Ravennittes
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System Architect - Ch 48
🕑 Added 2024-10-30 16:00:07 +0000 UTCTwo days later, Grandpa Joe picked me up from Dad’s trailer. He was beginning to look older. I didn’t think one year had been a long time. His face looked like it had aged five years in that time. If my memory was right, he was nearing the end of his life. He’d live another four or five years but then that would be that. I wanted to learn as much as I could from him before that happened.
“Hey kid,” he said. “You ready to go shooting?”
“Yeah,” I said with a forced smile.
Just thinking about him beginning to slow down was dampening the mood a bit. It cause my smile to crack. I hoped he didn’t notice but I knew he had. Thankfully, he said nothing about it.
The shooting range law on the outskirts of the town. It looked like an old grocery store that had been converted at some point a long time ago. The parking lot was gravel with no lines marked. There were some customers but not too many. Grandpa Joe parked and helped me out of the car. He pulled two guns from the trunk. Both were in traveling cases. I gave him a questioning look.
“They don’t lend guns here,” he explained. “These are mine. One’s a small caliber rifle and the other is the handgun I brought with us while hiking.”
“Which will I shoot?” I asked as we walked to the door.
“Both eventually. Today, though, just the rifle.”
A bell tinkled when we entered the shop portion of the shooting range. I saw racks of ammunition and gun accessories in neat rows with narrow aisles between them. The main counter had a large variety of guns behind it—everything from handguns to shotguns to large caliber rifles that looked like something used in the military. Grandpa Joe walked me to the counter where a younger man stood looking bored.
“Welcome to Lots-o-Shots,” he said. “How can I help you today?”
“I’d like to buy a couple boxes of twenty-two for the rifle and some time on the line with my grandson, here.” Grandpa Joe stated.
“Any preference for brand of the ammo?” the man asked.
“Whatever’s decent but not too expensive.”
The man scurried around and showed Grandpa where the ammo he was looking for was located. He then helped ring them up along with the range time.
“It’s gotten more expensive than it used to be,” he whistled while paying for us.
Grandpa Joe handed me ear protection. The young man led us to a steel door behind which I could hear the faint thuds and cracks of gunfire. I put the ear protection on and went through into the gun range beyond.
The range itself had about ten stations to fire from—of which three were occupied. The stations were separated by some sort of thick barrier that I hoped was bulletproof for the calibers being used. Behind the stations were shelves containing an assortment of targets. Grandpa Joe took a couple of them with him on the way to one of the open stations. He had to hook it into the clips and reel it out to a spot he thought was far enough for a first try. The shooting range extended about fifty yards but he put the target much closer—maybe ten yards away.
“Ok,” he said in a muffled voice. “I’m going to tell you something very important before we begin.”
I looked at him intently.
“Just like a falling knife has no handle, a gun is always loaded. Never—and I mean never—point a gun at something you don’t intend to shoot. I don’t care if you’ve checked it a hundred times and could swear to God that there’s no rounds in it—treat it like there are. Don’t look down the barrel, don’t point it at anyone, always keep it aimed towards the ground when not in use. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes,” I said with an exaggerated nod in case he couldn’t actually hear me.
“Good. Now let me show you how to load the gun.”
Grandpa Joe opened one of the boxes he’d purchased and pulled out a couple rounds.
“The first option is to shoot one at a time,” he said.
He loaded one round into the rifle before sliding the bolt shut. He lifted it to his shoulder, aimed, and fired. He unlatched the bolt and let the spent cartridge fall to the ground.
“Careful,” he warned. “Those things are mighty warm when they are freshly fired. Got many a burn that way.”
He laughed.
“The next way—and the way I want you to load this gun—is to fill the internal magazine. That way you can cycle the action and fire a handful before having to reload. It’ll help you get a feel for hot to aim.”
Grandpa Joe handed the rifle to me.
“Pull the bolt back like you saw me do when loading just the one round.”
I pulled it back. I found that it took some finagling to get it to pull back all the way like the action was just a little sticky or rough or something like that.
