He removed his work boots and socks and pulled on a pair of new wool socks and then tried on a few pairs of boots. He settled on a nice, camouflage-colored pair that were waterproof. He removed the boots and then took all of his clothes off, revealing his usually hidden tattoos. Jeffrey glanced up at Richard as a hanger clanged to the floor, then quickly looked away.
Although Jeffrey did generally like uncle Richard and the cousin he grew up with who was killed today on the highway, he shuddered to think of the man’s philosophy on life. He looked up again as Richard dressed.
The most prominent tattoo was a swastika covering his entire back. He had one up his leg that read “LIFER”, but with a slash through it since his murder conviction was overturned. Jeffrey had always believed in the self-defense story that his uncle told, but now he wasn’t so sure.
“Or the drug stories my dad warned me about, or the gang he was a part of, or any of the other dozen wild things I was told but never believed,” thought Jeffrey. He looked away and continued working on the guns.
Richard put on Under Armor, a polyester tank top and shirt, Permethrin-infused cargo pants and shirt, and finally his new boots.
“Cash or credit,” Richard chuckled.
Jeffrey glanced up briefly from his work with the guns and saw that his uncle had finished dressing. “No warning now that he’s covered again.”
Richard gathered an extra set of socks and Under Armor, an extra Permethrin shirt and his rain suit and folded them up. He opened a big frame backpack and stuffed them in, then went to the camping section. He grabbed a cooking pot, a stove, and several tanks of fuel. He ripped open some freeze-dried food containers to check their contents, then added unopened ones to the pack. He added a canteen and some water purification pills, and then went to check on the guns.
Jeffrey was pulling guns down from the display and unlocking their triggers. “Nice,” said Richard, hefting a Mossberg 500 12 gauge. “The standard.” He looked up at the display. “Get that Maverick,” he told Jeffrey. “It can hold more rounds.” Jeffrey put down the .22 he was working on and grabbed the Maverick. He found the trigger key and handed the gun and key to Richard, who removed the lock and threw it across the store where it struck a display and crashed through the glass. He chuckled and opened the action and checked the barrel. He opened a box of shells and loaded the magazine, then pumped the shotgun once and loaded another shell. He aimed at the body of the shoe salesman he'd killed.
“Fire in the hole!” he called. Jeffrey looked up and dropped the scope he was about to attach and covered his ears. The gun boomed out and echoed in the store.
“Gahldammit Uncle Richard!” he yelled. Richard looked back at him and laughed.
“What?”
“You made me drop this scope! Now it's probably crap!”
Richard turned and leaned over the counter, locking eyes with Jeffrey. “Put it on my tab,” he said in a menacing voice.
“Jeez man! Just a little more warning next time, okay?”
“Sure Jeffrey, I'll wait for you to zip your pants before I shoot a damn zombie!”
“Ah man!” Jeffrey took a deep breath. “Here, check this out,” he said, redirecting the conversation. “Match-grade Weatherby, .30-06. I put a ThOR thermal sight on it—eight grand.”
“Did you check if the sight actually works? It's got chips in it, dimwit!” Richard pulled the gun out of Jeffrey's hands and switched on the scope, peering through it. “Dead, ya knucklehead.” He looked at the displays and pointed. “There, the Steiner tactical. Put that on it, and see if they have any tactical flashlights we can mount. It sucks holding this flashlight and shooting.” He handed the rifle back to Jeffrey, then stuffed the rest of the shotgun shells in a cargo pocket. Richard grabbed three more boxes of shells
Although Jeffrey did generally like uncle Richard and the cousin he grew up with who was killed today on the highway, he shuddered to think of the man’s philosophy on life. He looked up again as Richard dressed.
The most prominent tattoo was a swastika covering his entire back. He had one up his leg that read “LIFER”, but with a slash through it since his murder conviction was overturned. Jeffrey had always believed in the self-defense story that his uncle told, but now he wasn’t so sure.
“Or the drug stories my dad warned me about, or the gang he was a part of, or any of the other dozen wild things I was told but never believed,” thought Jeffrey. He looked away and continued working on the guns.
Richard put on Under Armor, a polyester tank top and shirt, Permethrin-infused cargo pants and shirt, and finally his new boots.
“Cash or credit,” Richard chuckled.
Jeffrey glanced up briefly from his work with the guns and saw that his uncle had finished dressing. “No warning now that he’s covered again.”
Richard gathered an extra set of socks and Under Armor, an extra Permethrin shirt and his rain suit and folded them up. He opened a big frame backpack and stuffed them in, then went to the camping section. He grabbed a cooking pot, a stove, and several tanks of fuel. He ripped open some freeze-dried food containers to check their contents, then added unopened ones to the pack. He added a canteen and some water purification pills, and then went to check on the guns.
Jeffrey was pulling guns down from the display and unlocking their triggers. “Nice,” said Richard, hefting a Mossberg 500 12 gauge. “The standard.” He looked up at the display. “Get that Maverick,” he told Jeffrey. “It can hold more rounds.” Jeffrey put down the .22 he was working on and grabbed the Maverick. He found the trigger key and handed the gun and key to Richard, who removed the lock and threw it across the store where it struck a display and crashed through the glass. He chuckled and opened the action and checked the barrel. He opened a box of shells and loaded the magazine, then pumped the shotgun once and loaded another shell. He aimed at the body of the shoe salesman he'd killed.
“Fire in the hole!” he called. Jeffrey looked up and dropped the scope he was about to attach and covered his ears. The gun boomed out and echoed in the store.
“Gahldammit Uncle Richard!” he yelled. Richard looked back at him and laughed.
“What?”
“You made me drop this scope! Now it's probably crap!”
Richard turned and leaned over the counter, locking eyes with Jeffrey. “Put it on my tab,” he said in a menacing voice.
“Jeez man! Just a little more warning next time, okay?”
“Sure Jeffrey, I'll wait for you to zip your pants before I shoot a damn zombie!”
“Ah man!” Jeffrey took a deep breath. “Here, check this out,” he said, redirecting the conversation. “Match-grade Weatherby, .30-06. I put a ThOR thermal sight on it—eight grand.”
“Did you check if the sight actually works? It's got chips in it, dimwit!” Richard pulled the gun out of Jeffrey's hands and switched on the scope, peering through it. “Dead, ya knucklehead.” He looked at the displays and pointed. “There, the Steiner tactical. Put that on it, and see if they have any tactical flashlights we can mount. It sucks holding this flashlight and shooting.” He handed the rifle back to Jeffrey, then stuffed the rest of the shotgun shells in a cargo pocket. Richard grabbed three more boxes of shells
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