Eighteen
The ravine.
Mike awoke face down on the ground. His full consciousness returned slowly. He tried to regain his senses by shaking his aching head. He tried moving, no luck. His arms and legs were bound with some sort of cord. Jenny! He looked around, turning his head as far as his prone position would allow. He sighed in relief, Jenny was likewise tied up next to him, her eyes closed but her breath coming regularly.
Two of the aliens had appeared on flying platforms, these two larger, with space for three or four people to stand. A meter-high railing surrounded the flat surface on these larger machines but for a meter-wide gap at the rear. This, obviously, was to be their conveyance to wherever they were being taken. Their rifles, packs and Mike’s longbow were already loaded on one of the contraptions.
A pair of the scrawny things approached Mike, chattering weirdly. He closed his eyes, feigning unconsciousness. They grabbed his arms and dragged him towards the platform that held their equipment, it took four of them to load him aboard. No great shakes physically, he told himself. Skinny as they are, that’s no surprise. He risked a glimpse through slitted eyes; Jenny was being loaded on the other contrivance. One alien climbed on each platform. Mike noted that they had to step over the cargo to reach the controls. You made one big mistake, Gomer, he thought to himself grimly. And you sure are gonna pay for it.
A bump under his right hip was the mistake. The aliens had seen the effects of Mike’s Parks double and the longbow, but they hadn’t recognized his grandfather’s antique .45 as a weapon. The old Colt Single Action Army still rested in its leather holster on Mike’s hip, held securely by the hammer loop.
One of the creatures standing by made a chattered comment to the one driving Mike’s platform. With a sniggering laugh, he tossed Mike’s Stetson on the platform next to the Parks double. The drivers of the two cargo haulers chattered a reply before twisting their throttles, spinning their vehicles in place and heading off north.
The trees whipped past at a sickening rate. Mike gritted his teeth as he pulled against his bonds. The aliens’ physical limitations were reflected in their hog-tying job. He wrenched his wrists back and forth, back and forth; the cords loosened, stretched. His skin burned and bled, but he finally worked a little slack in his bonds.
Jenny’s captor buzzed along beside them. Mike risked turning his head enough to see his driver. The alien’s attention was focused on the trees ahead. Good, he thought, keep looking that way. He’d gotten one wrist free now, and used the free hand to pull the loose cords off the other. He reached down, feeling for his holster and knife sheathe. Not only was the Colt in place, his skinning knife was there as well. Sloppy, boys, sloppy! He turned slowly, gradually, moving with practiced stealth, until he lay on his side facing the alien piloting the platform. OK, here we go…
His hand snaked down to the holster. Years of watching old cowboy movies had inspired him to spend many an afternoon practicing quick-draws with the old Colt, and it paid off now. He rolled and rose swiftly to one knee, cocking the revolver with his thumb. The classic triple-click of the old single-action went unheard over the buzzing of the vehicle, but what came next did not. Time seemed to creep now, as Mike’s arm slowly, slowly, extended, towards the alien’s head, the Colt at the end; a sight picture slowly resolved, the front blade nestled in the rear notch. A voice from the distant past, his grandfather, telling him, “focus on the front sight.” The platform bucked and rocked, forcing Mike to grab for support, but the ancient Colt had been designed three hundred years earlier to be easily and accurately fired in one hand, from horseback. The old gun was up to the task. The front sight blade finally came to rest on the back of the aliens’ head, and Mike squeezed the narrow trigger.
The Colt discharged with a boom, blowing away the top of the aliens’ head in a spatter of black blood and white bone. The platform immediately slowed as the alien’s body dropped to the flat surface. Mike rolled off through the gap in the railing at the rear of the cargo area, dropping into the pine needles and litter on the forest floor. Rolling as he hit, he snagged the skinning knife in his left hand and slashed the bonds on his ankles. A buzzing sound faded away through the trees, the platform driver carrying Jenny was fleeing.
“No!” Mike shouted as he leaped for the platform he’d just rolled off of. Kicking the driver’s body off into the ferns, he grabbed for the controls, revving whatever passed for a motor in the thing and racing after the fleeing captor who bore his Jenny off to an unknowable fate.
The alien driving the platform ahead was far more skilled than Mike. He ducked and dodged through the trees, sideslipping and racing through every open area. Mike couldn’t shoot from his bouncing platform without taking a chance of hitting Jenny.
They came to a wide-open fern prairie, and Mike whooped with glee, opening the throttle up wide, he’d stand a better chance now. The alien was looking over his shoulder now, but it wasn’t fear that registered on his face; he was grinning, showing fine, white pointed teeth. He shouted something into a small device held in his free hand, and Mike’s platform suddenly lost power, coasting to a stop in the middle of the kilometer-wide clearing. He leaped from the platform and ran a few yards after the fleeing alien, bracing the Colt in both hands. No good – there simply wasn’t a clear shot. The alien captor raced away, disappearing in the trees even as Mike roared in rage. The image of Jenny’s inert form still hog-tied on the back of the speeding platform burned itself indelibly into his mind.
