Read Online The Fort by Aric Davis - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Aric Davis
Tags: Suspense
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her quit tonight, but I know Beth would have said no, and would haveinsisted on putting in her two weeks so she doesn’t screw anybody over. This is pretty good news for us, Scott. For all three of us.”
“It’s amazing.”
“Yep, but there’s something else amazing that I need too. Go run down to the basement and fetch up one of my jars of steak sauce. These are good cuts, so no A.1. tonight. We’ll use my morel sauce.”
“Sweet,” said Scott. He’d had the morel sauce twice, and it was amazing. His stepdad went mushrooming for weeks in the spring, searching under fallen elms for the delicious and difficult-to-find wild fungus. Carl made the sauce once a year, and Scott was pretty sure his stepdad could bottle it for sale if he were able to find enough mushrooms to make it happen. That, of course, was never going to happen: morels commanded a hefty price at market, and the unpredictability of finding the things meant even the family supply was quite finite.
The only thing more surprising than sharing steaks and the sauce with his stepfather, though, was access to the basement. “Do I need a key or something?” For as long as Scott could remember, the basement was do not enter, all Carl’s.
“Nope,” said Carl. “Truth told, Scott, I haven’t locked it in years. I trust you, buddy. Maybe you trust me a bit too. Maybe this new job, and your mom quitting hers, will make you trust me even more. We’re a family, kid, a modern family. We don’t need blood to be one.” Carl paused, then said, “So go get a bottle of sauce, give the armory a look, no touching, and bring it back up.”
“Yes, sir,” said Scott, and he meant it.
The basement was cold. The summer was not hot in June of 1987, but being in a cooler environment was still very inviting. Scott figured it was below seventy degrees downstairs, maybe even cooler. Even better than just being cooler was that he’d never been down there without Carl, except to do laundry, and that was in a totallydifferent room. At the bottom of the stairs, Scott walked past the washer and dryer to the door he had assumed was always locked, then turned the knob and walked inside.
On one wall was a long table, atop which was a table clamp, along with the tools necessary for the manufacture of ammunition. Also on the table were a few boxes of rifle ammunition that had been assembled, along with a few tins of powder and boxes of unloaded cartridges. Next to the table was a drop-front desk that was closed, and—Scott was sure without even checking—locked. Above the desk were three sets of whitetail deer antlers, all mounted in the European style, with just plates of skull and horns on display.
On the wall across from the desk and table were three gun racks, all of them festooned with various rifles and shotguns, including one rifle with an odd-looking stock that Scott had seen once before. It was an AR-7, manufactured by Charter Arms and chambered in .22 Long Rifle. The entire gun could be broken down and stored within the stock, and was easily assembled with no tools. Eugene Stoner, the man who had invented the M-16, had come up with the AR-7 earlier in his career as a compact weapon to be used by pilots who were shot down. Carl had purchased it to use as a sort of trail gun to shoot small game, or for highly unlikely self-defense scenarios, on a trip that had yet to be taken. It would be perfect for shooting at the target. The fort would eat up most of the noise, and the bullets wouldn’t travel far enough to hurt someone by accident. Scott ran his fingers over the black composite stock, then drew them away, as if it were hot.
Ashamed at his speedy betrayal of his stepdad’s trust, Scott walked to a rack at the back of the room covered in canned fruit, along with jars of homemade steak and barbecue sauce. He grabbed a bottle of the steak sauce, then walked back to the door, giving the racks of guns one final look before heading back upstairs. The AR-7 was
“It’s amazing.”
“Yep, but there’s something else amazing that I need too. Go run down to the basement and fetch up one of my jars of steak sauce. These are good cuts, so no A.1. tonight. We’ll use my morel sauce.”
“Sweet,” said Scott. He’d had the morel sauce twice, and it was amazing. His stepdad went mushrooming for weeks in the spring, searching under fallen elms for the delicious and difficult-to-find wild fungus. Carl made the sauce once a year, and Scott was pretty sure his stepdad could bottle it for sale if he were able to find enough mushrooms to make it happen. That, of course, was never going to happen: morels commanded a hefty price at market, and the unpredictability of finding the things meant even the family supply was quite finite.
The only thing more surprising than sharing steaks and the sauce with his stepfather, though, was access to the basement. “Do I need a key or something?” For as long as Scott could remember, the basement was do not enter, all Carl’s.
“Nope,” said Carl. “Truth told, Scott, I haven’t locked it in years. I trust you, buddy. Maybe you trust me a bit too. Maybe this new job, and your mom quitting hers, will make you trust me even more. We’re a family, kid, a modern family. We don’t need blood to be one.” Carl paused, then said, “So go get a bottle of sauce, give the armory a look, no touching, and bring it back up.”
“Yes, sir,” said Scott, and he meant it.
The basement was cold. The summer was not hot in June of 1987, but being in a cooler environment was still very inviting. Scott figured it was below seventy degrees downstairs, maybe even cooler. Even better than just being cooler was that he’d never been down there without Carl, except to do laundry, and that was in a totallydifferent room. At the bottom of the stairs, Scott walked past the washer and dryer to the door he had assumed was always locked, then turned the knob and walked inside.
On one wall was a long table, atop which was a table clamp, along with the tools necessary for the manufacture of ammunition. Also on the table were a few boxes of rifle ammunition that had been assembled, along with a few tins of powder and boxes of unloaded cartridges. Next to the table was a drop-front desk that was closed, and—Scott was sure without even checking—locked. Above the desk were three sets of whitetail deer antlers, all mounted in the European style, with just plates of skull and horns on display.
On the wall across from the desk and table were three gun racks, all of them festooned with various rifles and shotguns, including one rifle with an odd-looking stock that Scott had seen once before. It was an AR-7, manufactured by Charter Arms and chambered in .22 Long Rifle. The entire gun could be broken down and stored within the stock, and was easily assembled with no tools. Eugene Stoner, the man who had invented the M-16, had come up with the AR-7 earlier in his career as a compact weapon to be used by pilots who were shot down. Carl had purchased it to use as a sort of trail gun to shoot small game, or for highly unlikely self-defense scenarios, on a trip that had yet to be taken. It would be perfect for shooting at the target. The fort would eat up most of the noise, and the bullets wouldn’t travel far enough to hurt someone by accident. Scott ran his fingers over the black composite stock, then drew them away, as if it were hot.
Ashamed at his speedy betrayal of his stepdad’s trust, Scott walked to a rack at the back of the room covered in canned fruit, along with jars of homemade steak and barbecue sauce. He grabbed a bottle of the steak sauce, then walked back to the door, giving the racks of guns one final look before heading back upstairs. The AR-7 was
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