"Better. The recoil will kill even a perfect shot, so you have to adjust for it. Aim a little below your target until you don't jerk as much. Go ahead and empty the clip."
Angela felt the zone this time, felt that moment when the gun was perfectly in tune with her hand, and cans flew off the log.
"Yes!" She grinned in satisfaction under a dim afternoon sky. "Third time's a charm."
She began reloading, and Marc took a quick look around, impressed with how fast she had settled into it. He hadn't expected her to hit anything yet, even though she'd adjusted well to the size of the .357 during their dry-fire sessions. Challenge was definitely the way to calm her down.
"That's great. I'll see if you put my Blazer out of its misery, and then we'll go."
She blushed and he grinned at her, not thinking before he spoke. "Accidents happen, Honey. Don't worry so much. You should have seen the cut this woman I was sleeping with gave me…" he stopped at her stunned, pain-filled eyes, and she turned away before he could try to take it back.
Marc cursed his thoughtless tongue, thinking none of those women compared to Angie. Even after all these years, she could still make him feel more with a single look than anyone else ever had, and it hurt to think their chance had come and gone. What a hard, lonely future waited.
6
They headed west, both seeing and not mentioning a wrecked limousine on the side of the road heading into town, its plates (J. Lo) smeared with reddish mud. As they rolled through the empty farmland, miles of it, Angela felt a chill that quickly grew into a bad feeling. Like they were walking into a new danger.
They had made almost ten miles today despite the flooding that had kept them detouring, and she should be happy with it, but wasn't. The sky was calm, the temperatures in the 40's, and she hadn't seen much in the way of fallout damage or mutations. All of it was good.
Versailles looked pretty clear on the other side, and that was great too, but the feeling of danger was strong and she was torn, doubting herself. She said nothing to Marc, not wanting to without having a reason or a sign to back it up. It was something she bitterly regretted later.
Just before dusk, Marc pulled them up to an Amish school house surrounded by barns, sheds, and empty, weed-dotted soybean fields. Lofty willow trees on either side of the school hung over the long, white fence and partially obscured a rustic liberty bell hanging from the small porch eave. There were no homes in sight, only the barely visible outlines of the city they'd rolled carefully through, but they were encouraged to see a healthy-looking white rabbit dart from under the school's steps.