The Riptide Project

ᴛᴡᴏ

I only stop shooting when it's too dark to see the target. I sling the strap of the AR-15 over my shoulder and pull off my fingerless gloves. They're the only sort of protection I wear. I never wear ear protection or goggles, because as my dad says, in real life when you need to shoot a gun, you won't have time to put on a set of earmuffs. 

I'm not deaf. Yet.

It's freezing out. I shiver as I trudge back into the Shack. The place is empty except for Ringer, who's wiping down the glass display counter at the side of the room. She's already chased everyone else off. Technically the place was closed half an hour ago, but Ringer lets me stay longer.

We've known each other ever since my dad first took me to the shooting range three years ago. We're not the type of friends who share all their secrets and giggle together and talk just for the sake of talking. We say what we have to say. Most of the conversations we have are along the lines of Ringer saying, "I just got a new shipment. Wanna try out an AWC Ultra II? It's a modified Ruger 10/22," and me replying, "Sure, why not."

We don't share much about ourselves. All Ringer knows about me is that my dad is military and I go to Romanoff Alternative; all I know about her is that she runs her family's business here and that she'll enlist in the army when her mom dies and she doesn't have to care of her.

Ringer tucks the cleaning rag into her back pocket. "Something to warm you up on a cold night?" she inquires with a glint in her eyes. She unscrews the lid of a metal thermos and holds it out to me. I know for a fact that there's something a little stronger than coffee in there. 

"No thanks, gotta stay sober. Kerry freaked last time I showed up after taking one shot too many."

Kerry is my landlord. She lives in the unit next to the one I share with Dad—when he's around—and she checks in on me every morning and night. She cooks most of my meals even though I insist I can survive on my own. Which I can, but Dad made a deal with her that if she takes care of me, he'll pay extra rent and do all her maintenance whenever he comes back home. The reason for this is that social services turned up at my door one day when I was home alone—Dad was off on some two-month stint in Classified Land. The case worker threatened to stick me in foster care, so Dad had to figure out the thing with Kerry.

Ringer smirks. "Too bad." She takes a swig of her drink and then sets it down. "Good stuff." She uses her sleeve to swipe at her lips.

I sigh. "Well, I gotta go. See you tomorrow."

"See ya."

I barge out into the cold night. 

Sorry that these chapters are so short. The other ones will be longer. Thanks to everyone who's read so far! Hope you like it.