dead World (Book 1): Dead Come Home (17 page)

“Not true. Trust has nothing to do with it. I’m not gonna hand a loaded gun to you again until
I
know
that
you
know
what you’re doing,” Mike said. “I’m not angry. You saved my ass earlier, and it’s not your fault that no one ever showed you the ins-and-outs of these things. You did me a favor, so now I’m gonna teach you something that might save your life and, perhaps more importantly,
mine
.”

Joseph stood up, walked over, and handed the gun to Mike … barrel first.

“Uh-uh,” Mike grunted. He cleared his throat to stop himself from yelling. He pressed the barrel down and away from him with the palm of his hand. “First of all, take your finger off the damn trigger. Second, always hand a gun over butt first. People tend to get kinda nervous when facing the business end of a boom-stick.”

Joseph reached up and closed his left hand around the barrel, turning it around. Mike put the Desert Eagle back in his waistband and took the Beretta from Joseph, keeping his finger clear of the trigger.

“Rule number three—keep the weapon on safe until you are ready to fire. When you look at this button and see black, no amount of trigger pulling is going to make it fire. If you see red, it means the safety is off, and when you pull the trigger this thing’s gonna spit fire.”

He thumbed the magazine release. The ammo clip slid out easily into his left palm. He pointed the button out to Joseph.

“This is the magazine release. Always hang onto your clips. None of that ridiculous let-the-clip-drop-to-the-floor-John-Woo bullshit. They’re reusable and you can never have too many, especially in the situation we’re in.”

He pulled a second clip out of his back pocket. Joseph could clearly see the glint of brass at the top. Mike pushed the clip into place. He pulled the slide back and let it slam home, chambering a round.

“If it jams, pull the slide back and lock it in place by pushing up on this lever with your thumb,” Mike said, pointing to the slide lock. “Turn it over and give it a shake. Make sure the jammed cartridge
and
the one in the pipe are cleared before you release the lock, or you’ll just get a double-feed and make matters worse.”

“Which means?”

“Two rounds getting jammed into the chamber pipe at the same time,” Mike explained. “If that happens and you pull the trigger … well, there’s a good chance you’ll be saying goodbye to one or both of your hands. If you have time, save any good rounds by stickin’ ‘em in your pocket. If not, just forget ‘em and chamber a new round.”

Mike squatted down and manually ejected all of the rounds from the clip so that Joseph could observe the process. He retrieved the empty clip from his back pocket and began to load it. He let Joseph load the last two rounds, returned the clip to his back pocket, depressed the safety catch, and handed the gun to Joseph barrel first.

Joseph reached to take the gun from Mike and stopped his hand short.

“Butt first,” Joseph said, smiling and quite satisfied with himself.

“Good … so you were paying attention, after all,” Mike said, turning the gun around so Joseph could take it. “Now all we have to do is teach you how to shoot the damn thing.”

“Not quite,” Mike said. He turned and started adjusting Joseph into a more solid shooting stance as though he were a store window mannequin.

“Get used to this position. It’s the best form for shooting when you have targets coming from more than one direction. On second thought, this is the best form I’m going to teach you because it’s versatile.

“Now, look through and past the rear sight. Don’t focus on it. You should just be able to see the tip of the front sight. Don’t focus on it either. Eyes on your target. Let the two sights line up, then allow them to blur as you focus on the target. Finger all the way over the trigger … and squeeze.”

Mike watched Joseph aim and pull the trigger. The hammer clicked down. Joseph looked at Mike, expecting some comment or criticism. Mike didn’t answer, but watched Joseph in his firing stance. Joseph sighted again and pulled the trigger.

“Hold up your index finger,” Mike instructed, demonstrating. “Now bend it. The middle part, that space between your two far knuckles, is what should be on the trigger. If you fire this way, you’ll squeeze the trigger in a smoother motion that won’t throw off your aim.”

Mike handed the nine-mil back to Joseph … again, barrel first. Joseph didn’t even move to take the gun. Mike chuckled and spun the gun around on his index finger until the butt faced Joseph. The fledgling marksman took the gun, keeping his finger clear of the trigger.

“Good, grasshoppah. You’re a quick study. Now, I wanna see you do some more dry-fires.”

Joseph dry-fired the gun about fifteen times before Mike was satisfied.

“Well … this isn’t quite military training, but at least it’s better than nothing. Take out that empty clip,” Mike said, handing him the loaded magazine.

Joseph hit the magazine release, placed the empty clip in his back pocket as he’d seen Mike do, and took the loaded one. He pulled the slide all the way back, making sure the lock was firmly in place. He pushed the loaded clip into place and thumbed the slide release. He engaged the safety and set the gun in his chair.

“One more thing,” Mike said with that killer look in his eyes, “If you try any of that shoot-em-up-movie bullshit where you try to shoot past or around me … you’ll get a kick in the nuts. If you try it and
I
get shot … I’ll cut ‘em off. Am I clear?”

