My friend got out a cute little gun. (Every gun person reading this likely cringed at my usage of the words cute and gun in the same sentence.)
Our neighbors said the gun was a great and easy place to start. I was relieved, but then my friend said, “Oh, I have others, too.” I didn’t like the sound of that.
He goes to hang up my zombie, loads up a magazine with bullets, gives me the rules of guns and shooting ranges, shows me the safety features and how to disarm them, then hands me the gun — a 22-caliber handgun.
“You’re up,” he said.
After making him shoot it once to make sure it was a fully operational gun that wasn’t going to explode in my hand, I took the gun. Now I was officially afraid.
Not wanting to appear a girl, I turned toward the target, trying to remember all the things he told me to do on the way to the shooting range. I had been mentally running through aiming tips he taught me, repeating to myself to line the sights horizontally and then the target vertically, or something.
But now it was time to start the firing process he described as BRASS: breathe, relax, aim, slowly squeeze.
Relax: Not a chance
Aim: Check ... sorta
Slowly squeeze: I can’t move.
I was froze there with a gun pointed at a zombie for what seemed like an hour but was likely a few seconds. I finally broke stance and wanted to give the gun back. A few words of encouragement and I was on my way again.
Even though I was fairly certain I would die from the effort and resulting bang, I finally squeezed the trigger.
It was awesome.
The jolt of the recoil I so feared was nonexistent. It seems he knew what he was doing when he picked this gun out for me. A few shots in and I actually hit the zombie.