Read Online Harmonic: Resonance by Nico Laeser - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Nico Laeser
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ability to pay for a college education for his baby sister.
My Dad welled up, and the two of them hugged. “You were always a good boy, Sam—a great son, a great brother, and you’ve grown up to become a great man.”
I remember weaseling my way between them, not really taking in what had been said or what it had really meant. My father was saying goodbye to his boy and giving him permission to go and be the man he had become.
Sam didn’t leave right away, but he changed. He was more focused, dedicated to his daily routines, a routine that would change completely soon enough. He joined up in the fall of his eighteenth year. The house became larger, seemingly empty, and my father appeared to age ten years in the short time elapsed until Sam’s first letter home. Dad and I read the letter together, and every letter after, until he came back on leave. Sam was a man, bulked-up and chiseled from stone, no longer the gentle, soft-faced young man who had left years before. The day he was scheduled to return to his duty station, he told us his outfit was being shipped out to provide ground support during the escalating hostility in the Middle East.
Dad and I watched on the news as escalating hostility became conflict, and conflict became war. Sam’s letters and phone calls became fewer and farther between. I don’t know what became of that war, or of Sam, since the power and broadcasts went dead.
***
Powell raised an eyebrow as the first can rang out and toppled from the farthest sawhorse. I fired a second shot from the suppressed .22, which had no more kick than Sam’s old air rifle from what I remember, and the next can in line bounced and fell.
“I didn’t realize that I was competing against Annie Oakley,” Powell said.
“I didn’t know that we were competing,” I said, cleared the next two cans, and handed the rifle to Powell. “I’m guessing that you don’t want to get beaten by a girl. Pressure’s on.” There was a sharp edge to my tone that had not really been meant for Powell, but was the lingering offense I’d taken from Gary’s earlier statement of even the girls can shoot it.
“I think I’m already beaten. I’ve never fired a gun before,” Powell said.
As Powell looked down the sights, I racked the bolt, ejecting the casing and feeding the next round.
“Thanks,” he said and settled his cheek back down on the rest.
“It’s a .22, just point and shoot.”
“That easy, huh?” he said through a smirk.
He leveled the rifle, breathed out slow, and fired a shot, spinning a can before it toppled from the closest sawhorse. “Well what-do-you-know, turns out I’m Wild Bill.”
He cleared all the cans on the sawhorse at ten yards, but missed all but one on the sawhorse at twenty yards. He sheepishly recanted his claim of being Wild Bill and admitted to beginner’s luck.
“How do you feel about the gun thing?” Powell asked between shots.
“I like shooting cans, but that’s about all I’m willing to shoot at.”
“Me too,” Powell said. “Hopefully it doesn’t go the way Gary’s predicting, or he might be the only one willing to shoot back.”
I turned to the sound of heavy footsteps in the dry dirt to see Randall walking steadily toward us.
“Haley’s mother is back; she’s in the house. I thought you’d want to know,” he said.
Powell and I stood and brushed the dirt from our clothes.
Randall swallowed, took the rifle from Powell, removed the magazine, and racked the bolt, ejecting the unfired round. He pointed the gun away and peered through the ejection port before handing the now safe rifle back to Powell. As we followed Randall back to the house, he said, “Gary should be teaching you how not to kill yourselves, or each other, before teaching you how to kill someone else.”
16 | Capacitor
Haley and Sarah sat in the corner of the living room with a backdrop of olive drab ammo boxes, gun cases, and the myriad firearms leaning
My Dad welled up, and the two of them hugged. “You were always a good boy, Sam—a great son, a great brother, and you’ve grown up to become a great man.”
I remember weaseling my way between them, not really taking in what had been said or what it had really meant. My father was saying goodbye to his boy and giving him permission to go and be the man he had become.
Sam didn’t leave right away, but he changed. He was more focused, dedicated to his daily routines, a routine that would change completely soon enough. He joined up in the fall of his eighteenth year. The house became larger, seemingly empty, and my father appeared to age ten years in the short time elapsed until Sam’s first letter home. Dad and I read the letter together, and every letter after, until he came back on leave. Sam was a man, bulked-up and chiseled from stone, no longer the gentle, soft-faced young man who had left years before. The day he was scheduled to return to his duty station, he told us his outfit was being shipped out to provide ground support during the escalating hostility in the Middle East.
Dad and I watched on the news as escalating hostility became conflict, and conflict became war. Sam’s letters and phone calls became fewer and farther between. I don’t know what became of that war, or of Sam, since the power and broadcasts went dead.
***
Powell raised an eyebrow as the first can rang out and toppled from the farthest sawhorse. I fired a second shot from the suppressed .22, which had no more kick than Sam’s old air rifle from what I remember, and the next can in line bounced and fell.
“I didn’t realize that I was competing against Annie Oakley,” Powell said.
“I didn’t know that we were competing,” I said, cleared the next two cans, and handed the rifle to Powell. “I’m guessing that you don’t want to get beaten by a girl. Pressure’s on.” There was a sharp edge to my tone that had not really been meant for Powell, but was the lingering offense I’d taken from Gary’s earlier statement of even the girls can shoot it.
“I think I’m already beaten. I’ve never fired a gun before,” Powell said.
As Powell looked down the sights, I racked the bolt, ejecting the casing and feeding the next round.
“Thanks,” he said and settled his cheek back down on the rest.
“It’s a .22, just point and shoot.”
“That easy, huh?” he said through a smirk.
He leveled the rifle, breathed out slow, and fired a shot, spinning a can before it toppled from the closest sawhorse. “Well what-do-you-know, turns out I’m Wild Bill.”
He cleared all the cans on the sawhorse at ten yards, but missed all but one on the sawhorse at twenty yards. He sheepishly recanted his claim of being Wild Bill and admitted to beginner’s luck.
“How do you feel about the gun thing?” Powell asked between shots.
“I like shooting cans, but that’s about all I’m willing to shoot at.”
“Me too,” Powell said. “Hopefully it doesn’t go the way Gary’s predicting, or he might be the only one willing to shoot back.”
I turned to the sound of heavy footsteps in the dry dirt to see Randall walking steadily toward us.
“Haley’s mother is back; she’s in the house. I thought you’d want to know,” he said.
Powell and I stood and brushed the dirt from our clothes.
Randall swallowed, took the rifle from Powell, removed the magazine, and racked the bolt, ejecting the unfired round. He pointed the gun away and peered through the ejection port before handing the now safe rifle back to Powell. As we followed Randall back to the house, he said, “Gary should be teaching you how not to kill yourselves, or each other, before teaching you how to kill someone else.”
16 | Capacitor
Haley and Sarah sat in the corner of the living room with a backdrop of olive drab ammo boxes, gun cases, and the myriad firearms leaning
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