“Alright, now take one and press it through the opening,” he said, pointing to a slot that the retracted bolt had exposed.
The slot was just wide enough to fit a single cartridge at a time. I pressed one in and then another. In total, I fit seven in the internal magazine before I felt like it was full. I rested the rifle against the opening, with it facing down range and looked up at Grandpa Joe.
“I think I’ve filled it,” I said.
“Let me check,” he decided.
He peered in and pressed the top round with his fingers before nodding.
“Good. Next, close the bolt and shoulder the weapon.”
I did as he asked. The bolt went closed better than it opened. I felt it catch securely—which Grandpa Joe checked—before I pulled the rifle up and put the stock against my shoulder like I’d seen him do. He checked my posture and made any necessary corrections.
“Alright, kid,” he said. “You want to aim using the iron sights. You see the little raised bit at the end?”
“Yeah?”
“There’s a notch closer to you. Line those two up with the center of the target and pull the trigger.”
I rested my finger against the trigger. Lining the sights up was difficult—the rifle was unwieldy and my line of sight was a bit off. I took the time to adjust where my head rested so I could get a good picture. When I felt like I was as aimed as I could be, I carefully pulled the trigger.
The act of pulling the trigger—and thus firing the weapon—pulled me off target a little. Even so, I was able to hit pretty close to the center of the target. The crack of the gun was not nearly as loud as I had feared it might be. The earmuffs did a lot of the heavy lifting, but the caliber was a lot smaller than the handgun Grandpa Joe had shot the panther with.
“Good shot,” he said. “Now cycle the bolt while keeping the rifle shouldered.”
I did as he said. That proved more annoying than aiming the thing. Then he asked me to fire. Cycle. Fire. Cycle. Fire. I got the hang of it by the end of the first load of shots. Grandpa Joe pulled the target back when the rifle exhausted its store of rounds.
“Not bad for a first timer,” he said, pointing to where I’d hit the paper target. “Want to go again?”
“Yeah, that was fun,” I nodded.
“Good. When you get the hang of this, you can try something a bit spicier. The rifle you’re using doesn’t really have a kick to it. It’s used for hunting small game—rabbits, squirrels, what sort of thing.”
He replaced the target with a new one. I loaded the gun with fresh ammunition. He watched over me while I shot the entire box. Each reload, he moved the target farther away so that by the time I was shooting the final bullets, I was aiming down the full length of the range. That was—according to him—still short range as far as rifles went. I was happy enough having hit a tight and accurate grouping with the rifle at that distance.
“So what did you think?” he asked me when we were back in the car.
“Pretty fun,” I said. “I’ll need a lot more practice before I can aim quickly and hit the target.”
“That’s true,” he agreed. “Maybe we should shoot together once a week?”
“Sounds good to me. I’ll let Mom know. And thanks, Grandpa Joe.”
“You got it, kid.”
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I spoke to mom about the weekly range time with Grandpa Joe and she allowed it as nothing bad had happened. While she oversaw the shooting, martial arts ended up being Dad’s domain.
“So you’re thinking karate or something like that?” he asked.
“Ideally it would be spears, swords, that sort of thing,” I said. “I mean, hand-to-hand is important, but it’s not what I’ll need to learn and practice.”
“I hear you. That being said, I can’t recommend anything but the hand-to-hand stuff. Not because I don’t agree with you… rather because that’s what is available nearby without spending a fortune, you know?”
“I understand,” I said. “I don’t like it, but I get it.”
“Thanks, kid,” he said. “Let’s see what’s around and check them out. Maybe you’ll find one that you like more than the others.”
So that is what we did. There were around ten places within easy driving distance of Mom’s and Dad’s places. The majority were the same. Sure, their styles differed, but they were not the sort of place I needed. Ultimately there were three standouts. One taught judo, another tae-kwon-do, and the final was karate. What set the three apart from the rest was the atmosphere of competition and no-nonsense learning.
