Blood Moon

After Sarge was done running his men through drills, he brought Andy to the main armory. The young man did a double take, and not because he’d never seen a gun before. He was from Wyoming, after all. It was because this room put any gun store he’d seen to shame. Hidden away in the castle’s dungeon, the soldiers found the largest room they could and stashed all their extra armaments in it. Spare mortars were stacked in a corner, rifles were mounted on the walls, explosives were carefully placed on shelves, and a handful of men operated the bureaucracy down there. Andy found himself wishing he’d put on the uniform Sarge handed him a couple hours ago. Maybe then those guys would stop staring at him and muttering about his weird shirt.

Sarge told Andy they weren’t leaving until he had two firearms with him. “Choose something comfortable,” he said. “A rifle and a pistol.”

Andy didn’t try to argue. He was in the middle of a warzone, so he figured it was for the best. He just hoped he still knew how to shoot. His dad took him out to the range when he was younger, even telling him to get his own when he could. In the end, Andy forgot to do that. His twenty-first came and went, and he was too preoccupied with his own miseries to really care. The last conversation they had, his dad was telling him when he had the time off he’d join him to pick one out.

“This one’s the standard issue,” one of the workers said with a pistol in his hand. He slid back the rack to show it wasn’t loaded and handed it over. “We have others, but that’s what our surplus is.”

Andy just let it lay in his hand.

“You need to close your fingers around it,” Sarge said.

“Yeah.” His fingers were just as lifeless as his voice when Andy closed his fist around the handle.

“How’s it feel?”

“Like a gun.”

Sarge grabbed Andy’s hand, pushing the handgun firmly into his palm and patting his fingers into a tighter grip. “You need to hold it properly. Like you mean it.”

“Right.”

“So, how’s it feel?”

“Fine, I guess.”

Sarge let out a heavy sigh. “Give me one of the S-12s.” Taking the rifle from one of the workers, he tugged on Andy’s sleeve. “Come on, we’re heading to the range.”

#

Just above the main armory was a courtyard. Different from the one he saw before, the opposite wall was just the side of a cliff, and the ground was dirt. Bullet holes littered it, silhouetting the shapes of the metal targets.

“We’ll start with the N30,” Sarge said.

Andy looked at the handgun he still held.

“Yeah, that’s the one.”

“It’s not loaded, though.”

“I know. It’s going to stay that way until you show me your firing stance.” Sarge squinted. “You do have a firing stance, don’t you?”

“Yes, I have a firing stance.” Andy lifted the gun.

“Stop.”

“What?”

“That’s not a stance, that’s a damn joke.”

“Yeah, well I haven’t exactly been to the range in a few years.”

“I can tell. Look.” He lifted an imaginary gun in his hands, pointing it down range. He kept his feet squared off, his arms straight. The palm of his left hand was on the bottom of the handle. “And hold it like you mean it. You can’t hold it like some candy-ass who’s afraid of it.”

Yeah, I get it. Andy adjusted himself.

“Better. You know how to aim it, don’t you?”

“Yes, I know how to aim it.”

“Good.” Sarge handed him a magazine. “Prove it.”

Andy loaded the gun, aimed, and fired. A metallic ding sounded as the bullet skimmed the target ahead. Gritting his teeth, he fired again. Once more, the bullet skimmed the target. His aim was fine, he knew it was. He fired again, this time stopping himself before auto-adjusting the weapon in his hand. He was rusty, but he knew he wasn’t that bad a shot. The gun kept drifting a bit up and to the left. He repositioned his left hand and fired again. The target fell backward. Sarge said nothing as Andy took care of the remaining targets.

“Not bad,” he said once the gun was empty. “Try with the rifle now.”

Andy didn’t have the same stance issue with the rifle. He simply put the weapon squarely in his shoulder, lifted, and fired. His grandfather had a similar bolt-action, so every pull of the trigger was instinctually followed with bringing the bolt back to chamber the next round. It had been years, but the motions where back with him like it was yesterday. It surprised him. When he was done, he leaned the rifle against a column.

It was then he noticed the red light. The sun had gone while he was shooting and no lights had been turned on, yet a red glow hit the rifle. Andy looked up at the sky. In the night sky hovered a red orb. For a second he suspected it was a solar eclipse, but that wasn’t right. He’d seen pictures of solar eclipses before, and this was different. This was a deep, brilliant shade of red.

“It’s red,” he whispered.

“And?”

“I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s like blood.”

Sarge looked up silently.

“There are legends from my world. Say the moon will turn red when the end of the world comes.”

Sarge laughed at that. “Then I guess our world’s been ending for centuries. That thing’s always been red.”

“How long have you been at war?”

“This will be our sixth year.”

Six years. Andy didn’t know what to say. There were wars that lasted just as long, if not longer. He read about them in history classes throughout the years. But it was different hearing the words leave Sarge’s mouth, a weariness simple text on a page could never convey.

“It’s about time for dinner. Mess hall’s this way.”