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Authors: Mark Bouman
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hills.
Jerry took the first turn spotting. He ran back to the target, leaned over to look at it, then straightened and screamed back toward the tower, “Inch high, two inches left!” Five seconds later, he was leaping over the dirt berm and sliding down toward me. Crack! Then it was my turn to check the target and scream back the information. Every few trips, one of us would tape a new target to the front of the washing machine to ensure we didn’t mix up which bullet hole was which.
Twenty minutes later, we were both sweaty, covered in dirt, and desperate for a chance to rest our aching legs. One of the guns was having trouble sighting in, and a job that usually took us ten minutes or less was stretching on and on.
Crack. Run, check, holler, run. Crack. Run, check, holler, run.
As the minutes wore on, we stopped hiding our entire bodies behind the dirt and began crouching at the top of the rise. When my next turn came and I ran back from the washing machine, I couldn’t face climbingall the way up the slippery berm for what seemed like the hundredth time. I simply scrambled up partway, then turned to watch the next shot come in.
Each time a bullet hit, the entire washing machine shuddered and the dirt behind it kicked up. Whatever rifle they were firing was powerful enough to shoot clear through the target, ripping it apart in the process.
Crack. Another shot —and my right leg buckled beneath me. I collapsed in a heap and rolled down the hill, stopping in the weeds at the bottom.
“Jerry!” I screamed. My right ankle felt like it was on fire. Panicked, I tried to stand up but immediately collapsed again. I couldn’t put any weight on my foot, which felt like a piece of dead meat that someone had attached to my body.
I dared to look down. Blood, and a lot of it. “Jerry!” I screamed again. My mind raced to comprehend what had happened to me. I tried to stand again but collapsed. Why couldn’t I feel my ankle anymore?
My hands shook and my breath came in gasps. I could feel my right foot again, but for some reason it was growing warmer and warmer. I sat up and grabbed my ankle, trying to relieve the pain, but it hurt worse than ever. I pulled away hands covered in blood.
Jerry sprinted to my side. “Stay down and don’t move —Dad’s coming!”
I squinted up at my brother. He was cradling his right arm, and blood was oozing through the fingers of his left hand. Before I could say anything, he asked, “Did you get shot too?”
Suddenly I realized why my leg didn’t work —I had been shot. It was a realization that caused a fresh wave of panic. We were just kids —what in the world was happening to us?
I turned and saw that Dad was already halfway across the field. He must have seen me hit the ground right after the shot was fired and assumed the worst. He was in a full-out sprint, his arms swinging up near his head and his thighs pumping like pistons with every stride. I’d never seen him move so fast. He skidded to a stop at my side, sliding toone knee and putting one hand down for balance. He took one look at me, then scooped me into his arms. “Let’s go,” he said.
Then we were speed walking back across the field. I could hear every breath exploding out of his mouth. From below, Dad’s face was foreign. I couldn’t remember him ever carrying me before. I could see the lump in his throat bobbing, see up his nostrils. I could see his eyelashes. His smell was the same as always, sour and ripe. When we reached the bottom of the hill below the house, Dad began to run, straight up the hill with me in his grip.
At the car, Dad balanced me with one arm and one raised knee while he opened the rear door with his other hand. He leaned forward and laid me across the backseat, headfirst. From my back, I raised my chin to my chest and watched him pull off my shoe. I saw blood slosh out of it. Dad held the shoe at arm’s length away from the car and turned the shoe over, like he was
Jerry took the first turn spotting. He ran back to the target, leaned over to look at it, then straightened and screamed back toward the tower, “Inch high, two inches left!” Five seconds later, he was leaping over the dirt berm and sliding down toward me. Crack! Then it was my turn to check the target and scream back the information. Every few trips, one of us would tape a new target to the front of the washing machine to ensure we didn’t mix up which bullet hole was which.
Twenty minutes later, we were both sweaty, covered in dirt, and desperate for a chance to rest our aching legs. One of the guns was having trouble sighting in, and a job that usually took us ten minutes or less was stretching on and on.
Crack. Run, check, holler, run. Crack. Run, check, holler, run.
As the minutes wore on, we stopped hiding our entire bodies behind the dirt and began crouching at the top of the rise. When my next turn came and I ran back from the washing machine, I couldn’t face climbingall the way up the slippery berm for what seemed like the hundredth time. I simply scrambled up partway, then turned to watch the next shot come in.
Each time a bullet hit, the entire washing machine shuddered and the dirt behind it kicked up. Whatever rifle they were firing was powerful enough to shoot clear through the target, ripping it apart in the process.
Crack. Another shot —and my right leg buckled beneath me. I collapsed in a heap and rolled down the hill, stopping in the weeds at the bottom.
“Jerry!” I screamed. My right ankle felt like it was on fire. Panicked, I tried to stand up but immediately collapsed again. I couldn’t put any weight on my foot, which felt like a piece of dead meat that someone had attached to my body.
I dared to look down. Blood, and a lot of it. “Jerry!” I screamed again. My mind raced to comprehend what had happened to me. I tried to stand again but collapsed. Why couldn’t I feel my ankle anymore?
My hands shook and my breath came in gasps. I could feel my right foot again, but for some reason it was growing warmer and warmer. I sat up and grabbed my ankle, trying to relieve the pain, but it hurt worse than ever. I pulled away hands covered in blood.
Jerry sprinted to my side. “Stay down and don’t move —Dad’s coming!”
I squinted up at my brother. He was cradling his right arm, and blood was oozing through the fingers of his left hand. Before I could say anything, he asked, “Did you get shot too?”
Suddenly I realized why my leg didn’t work —I had been shot. It was a realization that caused a fresh wave of panic. We were just kids —what in the world was happening to us?
I turned and saw that Dad was already halfway across the field. He must have seen me hit the ground right after the shot was fired and assumed the worst. He was in a full-out sprint, his arms swinging up near his head and his thighs pumping like pistons with every stride. I’d never seen him move so fast. He skidded to a stop at my side, sliding toone knee and putting one hand down for balance. He took one look at me, then scooped me into his arms. “Let’s go,” he said.
Then we were speed walking back across the field. I could hear every breath exploding out of his mouth. From below, Dad’s face was foreign. I couldn’t remember him ever carrying me before. I could see the lump in his throat bobbing, see up his nostrils. I could see his eyelashes. His smell was the same as always, sour and ripe. When we reached the bottom of the hill below the house, Dad began to run, straight up the hill with me in his grip.
At the car, Dad balanced me with one arm and one raised knee while he opened the rear door with his other hand. He leaned forward and laid me across the backseat, headfirst. From my back, I raised my chin to my chest and watched him pull off my shoe. I saw blood slosh out of it. Dad held the shoe at arm’s length away from the car and turned the shoe over, like he was
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