Saying No
Four bangs in succession greeted Carson as he shouldered open the soundproof door of the makeshift shooting range. When the last shot fired, he moved behind James, tugged down his earmuffs, and spoke, "I really think we oughta."
James tilted his head to assist the movement of his earmuffs. He didn't look away from his hands as they carried through motions they'd done a thousand times before. Release the magazine, let it clatter to the floor, grab another from the pile, slip it in. Pull the hammer, extend the arms, look down the barrel, squeeze the trigger.
Carson flinched at the noise, but James remained stoic, even without his mufflers on. "C'mon, Jim. You can't say you don't agree."
There was a three second delay between the compression of the trigger and ignition of the cartridge, the loud bang. Four more seconds and the bullet pierced the target. "I don't disagree." Five, ten, fifteen seconds. Three more shots in a perfect line across the waist of the paper soldier.
"Great! Then we're doin' it."
Bang, bang. Fifth shot, sixth shot, no more bullets. Not that it mattered. The target had torn - the price of using cheap materials - and lay crumpled on the ground. James pursed his lips and turned to face Carson, the gun by his side, loose in his hand. He pushed past the other man and set his gun carefully on the pre-prepared table a few feet away. "No," he smoothed a crinkle in the stained newspaper covering the table.
"Why not?"
He released the magazine, tossed it aside, and field stripped the gun. He moved a cleaning rod through the barrel a number of times, movements meticulous and posture calm.
Carson, on the other hand, held his spine stiff and marched over the the table. He didn't dare slam his hands on the table, but the temptation had him curling his fingers into tight fists. "Jim! Why not!?"
James finally looked up from his gun and his eyes rested briefly on Carson's whitened knuckles. "My word is not enough for you?" His tone was cold and for a moment, Carson felt a hint of relief that the weapon was in pieces.
"I just wanna know why. You owe me that much." He forced his fists to unclench and had to set his jaw to keep from acting on any of the notions that passed through his mind.
James turned back to his gun and applied oil to the mechanisms. He reassembled the gun, clicked the trigger to spread the lubricant evenly, and loaded another clip. The click as the gun was cocked settled a ball of dread in Carson's gut and his eyes struggled to focus on the muzzle resting centimeters from his brow. "I," James said, "I owe you?"
"You shot down my idea. An' it's a good idea. So tell me why." The quiver in his voice was the only thing that gave him away.
A muscle in Carson's cheek twitched and James' eyes narrowed. "The only thing you should concern yourself with is the fact that I said no. Why doesn't matter. Is that clear?" The gun tapped against his forehead, a sudden point of cold metal against perspiring skin. All Carson could do was nod.
James tilted his head to assist the movement of his earmuffs. He didn't look away from his hands as they carried through motions they'd done a thousand times before. Release the magazine, let it clatter to the floor, grab another from the pile, slip it in. Pull the hammer, extend the arms, look down the barrel, squeeze the trigger.
Carson flinched at the noise, but James remained stoic, even without his mufflers on. "C'mon, Jim. You can't say you don't agree."
There was a three second delay between the compression of the trigger and ignition of the cartridge, the loud bang. Four more seconds and the bullet pierced the target. "I don't disagree." Five, ten, fifteen seconds. Three more shots in a perfect line across the waist of the paper soldier.
"Great! Then we're doin' it."
Bang, bang. Fifth shot, sixth shot, no more bullets. Not that it mattered. The target had torn - the price of using cheap materials - and lay crumpled on the ground. James pursed his lips and turned to face Carson, the gun by his side, loose in his hand. He pushed past the other man and set his gun carefully on the pre-prepared table a few feet away. "No," he smoothed a crinkle in the stained newspaper covering the table.
"Why not?"
He released the magazine, tossed it aside, and field stripped the gun. He moved a cleaning rod through the barrel a number of times, movements meticulous and posture calm.
Carson, on the other hand, held his spine stiff and marched over the the table. He didn't dare slam his hands on the table, but the temptation had him curling his fingers into tight fists. "Jim! Why not!?"
James finally looked up from his gun and his eyes rested briefly on Carson's whitened knuckles. "My word is not enough for you?" His tone was cold and for a moment, Carson felt a hint of relief that the weapon was in pieces.
"I just wanna know why. You owe me that much." He forced his fists to unclench and had to set his jaw to keep from acting on any of the notions that passed through his mind.
James turned back to his gun and applied oil to the mechanisms. He reassembled the gun, clicked the trigger to spread the lubricant evenly, and loaded another clip. The click as the gun was cocked settled a ball of dread in Carson's gut and his eyes struggled to focus on the muzzle resting centimeters from his brow. "I," James said, "I owe you?"
"You shot down my idea. An' it's a good idea. So tell me why." The quiver in his voice was the only thing that gave him away.
A muscle in Carson's cheek twitched and James' eyes narrowed. "The only thing you should concern yourself with is the fact that I said no. Why doesn't matter. Is that clear?" The gun tapped against his forehead, a sudden point of cold metal against perspiring skin. All Carson could do was nod.