For the briefest of moments Mike felt like shouting with rage. But he’d always favored actions over words, and it was action that would get Jenny out of wherever she was being taken. Mike had a pretty good idea where that would be.
He listened for a moment more to the alien craft buzzing off to the north, and then sprang into action. It was certain more invaders would be along in moments, the one that had escaped was sure to have been in contact with his fellows. Mike ran to the craft he’d appropriated, leaping to the controls with one bound.
No good, the controls were dead. He’d figured as much. Grabbing both backpacks, the rifles and longbow, Mike sprinted for the nearest spot with good cover. An hour later, he’d gone six kilometers northwest into the shelter of an enormous outcrop of rock that covered most of a hill. The rock was riddled with caves like a giant Swiss cheese, and caves made for good cover. He needed a safe place to cache some of the equipment, to think, to plan.
A small, dry cave camouflaged by brush made a good hiding place for the moment. I’ll need to get moving pretty quickly. I can’t imagine what they want us for, but I bet it ain’t good, he thought. He picked and sorted through the gear, taking only what he needed to travel light and fast. Jenny’s leather knapsack would hold all he needed, and would be much lighter and less cumbersome than his big frame pack. Two packages of boser jerky, twenty rounds of hi-ex and ten solids for the Parks, forty rounds for his .45, all went in the pack. In with them went one blanket and a clean shirt. His Colt and skinning knife were still belted on his right hip. He hung his half-meter dressing knife on the left side. His tiny compass and a minute pair of binoculars hung around his neck.
Stealing a peek out the cave entrance, Mike noted the direction and length of the shadows. It was an hour or two past midday. He sat down to wait for nightfall and, in the meantime, tended his weapons. The Parks was broken down and cleaned meticulously; likewise, the ancient Colt. Both knives were honed to deadly sharpness, tested by shaving a bit of hair from his forearm. He inspected his longbow as well; the braided sinew bowstring was tight and sound, the wood clean and undamaged, all his arrows were in place in the quiver and unharmed by the tussle with his former captors.
Dusk was coming on by the time all this was finished. Chewing on a bit of jerky, Mike looked carefully from the cave entrance, listened for ships or flying platforms, and satisfied himself that the coast was clear. He set out north, just as the night creatures began their chorus. Somewhere ahead, in the mountains, laid an idyllic meadow that once held a cabin shared by a young couple in love. Now, Mike was certain, an alien invasion force was headquartered in the vicinity. There, he would find his love. Somehow, he’d get her out, if it took all the skills and woodcraft at his command to do so, one man against an invading army. And he was sure it would.
To see more of Animal’s writing, visit his page at Crimson Dragon Publishing or Amazon.
Music for Mike.
Even when mankind reaches the stars, we’ll still carry with us the legacy of boomerfudd bullseye shooters…
If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.
Bullseye or die!
None of this running, jumping, pirouetting and vogueing that we see now.
In a reverse of the natural order of things, I got the pure accuracy fetish out of my system in my 20s. Now I’m just waiting for the rest of the bullseye shooters to die off so that we can bulldoze their ranges and put in practical shooting bays.
You are both insane. You can’t be purely one or the other.
Oh, UCS, from the ded thred:
“Whose have you been (avoiding) eating? That is not at all a proper descriptor.
Unless you hare cheese.
Are you a Quesophobe?”
Not a phobe, it just doesn’t do anything for me, taste wise. I eat it, but don’t go searching it out, and Mac and Cheese is still glop. You can dress it up a la Fet Alfredo, but still glop.
You are definately a heretic and we will get the pyre ready.
Sure you can. The style of shooting (target vs. practical) is very different, and target focus is a big part of the difference.
Another big part of the difference is that practical shooting is fun, interesting, and potentially useful, and target shooting is as boring as watching old people fuck, and equally useless.
Sorry Sheldon, but you are still quite wrong.
Practical shooters value accuracy. They also value speed, ability to shoot from multiple stances in order to take advantage of cover, and ability to maintain control of muzzle and trigger while moving.
Bullseye shooter value accuracy and nothing else. In fact they tend to be actively hostile to the others.
This isn’t a middle ground situation. Practical shooters ARE the middle ground. Bullseye are at best simply wrong, and at their worst are as dangerous to the 2nd Amendment as any anti-gunner.
Sorry, but I only accept shooting-related criticism from M’s, GM’s, and hot chicks. And (rarely) Not Adhan.
Sporting clays is where the real fun is at.
😛
Sporting clays prepare you to fend off the coming pheasant revolt
Very true. Not just the real fun, but also the real money. If I had half a brain I would have joined the skeet and trap club back in college, instead of the pistol team…
Good skeet/trap shooters make for good bird shooters. Some may disagree but they would be wrong.
Unless “Practical” shooting includes a sniping component that has not been revealed to me, it is focused on close-range encounters and neglects the long range. One should be well rounded and practice for all ranges, including the anti-drone practice from trap/skeet.
