Page 5 of Not This Place

Rachel approached, her boots thudding softly against the ground. She accepted the rifle, fingers closing around the worn grip. Weight familiar yet foreign—a weapon much like her own but not hers. She brought it to her shoulder, sighting along the barrel. Her eye caught a discrepancy, subtle but there. The sight was off, tampered.

"Problem?" Carl asked, a smirk tugging at his lips.

"None." Rachel's voice was a murmur, barely audible over the collective breath of the onlookers. She adjusted the sight with deft fingers, a minute twist to bring it true. No complaint passed her lips. To reveal weakness was not her way. Not here, not anywhere.

Carl hefted his rifle, a counterpart to Rachel's, the stock nestled against his round cheek. He squinted down the sight, a pantomime of concentration, the image of confidence for the crowd.

Rachel stepped to her mark, rifle cradled in the crook of her arm. Her pulse thrummed in her veins, a steady drumbeat that matched the cadence of whispers rippling through the spectators. She waited, calm. Poised.

"Ready!" the matriarch called out, her voice carrying the finality of a judge's gavel.

The off-gridders leaned forward, their collective attention a tangible force pressing against Rachel's back. This was more than a mere contest; it was a ritual, a rite of passage played out under the unforgiving Texas sky.

A shot cracked the stillness. Carl's first round punched through the center of his target, a perfect bullseye. A hundred yards down range, a scarecrow made of straw… And maybe it was just her imagination, but it looked as if it were wearing an old, faded police uniform. Murmurs undulated through the crowd like ripples on a pond.

"Nice shot," Rachel said, her voice steady, devoid of sarcasm.

"Your turn," he replied, the corner of his mouth hitched in a confident grin.

Rachel shouldered her rifle, the butt firm against her shoulder. Her eye narrowed, locking onto the target. She exhaled slowly, the world shrinking to a single point in her vision. The rifle's report shattered the silence. Her shot mirrored Carl's—center mass.

Applause was a soft patter in the background. Rachel reloaded.

Carl's second shot. His confidence wavered, a hair's breadth off-center. Still, impressive.

"Consistent," she noted, acknowledging his skill.

"Let's see yours then," Carl challenged, passing the baton of pressure back to her.

Another breath, another narrowing of the world. Rachel's second trigger pull was a dance she knew well. The bullet tore through the same hole as the first. No deviation. Precision incarnate.

"Damn," someone muttered from among the trailers.

The final round. The moment stretched, taut as a wire.

Carl fired. A fraction off once more. Good, but not quite his best.

"Last one, Ranger," he called out, a glimmer of respect shining through the bravado.

Rachel nodded, silent. She raised her rifle. Her heartbeat was a metronome in her chest. This shot would count in more ways than one.

She aimed. Not at the center this time. A conscious decision. Her finger tensed on the trigger. The rifle kicked. The bullet struck just outside the cluster of holes, an intentional miss.

A collective gasp rose from the audience.

"Close," Carl said, his tone softer now. There was a flicker of camaraderie in his eyes.

"Could've been better," Rachel conceded with a shrug, her pride tucked away.

She handed the rifle back to its owner. The pudgy man took it, examining the barrel, then met her gaze. She had not sought to overshadow him completely, and that spoke volumes.

"Good shooting," he admitted, nodding.

"Thanks," she said, meaning it. Respect was currency here. And perhaps, just perhaps, she had earned some.

The matriarch caught her eye. A frown creased her brow. Something unspoken passed between them.

The dust settled around the makeshift firing range, particles dancing in the late afternoon sun. Rachel felt the weight of the rifle's stock against her shoulder diminish as she handed it back. Calloused fingers grazed hers—a silent acknowledgment.

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