We arrived at home late with a considerable load of weaponry. Three MP5 submachineguns, an M4 assault rifle, and a G36k assault rifle had burdened my father and me down.
After discussing the topic the entire way home, I convinced my father to give me two of the MP5s, along with three magazines for them. He refused to give me an assault rifle, arguing that I had no need for the firepower. And besides that, I “had performed perfectly well” with two pistols and a submachinegun. Further arguing was of no use, and I needed the submachineguns more anyway.
“We got a good haul of weapons,” my father remarked to my mother after telling her the night’s events. “I’ll take them down to the Store tomorrow and trade ‘em.”
He turned to me. “Hey Kid, are you tired?”
“No,” I lied flatly.
“Do you want to take them a few blocks away and try them out?”
As if I’d never fired an automatic weapon before. I nodded anyways. He hadn’t seen my mother in several days and it wasn’t hard to guess why he wanted me out of the house for a while. Besides, I wanted to try out my MP5s.
He unloaded the food from the duffel bag and began packing the weapons and ammunition into it.
“Uh, aren’t you gonna get blood all over everything?”
He shook his head. “Nah, I made sure the animals were clean before I bagged them.”
When he finished, he handed the duffel bag over to me. It was extremely heavy. I removed my backpack and slid the duffel’s strap over my shoulder.
Walking with the bag wasn’t going to be fun. I stapped out the door, shifted the weight of the bag a bit, and did my best to walk normally down the street.
I went to the south end of the street and then east for a few blocks. Finally, I turned down a small side-street and stopped in a mid-sized parking lot.
After dragging some ancient metal trashcans against a wall for targets, I pulled out the first MP5 and loaded a clip into it. Then I cocked it, raised it to my shoulder, and fired.
The submachinegun made a relativly quiet pop and pushed lightly against my shoulder. A clunk came from the trashcan.
I fired a few more shots, all of which hit the can, and then switched the fire selector to automatic. When I squeezed the trigger, the stock dug into my shoulder and the barrel began recoiling upwards. I steadied it and held the trigger until the chamber clicked empty.
Most of the bullets had hit the can, and the recoil from the 9mm rounds wasn’t nearly as bad as that from an assault rifle, or even the Ingram. Satisfied with the weapon, I put it back into the bag and repeated the process with the next two.
The second MP5 worked acceptable but wasn’t as accurate as the first. The third didn’t fire at all. I poked at it for a few minutes but wasn’t able to clear the jam with my limited knowledge of the gun.
Next I went on to the M4. It was more accurate on single shot, but recoiled much more on automatic, making it more difficult to score a hit. Two-thirds of the bullets had missed it.
Finally I pulled out the G3. It had a built in scope, and I eagerly prepared to test it out.
Aiming the rifle was easy with the scope and recticle. I centered the crosshairs on the can and pulled the trigger for a single shot.
The bullet hit almost a foot to the right of my aimpoint. I adjusted the small dial on the side of the scope to correct its aim and then fired again.
This shot hit much closer to where I’d aimed. I made a final adjustment and fired again, scoring a direct hit. Satisfied, I switched to automatic fire.
Just as with the M4, the G3 kicked quite a bit on automatic. I held the barrel in a line as best I could, and again managed to hit my target with about a third of the bullets.
With nothing left to do, and feeling a bit tired, I loaded everything back into the duffel bag and set out for home.
When I reached our street, I went inside the house on the corner and up to my small weapons stash. I happily added the two working MP5s, along with three magazines for them, to my supplies. I also cleaned out the less accurate one and refilled the empty mags.
After I finished loading the last clip, I inserted it into one of the MP5. It clicked into place, and I pulled back the cocking lever to load the first round into the chamber.
I put the submachinegun back down gently and then leaned back against the wall, with my head tilted back. I relaxed and settled into thought.
For a moment I wondered what my parents were doing at the moment, but this was not an appealing line of thought. I switched tracks to weapons and war.
War was something that had always intrigued me. I’d never seen a full battle, only heard tales of them from people who were alive before the disaster. What was it like on a battlefield, fighting alongside a squad of men that you had grown to know and love? What was it like facing hoards of enemies, with tanks and artillery and machine guns? Was it exciting? Was it frightening?
I tried to picture a military battle, but I couldn’t. I didn’t know how engagements took place. Would small squads get into isolated fights, or was it a constant massive battle with both armies firing from opposite ends of an endless, war torn field? I focused harder on the concept, trying to visualize it.
It was a giant, grassy field. Shells and bullets flew everywhere. Explosions sent clods of dirt and human remains shooting in every direction. Planes buzzed by overhead.
A few tanks rumbled across the terrain in the distance, blasting anything that got in their ways. The crackle of machinegun fire was deafening.
I could see bodies strewn across the field.
A group of men stood around me. My squadmates. A squad leader stood in front of us, yelling. I was sweating and nervous.
“The assault has just been confirmed! The time is upon us! Let’s go!”
We began running at a medium pace. Our heavy packs emitted clanks and rattles. Boots pounded heavily against the dirt. I scanned the tall grasses around us as we moved.
A loud yell came from our right. Suddenly a half-dozen men stood up, yelling in a foreign language.
