(Or, A Reluctant Father’s Guide to Child-Raising in a Post-Apocalyptic World. Explanation.)
My dad taught me how to shoot while I was growing up. It’s in a little subset of skills that I never thought I’d ever use again.
The postman has not moved from across the street, still twitching and muttering in the bright sun.
I bring the rifle to my shoulder and align the sight’s crosshairs on the helmet. I debat for a moment if the bullet’s caliber is enough to travel through all those layers, and move the aim for its chest.
“Don’t hold your breath,” whispers my dad into my mind’s ear. “Aim just above the target. And squeeze squeeze squeeze-”
The rifle kicks into my shoulder. The postman yelps, and sinks to the ground.
Sam starts to cry.