I was speaking of pistol shooting in particular. However, since you asked:
https://www.precisionrifleseries.com/
https://quantifiedperformance.com/
Please include Biathlon. We have the same opinion of NRA small bore as ES does bullseye. 20 mins for 30 targets?.. how about 5 in fewer seconds, after you just ran 1.5K.
“Bullseye are at best simply wrong, and at their worst are as dangerous to the 2nd Amendment as any anti-gunner.”
That is the steamiest, creamiest, stickiest and stinkiest hunk of BS that I think I have ever come across on this forum.
Practical shooting is about as far from accurate as a hand grenade is from accurate. Bullseye is the natural take away from sniping; not the most necessary thing, unless you need to be pinpoint accurate at five football fields distance, or hunting.
The middle ground is putting six rounds into a pie plate at the distance of your bed to the bedroom door and speed dialing the police.
What Dr. Lawn would like is the newish competitions that combine athletics and shooting, I am blanking on what they are called. Tulsi Gabbard has done them.
So I’ve honestly just been trolling you for my amusement, but this comment makes me think that (1) you might actually be serious, and (B) that you have absolutely no clue about practical shooting.
So just to clarify, the accuracy required to compete successfully at USPSA, is *WAY* higher than a pie plate across the room. Being able to hold a 6″ group at fifteen yards is about a minimum standard, and you should be able to maintain such accuracy shooting at a rate of 3-4 shots per second.
If you are trying to shoot 500 yard targets with a pistol you are a fool. Bullseye is a pistol sport. Obviously rifle is a different animal.
The Tactical Games. I know some guys (and one gal) who’ve done them. It’s 90% Crossfit with 10% shooting tacked on as an afterthought. Not really my thing.
Paraphrasing a book I read a long time ago . . . “the easiest way to kill a person is to poke a hole in him and let the life run out.”
Thanks again for the story, Animal. At this point I am getting anxious to find out what happens, so I will buy the book on Amazon so I don’t have to wait.
It’s a good book.
Seconded.
Follow-up book is in the same universe but quite a bit different but also very enjoyable.
https://www.thetruthaboutguns.com/n-c-governor-vetoes-constitutional-carry/
CWAA
Any infringement on a person’s right to arm themselves is a crime. Put that asshole in prison.
It’s interesting how constitutional carry opponents always list all the horrible things that will happen, yet completely ignore the fact that the 29 states that have constitutional carry don’t have these problems. They simply lie and claim things that have been proven false 29 times already.
“They simply lie.”
Every word out of their mouth. These people are the reason you should never give up your guns.
North Carolinians can be trusted to vote right but are dangerous when they pick up a gun. Same as a Minnesota governor with a gun or a pen.
That’s the reason he didn’t go with his troops into a hot fire zone.
On a related note, I took my wife to see F1 Saturday.
We went to an IMAX theater for it and it was intense.
It was a very entertaining movie, but I’m pretty sure if a real person did what Pitt’s character did in a real F1 race, they would get banned.
However, it was a lot of fun.
Idaho shooter is a 20 year old kid that wanted to be a firefighter. I’m guessing he was rejected.
Gee, maybe he failed the psych profile.
The report I read was that he did not like first responders. LEO/Fire/etc.
He’s more into last responders?
I received my new DL: REAL ID, veteran, and Blutgruppen. I’m ready for WW3.
Organ donor.
I’m only listing changes. None of the ones I listed were available 16 years ago.
I think the Germans are going to be at best a very peripheral player, maybe you should have the blood type in a different language.
A tattoo would help in case I lose my id.
The Germans will play the part of ArchDuke Franz Ferdinand in this retelling.
I’ve given semi-serious thought to having my blood type tattooed on my arm. The hangup is (1) I’m not that excited about getting another tattoo and (2) I don’t want a tattoo that’s visible when I’m wearing a t-shirt, which may also mean its not visible when they drag my semi-conscious body out of the foxhole.
Off for two weeks. Not really sure what to tackle. Garden boundry needs to be done. Got more tomatoes than I know what to do with.
Could brush up on LLM and ML stuff.
GlibGPT?
Every answer to your query ends up being some combination of food, music, assmexicans, “them”, what are you a cop, and FU cut spending?
You could donate to this cause.
https://tomatina.es/en/
Interesting turn, though I guess it was foreshadowed given the descriptions of Grugell anatomy. I’m left wondering if melee weapons were ever part of their culture. Maybe even handguns were never part of their culture, since they are less accurate and so distasteful to their persnickety nature.
My take on marksmanship: https://platedlizard.blogspot.com/2013/09/is-marksmanship-obsolete.html
Audie Murphy “demonstrates” practical shooting: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wveDGdtt-Mg
Lots of shooting from the hip…
As mentioned earlier in the story the grugells are unaccustomed to wily, intelligent critters that put up resistance. That will work itself out with time.
Wait until commander fuckstick finds out that his ‘prey’ is now hunting him.
Skimming over the shooting squabble…I take it no one here shoots silhouettes. Yes, I like bullseye shooting, revolvers and I can hit at 500 yards but 200 reliably.
Now, get off of my lawn.