Our pounding footsteps ceased, and we turned towards the men.
They began firing. Flashes from the muzzles of their weapons accompanied the roar of automatic fire.
Hastily I raised my rifle. I swiveled the barrel until I could see one of the foreign figures in my sights.
The M16 kicked back, and the loud pops rang in my ears. The man in the sights jerked around like a rag doll and fell to the earth, where he lay eerily twitching in the grasses.
The soldier beside me screamed. Blood sprayed across the front of my uniform. The wounded man fell clutching at his arm, while blood streamed from it.
Emotionally unaffected, I continued staring through the sights. My view bobbed for a second and settled on another enemy soldier.
Again my rifle kicked back. A trio of bullets tore holes in my target’s chest. A river of crimson ran down his body, and he stumbled forward and collapsed. I immediately snapped my attention to the next target.
There was no next target. I lowered my rifle slightly and peered over the sights. Not one of our attackers remained standing. I let my arms fall to my sides; the barrel of my weapon ran parallel to my legs. With the fight over, I took a moment to survey the scene before me.
Two of my companions lay in pools of blood. Another screamed and writhed on the ground. A fourth sat on the ground rocking back and forth, in shock. I walked over to him, to comfort him, and realized I didn’t know his name…
I awoke in a cold sweat. I had dozed off and dreamed about war. How long had I been asleep?
The early morning light was coming in through the windows. With a groan, I climbed to my feet.
My parents would be worried about me. I’d been gone all night.
Still yawning slightly, I lifted the duffel bag and pulled the strap over my shoulder. Then I stumbled down the stairs and outside.
The sky shone light yellow. Smoke billowed from the north, as always, though it did not obscure the sunrise. Small pieces of paper drifted north through the currents in the air. My shirt flapped. The breeze felt surprisingly warm.
Even stronger than usual I detected the scent of gunpowder. It assaulted my nose, and quickly brought me fully awake.
Slowly I progressed up the street, hindered by the strong wind.
Finally, I reached my house. The wind continued to pick up and threatened to propel me back down the street unless I made it inside.
I opened up the door and stepped quickly inside. The door slammed behind me.
My mother greeted me with her Uzi raised and ready to fire.
“Ahh!” she exclaimed, lowering the weapon. “You scared me!”
I shook my head. “Where’s…”
“Right here, Kid,” my father cut me off. I turned to find him in the doorway leading to the kitchen. “Where have you been?” he asked, more concerned than angry.
“I fell asleep.” In a hurry to change the subject, I presented him the duffel bag. “Here, I tested all the weapons. One of the MP5s doesn’t work.”
He took the bag. When it didn’t weigh as much as he’d expected, he raised an eyebrow.
“I already took out my two guns.” I explained.
His expression returned to normal. “Oh. All right then. I’ll take these down to the Store when the wind dies down.”
Outside, the windows and doors rattled.
“So these all work fine? Except for the MP5?”
I shrugged. “Well, it’s jammed. I don’t know how to clear it.”
“Ah. I think I can fix it.”
“All right. I’m going to go up to my room.” I turned and walked down the hall and up the stairs.
At the top of the stairs, a short hallway ended in the door to my room.
My room was medium-sized. The bed, narrow and lumpy, lay pressed against the far wall. A shelf covered in various little toys and other objects was attached to the right wall. On the left stood a dresser, in which I kept my clothes. An ancient faded blue beanbag chair sat in the far left corner.
I stripped off my clothes and got clean ones out of the dresser. Clean was sort of a relative term because of the lack of running water. They could not be fully washed unless it rained. Of course, it didn’t matter how dirty they were. Nobody in Anarchy really cared.
Once I was dressed, I walked over to the shelf and looked through the possessions I had there. Amongst rope, a flare, and a canteen, lay various knives.
I always carried a pocketknife with me, but it was not designed for fighting. There had never been a situation where I needed a knife, but that didn’t mean it couldn’t happen.
I picked out a sharp military survival knife with a sharp partially serrated blade. Slowly I rolled it around with my fingers. It felt well balanced.
Content with my initial inspection, I made a few experimental stabs and slashes at the air. The knife had a good grip and was easy to weild. Thrust. Parry. Thrust. I continued to practice until I felt satisfied that I could use the knife effectively. I tucked it into the sheath-like pocket in the right leg of my pants.
The door to my room creaked open. I twisted to see who it was. My mother bent down and retrieved my dirty clothes from the floor. She smiled at me and left to clean them.
“Hey, wait! You don’t need to…” I objected, but she was already gone.
I extended my arms and folded them back and forth, stretching my sore muscles. The previous day had been lond and demanding. Momentarily, I regretted not getting more sleep, but I did not need as much sleep as most people to function well.
There was no point in lingering at home. Better to be out and take a few risks, and get something done.
I collected my backpack and headed downstairs.
“I’m going out for a while!” I called out.
My mother’s voice floated in from the other room. “It’s too windy!”
The front door rattled.
“It’s just a little wind!”
She walked into the hallway and looked at me carefully. “Are you sure you’ll be okay?”
I rolled my eyes. “I can take care of myself.”
After a moment, she nodded. Right. Be careful. Stay safe.”
“Of course.” I stepped past her, opened up the door, and walked outside