M. Banner - Stone Age

“Oh, God, am I really going to do this?” Bill mumbled.

“Am I really going to squeeze the trigger and send a bullet into this stranger’s body, taking his life? Why again am I doing this? Because this man is maybe a threat to my family or me? What kind of reasoning was this?” Bill muttered this to the one man he saw through the eyepiece. Each man, except the lead walker appeared to have an AK assault rifle slung in front of their chests or on their sides.

An explosion nearby wrenched Bill’s attention away from his target. Through the fire and growing black smoky haze, he recognized it was the Smith’s house only five doors away, next door to the Andersons. Max said it would go next because of the metal in the structure, through which the magnetic waves induce current and overload the circuits, causing it to blow, or some such logic.

He then looked at his house and Max’s. God, please protect my family .

Lisa was past the point of panicking. This nervous Mexican man looked like he was going to kill them. So, did his partner who went back outside several minutes ago. What did they want, she wondered. W hy us? And what if either Bill or Max wandered in on them? She said a quick prayer.

At the amen , an explosion rang out a few houses away. Both Lisa and Sally were jarred, jumping slightly out of their seats. The nervous Mexican holding them hostage, the younger of the two, nervously walked towards the patio door, probably to look outside and see what caused the explosion.

The sharp crack of gunshot blasted right outside their dining room window.

“Oh, God, Daddy,” Sally shrieked. Lisa squeezed her hand even tighter.

The young Mexican, already half out the patio door, turned back inside and ran toward the window and the sound of the gunshot. His rifle slung forward and pointed in front of him. When he was at the window, he was startled to see Señor Max, the man they were after, rise up slowly outside, near the window, pointing his pistol towards the street. He was about to surprise Señor Max. Lifting his rifle level to his right eye, the young Mexican’s barrel bounced around with his heavy breathing and fear. But it was hard to miss at this distance, and Señor Max still hadn’t turned around. His finger curled around the trigger. He started to apply pressure.

Max quietly and slowly rose, staying out of the view of the window. He kept his gun steady on the man he shot in the head, making sure he wasn’t a threat any longer. Feeling satisfied, he turned towards the window to deal with the next bad guy, who was already standing behind the window with his gun pointed directly at him.

The gunshot caused Max to jump and stumble back a couple of steps, as he also futilely attempted to meet the assaulter with his own weapon. However, it was too late. He was in shock, not from being shot, but seeing the young Mexican’s chest explode through the window and then collapse out and onto the windowsill, where he came to rest, a flop of matted black hair hanging below his head. Max instinctively felt his body for some evidence of the wound he had to have. His mind and body attempted to reconcile and make sense of what just happened. Maybe it was Sally or Lisa? His mind wrestled with the only plausible answer.

Satisfied he was unharmed, he briskly walked to the King’s back patio door. In the doorway, partially obscured by the curtains, which were flowing with the ocean breezes, was a man pointing some sort of gun at him.

Bill heard the gunshot, just below the terrace. Maybe a minute later, he heard another gunshot which resonated below, this time more muffled.

“Dammit. Focus, Bill,” he yelled, lowering his face again behind the eyepiece of the 50 caliber Barrett sniper rifle. The sight picture was instantaneous and his target was getting closer.

However, the damned image wouldn’t stay still. The lead stranger was walking toward him, but the vaporous heat of the dusty Mexican road added a surreal undulating distortion to the landscape in his eyepiece, as if just below and out of sight, the desert was on fire. Bill was shaking. In spite of the firmness of the gun’s bipod and the 90-degree heat, he was chilled by the awful task given to him. His chest was pounding so hard, he felt as if his ribs were being bruised from the inside by each rapid beat of his heart. The heat, the humidity, the movement of his enemy, along with his fear, all conspired to cause his target to dance around the rifle’s crosshairs, which he was having more and more difficulty holding still over the man’s body. You can do this .

He enjoyed hunting animals and he had taken down many over the years, albeit with weapons far less complicated and powerful. But, he had never shot a person, thankfully. Even with their Christian faith, his wife and he never questioned their firmness in killing someone who had broken into their house or threatened their family, having discussed this possibility on numerous occasions. That scenario always seemed easy. After all, it would be defensive and perhaps reactionary, with no time to think. The contemplation before pulling this trigger was certainly different. But, isn’t it also defensive, he reasoned.

The picture laid out for him by Max was pretty straightforward. Henchmen for the cartel were approaching from the North by foot. They intend to kill you, your family, and me, but if you shoot the leader, the others may go away and not bother us. If you don’t shoot, they will kill us all.

He knew he had to do this. His wife, his daughter, and his friend’s lives depended on him doing this. His indecision started to shrink slightly now.

The advanced eyepiece gave him more information than what he wanted to know. Strange the electronics even worked, when everything else didn’t, from what Max said. He considered the most important facts it provided: Distance to target: 1857… 1856 meters, Temperature: 90.6, Humidity: 57.4%. He considered how much the bullet would drop, but shrugged it off, knowing that even if it dropped a foot, this missile would stop its intended target.

“But the leader is not even armed,” Bill said out loud, offering a last minute defense.

He wiped away the discolored beads of sweat dripping down from his dirty brow, about to further blur his vision. The unshaded back area of the terrace allowed the hot Mexican sun to make the gun, his hands and body feel on fire. The humidity from the sea made it that much more miserable. His dirty tee shirt stuck to his back like a second skin.

Just then, he noticed it. The leader also had a sling around his chest.

All his attention now focused on what was connected to the sling. Was it a satchel or something worse? The answer to his plea was unmistakable. The short black barrel of an automatic rifle revealed itself from behind the man’s back with every other step of his stride. Case closed.

The image was now still, as was his resolve.

He squeezed the trigger. The blast was deafening.

“Come in, Señor Max,” said an icy calm voice with a thick Mexican accent that spoke violence.

Max walked through the entry and curtains, and saw Lisa and Sally huddled together on the couch valiantly attempting to suppress their terror and tears. Their wide-eyed gaze was trained on Max and the man in front of them, pointing a gun at Max. Max turned to the man and could see his unmistakable short-cropped hair and small scar on his check. It was Chaco, one of El Gordo’s men. Not knowing if he should celebrate or fear what was coming next, he asked, “Are you the one I have to thank for saving my life.”

A shot rang out. Max recognized the thunderous report instantly, greeting it with both happiness, and sadness.