The Storm by Kevin L Murdock Page B

use at home. It’s a tone that screams “listen to me” and it’s usually saved for my banking team at work. “What if whoever shot that woman on Plantation Road decided to come here next? What the hell am I supposed to do? Maybe I can throw some kitchen knives at them? I can make a tartar de invader? Should I go and practice in the backyard?”
                  “You know I don’t allow guns in the house!”
                  “I know, and we have two in here now.” I started to unzip the bag. “Here’s the good news. They aren’t handguns. I’ve got two rifles here, and those would be much harder for the kids to get into trouble with.”
                  Still in denial and shaking her head, though knowing she had tossed a couple of balls at me, “What are they? Machine guns? How are we going to ensure the kids don’t touch them?”
                  I felt like the count was even now, and a hit or double would be coming. Baseball players call it being in the zone. You just feel it and know. She was giving some ground. “Not machine guns, babe. Let’s not forget, this is Adam Greenleaf we are talking about. I’m actually shocked he had guns too, but I bet they were family antiques and were handed down to him. Look at these.”
                  Pulling the first one out of the bag, it was a gun nearly any American would recognize. Most call it a cowboy gun, but better known as a Winchester. “This one here is like what they used in the old west. It’s in pretty good condition too.” A big smile came to my face and I reflected that this is probably how most men feel when holding a large weapon. That feeling of power that comes with having a gun in your hand makes one feel somehow larger and stronger than a mere man. Growing up in Kentucky, everyone learns how to shoot guns before they can write their name with a pencil. It had been a while, but it’s like riding a bike.
                  “Okay . . . That doesn’t look too bad,” she hesitantly said. “Are those the bullets?” she asked as she pointed to a small cartridge.
                  “Yup, a thirty-thirty or thirty-something I think. Not that it matters. Yes, those are the rounds for this gun. We only have twenty.”
                  “What’s the other gun?” She wasn’t excited outwardly, but her lips also were no longer curled up. Maybe this would turn into a triple , I optimistically calculated. Time to find out.
                  The other gun was equally large but had a longer, more slender barrel. Underneath, it had a pump handle and was more ornately designed. The wooden stock that goes into the shooter’s shoulder was polished. If the other gun was made for cowboys, this was designed to be used by a prince of the suburbs. It had a nice scope on the top of it too but its materials and age showed. It was almost certainly a product that predated the Second World War.
                  “This one, Stacy, is known as a 22. I used to shoot them a lot when I was kid. It’s good for small game like rabbits. My old friend you met at the wedding, Jonas, used to go out in the woods with me and we would take his father’s 22. I’d be pissed if our kids did that now, but we were country boys and it worked out okay. Anyway, we used to put pumpkins up against trees and shoot them up at two hundred yards. It gets hard at that range but I almost never missed when it was one hundred yards or shorter. Here, look at its bullets,” I said as I handed her a different cartridge filled with one hundred rounds.
                  “They are so small,” she said curiously. Whatever rage she had directed at me a few minutes before was gone. Carefully she opened the plastic container and took one bullet out to hold close to her eye. It was less than an inch long and resembled what a dime would look like if one could roll it into a