Page 53 of Stone Coast
I bet there were plenty of men who were willing to kill for a woman like Sierra.
I hopped back on the bike and returned to theIntrepid. I found a membership card in my purse, grabbed my hearing protection and shooting glasses. I hadn’t been to the range since I got out of the hospital, but it was instinctual. Keep up the training. Stay prepared.
I left the boat, hustled down the dock, and hopped back onto the bike. I drove to Sureshot like I was on autopilot. It almost felt like someone else was controlling my life. The old Savannah was the puppet master, pulling my strings.
I pushed through the glass doors, and the guy behind the counter said, “Haven’t seen you in a while. Where have you been? You were daily, then nothing. I got worried about you.”
The lobby was filled with T-shirts, safety glasses, hearing protection, cleaning kits, you name it. There were all manner of rifles and handguns locked away in glass cases. The range sold plenty of ammo at exorbitant prices, and there were several target options to choose from.
“Worried?” I said.
“Yeah, thought you might have gone over to AimRight,” he said, flirting. He wasn’t bad-looking.
“Never,” I assured with a smile. “Life happened.”
“I hear ya.” He clearly hadn’t watched the news. Or maybe he just didn’t want to pry.
I bought some ammo and a zombie target.
“I’ve got lane six open,” he said.
“Perfect.”
The deafening clatter of gunfire echoed off the concrete walls as I stepped into the shooting lanes. The combination of ear plugs and over-ears brought it down to dull thumps. Shooters blasted at paper targets, and the air was filled with the spicy scent of gunpowder.
I walked down the shooting lanes to number six and set my pistol and my box of ammo on the steel shelf that spanned the stall. I clipped in the target overhead and sent it down the lane with the motorized carrier, the zombie swaying in the breeze. Painted green with a heavy black outline, theundead ghoul reached a hand out, trying to grasp for its next meal. The sack of bones, covered in rotting flesh, was a perfect target with concentric circles. Its yellow craggy teeth and milky sunken eyes were about to get blasted to smithereens.
Gunfire rumbled all around me.
Pop.
Pop.
Pop.
I set several extra magazines on the shelf in front of me, then pulled my pistol from my holster and press-checked it. I drew a sight picture on the undead. The world faded away. Everything else disappeared. It was just me, the gun, and the zombie. With steady focus and a solid stance, I squeezed the trigger.
I popped the son-of-a-bitch right between the eyes, then proceeded to empty the rest of the magazine with a nice grouping.
With each squeeze of the trigger, I got a vision of my former self at the gun range, firing at a similar target. Bits and pieces of my memory came back to me.
Smoke wafted from the end of the barrel.
I hit the mag release button and dropped out the magazine. I set the pistol on the shelf, then reloaded the magazine.
The gentleman in the stall next to me leaned around the divider and said, "Nice shooting.”
In his late 20s with rugged good looks, a jaw lined with stubble, ice-blue eyes, and curly golden hair he was easy to look at. A far cry from the zombie.
"I'm Cooper.” He said with a smile, offering his hand.
"I'm not interested.”
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“Ouch!” Cooper laughed. He was a good sport about it. "You're the one person in here that I don't want to get on their bad side, and it seems like I'm already there.”
I continued loading the magazine, trying to ignore him.
