"The recoil is the rifle talking to you. Not like a pistol in your hand, but in your shoulder. Feel it. Don't be startled by it." Her voice was calm, instructional.
Van heaved for breath. Watching the rotter's head erupt under the rifle fire, a deep-seated, violent knot in his gut loosened and was expelled with every punch of the stock against his shoulder.
Despite his practice with handguns, the AR-15 was a first.
The thunderous roar and the relentless battering against his body left no room for thought except for the raw, mechanical act of violence.
Jane kept her hand steady over his. "Now, calm down. It's not a pistol. Let go of the trigger."
Van took a deep breath. Jane carefully moved his finger off the trigger. "You know to keep your finger off. Make it a habit."
So this is automatic fire… Van thought as his adrenaline ebbed.
He reset the stock against his shoulder, found the red dot in the scope, and began a deliberate rhythm of squeeze and release.
BANG. BANG. BANG.
Rotters fell one by one.
Jane raised an eyebrow, impressed. His innate skill was obvious.
Almost as good as me. A slight smile touched her lips as her eyes traced the scars on his back. Whoever gave you those… better hope Van never finds them.
Lost in the zone, Van grew more fluent with the weapon. He'd track the dot toward a skull, his finger already applying pressure.
The dot settled. The trigger hit the wall.
[ EXP +1 ]
CLICK.
The gun fell silent. "Empty," Jane stated from beside him.
After a quick lesson on mag changes, Van sat back. "Your turn. I'll load mags. Cool off."
Jane grunted an affirmation, knelt, and resumed the harvest.
"Why not go prone?" Van asked, pressing rounds into a magazine.
She looked back, curious. "Better field of view this way. Why would I?"
Because your ass… Van didn't dare say it. Instead, he blurted, "I think you'd look good shooting prone."
A challenging eyebrow shot up from Jane. With a smirk, she shifted to a prone position, settled the rifle, and resumed her one-shot-one-kill routine.
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Van's speed loading the magazines slowed considerably as he watched her hips jump with each shot's recoil.
Jane emptied the mag and rose, rubbing her shoulder. "Try the Benelli, Van."
The rooftop had become their personal range.
Van took the pump-action to the roof edge and aimed at a rotter below. Jane watched with a mischievous grin.
BOOM!
The shotgun kicked like a mule, nearly flying out of his grip and sending him stumbling back two steps.
Jane burst out laughing. "Shotgun recoil is a beast! You have to drive your weight into it!"
Embarrassed, Van re-shouldered the weapon, leaning forward aggressively this time.
BOOM!
His ears rang, but the sight of a rotter's head dissolving into pink mist was deeply satisfying. Imagine using this on that bastard…
He shook the thought away and glanced at the still-grinning Jane. "Happy?"
She nodded. "Reminds me of my first time."
Van's eyes caught a red mark on her right hip. "What happened there?"
Jane looked down. "This morning. In the truck. Hot brass from your pistol. It's fine." She then eyed his own collection of scars. "And yours?"
Van glanced at the marks, twisting to see the one on his shoulder. "Trophies."
A questioning hum from Jane.
"Looking for my parents' killer. Two years of deliveries and hunting." He shrugged.
Jane covered her mouth. "You went into the territories?"
Van remained non-committal. "Periphery. Surveillance. The ones who marked me got it worse. Still haven't found the main guy."
"Alone?"
"Don't underestimate me. I'm good at running and fighting. Just observing the edges." He flexed a bicep pointlessly.
Rotter groans from below interrupted them. Jane peeked over. "Still a lot down there."
Van's Express was ready for an upgrade, but getting back to it was currently impossible.
The gunfire had drawn more of the infected into the shop. Van estimated at least a hundred remained inside.
"Ammo's good. We clear them out, then restock," Van decided, confirming with Jane. The rooftop was a perfect kill zone.
"And the fanatics behind the fire door," Jane added, almost to herself. "Do we… kill people?"
"Best option is to slip away unseen," Van proposed. He wasn't sure he could pull the trigger on a living person, and they had modern weapons.
He had an upgradable truck. His body was still flesh and blood.
"Clear the rotters first." Jane went prone and started firing.
Van kept count while loading magazines. "Under a hundred rounds left. Enough for two more mags," he reported, handing her a fresh one.
The visible rotters were thinning. The rest were hiding in blind spots.
"Go down?" Jane asked, stowing mags in her cargo pockets.
Van peered over the edge. "Wait."
Automatic gunfire erupted from the store's main floor below.
The cartel was making their move.
Van gritted his teeth. The stealthy exit plan was crumbling. He sealed the roof hatch and pulled a grenade from his pack. "How does this work?"
Jane shook her head. "Never used one."
Van stared at the metal egg. "Movie rules it is."
He pulled the pin, cracked the hatch, and lobbed the grenade over the second-floor railing. Slamming the hatch shut, he and Jane dove for cover.
Four seconds later, a violent explosion shook the building. The storefront's tempered glass wall blew outward in a shower of fragments.
Van cracked the hatch open a sliver.
A wounded cartel member on the first floor saw him and raised his pistol.
Van rolled aside as a bullet punched through the metal hatch.
Jane scrambled over. "Van! Are you hit?"
"No. He didn't get a clear sight. He's suppressing us!" Van pulled her to the side. "They know this place! You cover the right side of the entrance with the shotgun! I've got the left!"
Jane nodded, raising the shotgun. Van grabbed the Benelli and sprinted to the raised steel structure housing the roof access.
He heard frantic Spanish from inside, followed by a gunshot and the sound of a chain being pulled.