Groundlings

Time went on mercilessly. Mobreigh knew this, of course. He wasn’t stupid. But it hurt. And as the days and weeks rushed by without Selsdon in the house, it began to feel normal. He didn’t like it much. It shouldn’t feel normal. It wasn’t normal. It hurt.
But such was life. He and Tika were adjusting, as they had to. The two of them had talked on and on about the proposal they’d been offered. They had argued here and there. They had come to a decision.
They were going.
And suddenly, Mobreigh’s pitiful academics were more important. But rather than history and math and all that, gunmanship became his most important class.
He was terrible at it. Like, really terrible.
He had already failed the class twice. They said that the third time’s the charm, but it sure didn’t look like it.
Of course, it wasn’t the theory and care that tripped him up. That stuff was easy, and Mobreigh was a smart kid. He knew that. He just had really bad aim. He’d always been a skinny weakling. It was difficult for him to stand up straight or his back would hurt too much, and it took more than he had in him to keep his arm held out straight.
The fact that his brother had just been shot sure didn’t help either.
Class today was held in the range. The instructor, Maria Pavel, was in her early fifties, gray beginning to inch its way into her otherwise black hair. She was a hardened groundguard veteran, kept from the job after sustaining an injury that left her with a permanent limp that she needed a cane for. But she was sharp, she was alert, and she was an incredible shot.
Mobreigh and the other sixteen were standing lined up, supposedly demonstrating proper stance with unloaded rifles. Miss Pavel limped through the line, exchanging words with some, gently tweaking posture here and there. She walked with a silent, straight backed dignity. Maria Pavel was far more than her disability, and she was still one of the best of the best despite it.
She was a force of nature, a steady constant. She was like one of the stately redwoods come to life. People respected her. Mobreigh wanted to be like her.
Mobreigh was near the end of the line, standing between Ezra Morrison and Toby Hawthorne. Ezra was pretty average in all senses, and never said much. He was the kind of guy that was painfully mediocre in everything he did, never striving to be the best because where he was was just enough.
Miss Pavel stopped by Ezra’s side and he raised his rifle. Mobreigh watched, trying to predict what she would fix. Ezra’s form was solid and he stood firmly. That was good and it was important. But his extended arm drooped a little too low, and he had a nasty habit of resting his finger on the trigger rather than just close to it. That was nothing but a recipe for disaster, were the gun loaded.
If anyone scared him, it was more than possible he could blow someone’s finger off.
Or worse, Mobreigh supposed.
He had analyzed right, though. Miss Pavel spoke too quietly for Mobreigh to hear even this close, but after a few hushed words she lifted Ezra’s arm a little. More than Mobreigh had thought was necessary, but of course Miss Pavel would not teach mere passable mediocrity. She bent down, leaning on her cane with one hand to adjust Ezra’s knees with the other. He bent down a little further, lowering his center of gravity a little and fortifying his stance more. A few more hushed but strict sounding words and Ezra grimaced, moving his trigger finger to a better resting position.
Nice.
Except now it was Mobreigh’s turn. Miss Pavel took the few steps to stand by him and gestured for him to assume stance. He took a deep breath. Well, here goes nothing.
He planted his feet a little wider than shoulder width apart. Miss Pavel had instructed him to keep his stance a little wider since his shoulders were small and not the best measure to go by. He tried his best to keep his arm at a ninety degree angle, and his back straight. His trigger finger stayed in its proper resting position.
Suck on that, Ezra.
But Mobreigh’s arm shook under the weight of the gun and he struggled to keep it held at the right height. He had a tight white knuckled grip on it as if he were hanging over the railing and it was the last available branch before he made the drop. He felt like that a lot these days.
Miss Pavel nodded. “You’ve improved, Mobreigh,” she said. “You’re shaky, but your stance is good. Solid. That’s much better than last time.”
Something small and golden sparked inside his chest. He was getting better! There was hope after all!