I went with the karate school over the other two for one simple reason: it offered kendo. Fencing and other swordplay was generally pretty expensive. Kendo offered an way for me to learn how to use a weapon not just in forms but in actual combat against others. Sure there was armor and the swords were bamboo, but that was the closest I’d get this time. Without having a lot of money to work with, I was at the mercy of what was available nearby. This was my best opportunity.
“Are you sure about this one?” Dad asked after I’d made my decision.
“Yeah,” I said.
I went on to explain the reasons why.
“I see,” he said. “I’ll get you scheduled. How many times a week? Three?”
“Yeah, three. I need time for other things, too… like making money and quests and stuff.”
“Got it. I’ll get you set up and coordinate with your mother and grandparents to get you where you need to be.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
He kissed me on the forehead.
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The first lesson was the next day. The karate school—Master Chang’s Tiger Academy—was a small studio located in one of the many strip malls that made up the county I lived in. It didn’t look like much from the outside—or the inside. It had just a single room large enough for twenty people and not-quite-soft mats so that no one would get too hurt when they fell.
The class I ended up going to was a mixed-age class featuring people from five to seventy, though the majority were teens or young adults. I was the only person in street clothes for the lesson—I would get my uniform and belt after the first class if I chose to continue there.
Master Chang was an older man in his fifties who appeared to be built like a tank. He exuded confidence and passion for his craft. He waited for everyone to line up. The higher their rank, the closer to the front they were. I found an open spot in the back. He looked at me and nodded.
“We have someone new joining us,” he said. “Everyone welcome Eddy.”
I watched as the other students turned their heads to look at me. I waved and they returned to facing forward.
“Alright, we’ll start with a warm-up…”
We started with punches and kicks and some light jogging around the mats. When he was satisfied, he took each group aside for instruction. He started with the more advanced students and made his way to the back to work with me and the other white belts. There were three of us—the other young kid, a middle-aged man, and me.
“Can you show me how to make a fist?” he asked us.
I balled both hands in a way that came naturally. He looked at the man’s hands.
“Good,” he said.
Then he looked at the younger kid’s hands.
“Loosen your grip a little,” he explained, “I’m going to move your thumb around a little so you don’t get hurt.”
I watched what he did with the child and tried to copy the result with my own fists.
“Just wait until I help you,” he said with his back turned to me.
I wasn’t sure how he figured I’d made changes, but he had. When he was done assisting the others, he turned his attention my way.
“You see how your thumb is pointing out?” he asked.
I nodded.
“Well, if you punch someone like that, you’ll break your thumb. You’ve got to hide your thumb under the rest of your fist like this.”
He showed me his fist and pointed to his thumb, which was bent to keep the tip away from the front of the fist. I copied what he showed me.
“Good,” he said. “Now I want you to get into your horse stance.”
He demonstrated by spreading his legs a little and squatting down until his thighs were nearly parallel to the ground. I tried to emulate what he did but found it hard to do.
“Don’t worry so much about getting it perfect just yet. Try going half way for now.”
I did as he asked, as did the other two. The youngest boy struggled with even that, but Master Chang gave him a pass. The boy was five after all. After a several minutes—during which he went around to the others for more instructions—he let us stand up.
“Now that you know your horse stance and how to make a proper fist, it’s time to learn how to punch properly as well. The most important thing when punching is to use your whole body and not just your arm.”
He stood with his left leg a step in front of his right. He raised his arms and demonstrated how to throw a punch. The main power came from his lower body. He took a step forward, his hips rotated, and his arm took all of that momentum and concentrated it into a crisp punch.
“Now I want each of you to try that. One punch at a time.”
Master Chang corrected us as we learned. The rest of the class was focused on the small groups and learning the basics. I felt like it was a good introduction to martial arts. I definitely learned something.
“What did you think, Eddy?” he asked me at the end of the class.
“It was good,” I said.
“Glad to hear that. I would recommend you come back for the lower-level classes. The mixed classes are fine but you’ll do better when everyone is learning the same things. That’s where we do sparring as well.”
“Thanks Master Chang,” I said. “I’ll try that next time.”
He patted me on the back and handed me a uniform and belt.
“I’ll see you next time,” he said.
