Splitting a Match

A Sniper

7.

[Time: 8:30am]

[Location: King County Court House, Seattle, Pangaea]

[September 3, 2097]

I climbed the stairwell that led up to the open rooftop slowly, pondering what had just happened. Every step seemed to be a mountain to climb. The sadness I felt of never seeing the real Krys again made the day slow and weary.

When I finally reached the top, I saw that the other two sentries at this time were already there: Nate and one of my closest friends named Paul Beretta. Paul had taught me everything of weapons, training me how to disassemble and reassemble over twenty different guns, how to aim, how to shoot. I guess his name fits his person.

He was the one who noticed my almost natural ability to hit my target, even while not necessarily aiming. I would wait for a target to pop up, the pistol at my side, and when it did, I would not hesitate. I would raise the pistol and shoot, all within perhaps half a second.

Ninety percent of the time, I would hit the target. Paul recognized this gift and invested many hours tutoring me, even though I was only eleven. By age twelve, I had moved from handguns to rifles, and was making hits from 150 yards. By fourteen, the gun felt like a deadly extension of myself. Not a tool I held, but an attachment I had grown. I could consistently hit a target from 300 yards in nearly all weather conditions. I could reload a rifle in less than one second, popping the magazine out and putting the new one in with the same hand in one fluid motion. I would load a bullet in the chamber, and be ready to unleash a firestorm to anyone who crossed my path.

It was then that Paul told Kendrick York that I was ready to be our Clan's sentry. Mr. York immediately consented, and I had started my post the following day.

The only problem was that I had practiced my entire shooting life hitting targets. Just a round piece of wood with circles painted on it. I had never put a human being in my cross-hairs before becoming a sentry. At that time, I didn't know if I could.

I had made my first and only kill a few months ago, when a pack of thieves and murderers that had pestered us for weeks traveled down the wrong street. After identifying them, Paul, Nate, and I started to pick them off. They were a good 160 yards away at the time. Paul was pumping shot after shot their way, never missing, always making a killing hit. Nate was more slow, but maybe more precise. He shot, reloaded carefully with his bolt-action rifle, and lined up his target again.

I had yet to pull the trigger. By now, the pack of thieves had scattered, leaving behind four or five dead comrades. They were running our way, fast, keeping to the sides of the street. But somehow, I couldn't pull the trigger. I could not end somebody's life from such a distance. They didn't know who it was that shot them, they didn't know where.

Most likely, they had never seen my face before, and I was out to kill them. How could I?

I was still squinting down my scope, following the man I had had my eye on the entire time. Then I heard Paul break into my thoughts.

"Emmett! You have to shoot, son. If they get away, they'll tell the rest of their group where we are, and then we'll all be dead!" he yelled, his voice broken by the crack of his rifle.

Then I had thought of the rest of my family and the harm that would come to them if I didn't take this guy out. He was nearing the end of the block and would run to a side street soon, out of my range.

The rifle bucked in my hands, and for half a second, nothing happened. Then I saw the man get thrown to the ground, clutching his chest. My bullet had done its work. And I had taken the life of another human. A second later, Nate's rifle cracked, and the last man fell.