Miss Pavel lowered her voice even more. “I know you’ve been having a rough time of things lately. I understand how that goes, believe me,” she said. Her eyes were distant for a moment, no doubt remembering some of her own lost ones. “That you’re even here touching a gun is admirable.”
“Thank you,” Mobreigh said. His throat felt dry.
Miss Pavel continued. “You’re learning early on what some of the others here will take years with still. Make no mistake, Mobreigh Pope. Guns are despicable things. Many people, living people, met their ends at the end of a smoking barrel and that was before the dead decided to complicate matters even more.”
Mobreigh nodded agreement. He had learned in history that the country had had major problems with gun violence and homicide before the zombie epidemic had disbanded it completely. He was horrified by it. “I know,” he said.
“You hate them, don’t you?” Miss Pavel asked.
Mobreigh only found it in him to nod.
“Good. It’s one of the most important things in becoming a competent marksman,” she said. “The necessity of firearms is gruesome at best. But you have it in you to take something with a history steeped in blood and make something good out of it. That’s what we do.”
“Why are you telling me this?” Mobreigh asked. Their conversation had drawn on long. Ezra and Toby could hear. He wanted this to be over.
Miss Pavel smiled, all pride and determination. “Because you’re a fighter, Mobreigh Pope. Right now, you’re fighting yourself. And you’re winning.”
Sure as hell didn’t feel like that, but Mobreigh kept his mouth shut.
“You pass today,” she said. “There are things wrong with your stance, you’re sticking your chest out too much. But you’re doing very, very well considering that you don’t even want to see a gun ever again. Am I right?”
Mobreigh cast his eyes down toward the ground. “I suppose so,” he said.
“Good,” Miss Pavel said with a smile. “You’re doing better than everyone else, then.”
Before Mobreigh could respond, she had turned her attention to Toby Hawthorne. Mobreigh followed. Toby was near the top of the class. Not the absolute best, but close enough to matter. He was everything Mobreigh wasn’t. Both Toby’s parents still lived, though his dad wasn’t too great of a guy.
And Toby looked like he was made of gold. Sure, he was still an average looking teenager, but as far as average looking teenagers went, Toby had won the lottery. He was almost a whole head taller than Mobreigh, with a mop of golden hair and a slender build as opposed to Mobreigh, who was just straight up skinny.
And damn, did he look good and natural holding a gun.
But Toby’s downfall was his stance. His feet weren’t planted on the planks properly, and nothing escaped Miss Maria Pavel. She looked over at Mobreigh for a split second, and something changed. She saw that he knew.
She stepped aside.
Mobreigh did the only thing he could think of doing. He approached Toby, frowned at him for a moment, then pushed high on his chest with one hand. Toby staggered backwards, off balance and off guard.
“And that,” Miss Pavel said, “is why balancing is the most important thing you can practice.” Her cane thumped down on the wood hard. “Say it!”
“Balancing is the most important thing you can practice,” half the class said, limply and out of time. This was high school. It was the best she was going to get and she knew it. Miss Pavel looked disappointed nonetheless.
She made her way to stand in front of the assembly, her free hand on her hip. “Take the rest of this time to catch up on your other homework. I know you’ve got a lot.”
A collective sigh of relief arose. Everyone loved free time, no matter what the context.
But Miss Pavel was not done speaking. Mobreigh thought he noticed first.
“Tomorrow,” she said, “we work on the double. Tomorrow, your guns are loaded and you shoot.”
It was a whole term early. Mobreigh had no idea what the hell she was thinking, but knowing her it was going to be brilliant.
Too bad that the wrenching feeling in his gut prevented him from appreciating it.
He was going to have to show everyone how horrible a shot he was. Last semester he’d miraculously managed to hit a perfect bullseye. On his neighbor’s target. He still remembered being almost ready to just shoot himself right then and there, just to end the embarrassment.
He’d somehow endured.
He wouldn’t be able to endure again.