Read Online Zombie Dawn II: A Zombie Apocalypse Sequel by J.A. Crowley - Free Book Online
Authors: J.A. Crowley
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I’d do my very best to kill both of them.
Chapter
24 Mike’s Journal—Shooting With Ian
I was a pretty good shot, but Ian was
a different story. Like a home-taught guitarist meeting Carlos Santana or
Jimmy Page. He spent hours and hours pacing off distances along highways and
open spaces, muttering about that “wanker,” Furlong, and that “mutton head”
Harrison. Turns out Furlong was a Canadian sniper who nailed a Taliban at 2400
yards. Harrison beat him by nailing two Taliban, in a row, at 2700 yards.
That’s over a mile and a half.
Furlong and Harrison were in a war
situation. They had to hide. Their enemies tried to hide. They had limited
opportunity. Ian and I, on the other hand, had almost unlimited opportunity.
And we kicked the shit out of Harrison’s record.
Ian would set up overlooking an
interstate highway. He’d use paint to mark each 100 meter mark. He would not
start closer than 2,000 meters, and he’d mark out to 3,300 meters. That’s over
two miles. The sweet spot was 3219 meters. That’s two miles. Ian would paint
a red cross right there. We’d set up some debris so that the zombies would get
stuck right at the cross. It takes two or three seconds for the bullet to get
there at that distance, so you need a static target in order to have a chance.
Then, we’d set up something that made
a lot of noise, usually an old battery powered radio playing loud Led
Zeppelin, near the cross, and we’d each man our shooting stations, then wait.
During the wait, we’d exchange stories.
Ian’s stories blew mine away, but
he’d still listen. He seemed to enjoy hearing boring details of a teenage
boy’s life almost as much as I enjoyed his stories of his training,
deployments, and his horrible childhood. I guess boring can be good sometimes.
Ian got more enjoyment over my unsuccessful attempts to feel a boob at the
movies than I did at his explicit descriptions of gory combat, extreme
training, and weekend benders with special forces groupies.
Anyway, the zombies would ultimately
end up lined up in the kill zone. To score, you had to call your shot, usually
by shirt color, and it had to be the first one in line. Head shots were
double.
Ian could actually control his pulse
and blood pressure. Bio feedback and meditation. He’d tried to teach me how,
but I didn’t get it.
At two miles out, the slightest bit
of wind will throw the shot way off target. We could practice the drop, but
the drift was the hard part. Basically, you had to aim about seven feet above
the target, then estimate the wind and aim, say, three feet to the right as
well. It was more art than science.
Ian was amazing. I’d watch through
my scope as he fired and spot for him. First shot, two zombies to the left.
Second shot, one zombie to the left. Third shot—headshot. Fourth
shot—headshot. Fifth shot—missed, but nailed a zombie in the third row.
Then it was my turn. First shot
low, fifty yards up the road. Second shot, never saw it. Third shot, nailed a
zombie in the pack. Fourth shot, nailed a zombie in the third row. Finally,
with my fifth shot, I nailed the right zombie but in the chin and neck.
Since the head came right off, Ian
gave me that one, so the score was 2 to 1 after the first round.
“It was your gun, asshole. Your max
range is 1400 meters, mine is 800.”
“You whining Yank. Your bloody gun
should shoot as straight as mine. It’s just my native British superiority that
lets me shoot better.”
“It’s on, bitch. Switch guns and
start over.”
So we did. He made me go first. I
had a great round. Part because of the hardware, part because of the
practice. I caught the wind perfectly. My first round was a squidge high but
then I nailed three in a row, all headshots. My last shot actually drilled
three zombies, but not the one I was aiming at.
Ian had a bit of trouble. His gun
was a bit
Chapter
24 Mike’s Journal—Shooting With Ian
I was a pretty good shot, but Ian was
a different story. Like a home-taught guitarist meeting Carlos Santana or
Jimmy Page. He spent hours and hours pacing off distances along highways and
open spaces, muttering about that “wanker,” Furlong, and that “mutton head”
Harrison. Turns out Furlong was a Canadian sniper who nailed a Taliban at 2400
yards. Harrison beat him by nailing two Taliban, in a row, at 2700 yards.
That’s over a mile and a half.
Furlong and Harrison were in a war
situation. They had to hide. Their enemies tried to hide. They had limited
opportunity. Ian and I, on the other hand, had almost unlimited opportunity.
And we kicked the shit out of Harrison’s record.
Ian would set up overlooking an
interstate highway. He’d use paint to mark each 100 meter mark. He would not
start closer than 2,000 meters, and he’d mark out to 3,300 meters. That’s over
two miles. The sweet spot was 3219 meters. That’s two miles. Ian would paint
a red cross right there. We’d set up some debris so that the zombies would get
stuck right at the cross. It takes two or three seconds for the bullet to get
there at that distance, so you need a static target in order to have a chance.
Then, we’d set up something that made
a lot of noise, usually an old battery powered radio playing loud Led
Zeppelin, near the cross, and we’d each man our shooting stations, then wait.
During the wait, we’d exchange stories.
Ian’s stories blew mine away, but
he’d still listen. He seemed to enjoy hearing boring details of a teenage
boy’s life almost as much as I enjoyed his stories of his training,
deployments, and his horrible childhood. I guess boring can be good sometimes.
Ian got more enjoyment over my unsuccessful attempts to feel a boob at the
movies than I did at his explicit descriptions of gory combat, extreme
training, and weekend benders with special forces groupies.
Anyway, the zombies would ultimately
end up lined up in the kill zone. To score, you had to call your shot, usually
by shirt color, and it had to be the first one in line. Head shots were
double.
Ian could actually control his pulse
and blood pressure. Bio feedback and meditation. He’d tried to teach me how,
but I didn’t get it.
At two miles out, the slightest bit
of wind will throw the shot way off target. We could practice the drop, but
the drift was the hard part. Basically, you had to aim about seven feet above
the target, then estimate the wind and aim, say, three feet to the right as
well. It was more art than science.
Ian was amazing. I’d watch through
my scope as he fired and spot for him. First shot, two zombies to the left.
Second shot, one zombie to the left. Third shot—headshot. Fourth
shot—headshot. Fifth shot—missed, but nailed a zombie in the third row.
Then it was my turn. First shot
low, fifty yards up the road. Second shot, never saw it. Third shot, nailed a
zombie in the pack. Fourth shot, nailed a zombie in the third row. Finally,
with my fifth shot, I nailed the right zombie but in the chin and neck.
Since the head came right off, Ian
gave me that one, so the score was 2 to 1 after the first round.
“It was your gun, asshole. Your max
range is 1400 meters, mine is 800.”
“You whining Yank. Your bloody gun
should shoot as straight as mine. It’s just my native British superiority that
lets me shoot better.”
“It’s on, bitch. Switch guns and
start over.”
So we did. He made me go first. I
had a great round. Part because of the hardware, part because of the
practice. I caught the wind perfectly. My first round was a squidge high but
then I nailed three in a row, all headshots. My last shot actually drilled
three zombies, but not the one I was aiming at.
Ian had a bit of trouble. His gun
was a bit
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