Mike tossed it to him. Joseph shrugged into the tanned leather straps of the harness, realized he had it on upside down, corrected it, and buckled the chest strap securely into place. He picked up his nine-mil and slid it into the molded leather holster, which hung parallel to the ground. He smoothly pulled out the gun and put it back. He drew again, faster this time. He did it once more, this time with his left arm across his chest so that it partially blocked his draw. Satisfied, he returned the weapon to its new home.

“I’ll stick to this one,” Joseph said.

“Okay … here,” Mike said, tossing a box of rounds to the floor next to Joseph. “Load up. That extra clip isn’t gonna do you any good without any rounds in it.”

Mike held the holster in one hand, pulled out the bulky leather belt and tossed the black strap haphazardly into the closet. He set the holster on the floor and stepped quietly into to the kitchen. He removed a large serrated kitchen knife from the wooden knife rack on the counter and returned. He began sawing off the bottom enclosure of the leather holster. A few hard slashes and the job was done.

The holster was designed for a
Colt
.45, not a
Desert Eagle
, which has a considerably longer and wider barrel. Since Hanse had failed to provide him with a proper holster, this was the next best thing. It would have to do until he could find one.

He went back into the closet and returned with two thin belts.

He sat down on the floor next to the TV and pulled the holster down to his lap. He took out his pocketknife and stabbed two vertical slits through the bottom half of the holster’s backside. He fed one of the belts through the holster’s original belt loop and the other belt he slipped through the two slots he’d cut himself. He extended his right leg and strapped the holster to the outside of his thigh, so that the butt of the pistol would rest just at hand level. He measured the length and marked spots for new buckle holes.

Mike put the holster to the side and went back into the kitchen. He went to the large drawer on the near side of the sink. It slid open with a squeak. Mike froze, worried that the sound would attract the attention of any of those things that might be wandering nearby. He found the ice-pick at the back of the drawer. He reached across to the front of the sink to grab the old wooden cutting board.

A high-pitched wail from somewhere outside pierced the air, making Mike flinch. Careful not to expose himself, he drew back the blanket and curtains just enough to look outside. He could clearly see the silhouette of a woman standing in the driveway across the street. She must have moved because the motion-activated porch light suddenly flooded the area with light. Her face was lifted towards the night sky and, as the light faintly hit her features, Mike recognized what had once been Macy Hinkle, wife of Gary Hinkle (whom Mike had put a bullet through the head of just a few hours before, along with their infected children).

I wonder if Gary or one of the kids bit her? Poor woman … I’d put her out of her misery right now if I didn’t think it’d bring a mess of ‘em down on us.

Mike wasn’t too concerned. She was still out there and he doubted she could get in. Individually, these things weren’t too dangerous. One, however, suddenly turned into three as he noticed movement out of the corner of his eye. He heard a louder and deeper moan, which caused him to shift his eyes left. He risked pushing his face a little further into the opening so he could see more of the area in front of his house. He saw two more of them staggering in the middle of the road, moving towards the house on the opposite corner.

The woman wailed once more, as if answering the other two, and began limping off quickly in the same direction.

He slowly let the curtain and towel back down and returned to the master bedroom. He tried to force himself to ignore the itch in the back of his mind, telling him he was turning a blind eye. However, he didn’t want to know if there was anyone still in the house on the corner. To acknowledge the thought would be to acknowledge the fact that there was nothing he could do to help them … at least, nothing that wouldn’t end up putting Joseph and him into a no-win situation.

Not my fight … not my problem … not anymore.

Mike settled cross-legged on the floor next to his customized holster. He set the cutting board in front of him and pulled the first belt over the block. He set the ice pick on his mark and used the butt of the Desert Eagle as a hammer to punch a new hole in the belt. He pulled the second belt over and did it again.

“Here,” Mike said, reaching into his shirt. He pulled out his dog tags and opened the beaded chain. He broke off a small section and tossed it over to Joseph before putting the remnants into his pocket. “Put the chain through the hole in the bottom of the handle then snap it closed around your belt.”

“How will I get it off?”

“That beaded dog tag chain is designed to break in case an enemy grabs hold and tries to strangle you with it. Just yank up hard when you grab the handle, and it’ll break loose. It’ll only work once, but it’ll work.”

Mike pulled the
Desert Eagle
out of his waistband and shoved it into the customized holster. He jumped a few times and moved around, testing the fit. He took a few steps and delivered a kick or two to see if it slid down his leg. He then walked circles around the room until he was satisfied that his work was reliable.

“It’s not the best fit for this thing, but it’ll have to do for now,” Mike said.

Mike sat down on the chair next to Joseph’s. He wasn’t crazy about having his back to the barricade, but he was confident that he would have enough time to react if one of them tried to get through.

They didn’t want to make any unnecessary noise, but decided it was worth the risk to watch the 10 o’clock news. What else were they going to do? And they still needed information, however worthless or redundant it may have been.