NEW (SPN/SCC): On the Use of Weapons (gen, G)
Crossover snippet, no spoilers past the end of SPN S2.
The ID was really good, Ellen had to admit. Her own face stared out at her from under the holographic seal of the State of California, but the name was one Erin Holland, resident of Victorville. Bobby's guy knew what he was doing. Good thing, too, because the guys at the door of the Carson City Gun Show were taking their job seriously.
Ellen didn't know, yet, whether there was a warrant out for her arrest. Maybe not. Maybe the authorities figured she died in the Roadhouse with Ash and nearly a dozen others. But if they didn't, if they noticed her truck was gone--if they saw some of what she'd stored in the basement all these years since Bill died--well. Just could be they'd want to talk to her.
So for the moment she was Erin Holland, looking for a present for her husband's fiftieth birthday. At a gun show. Because Bobby's contact Raul was paranoid, even by hunters' standards, and never let anyone know where he lived. So if they wanted this codex of his, they had to go to him.
At the door of the school auditorium, a beefy guy and a squirrelly guy checked her ID, took her $5, and waved her in, not without the skinny one giving her a look that at home would have had her reaching for the shotgun. Damn, she missed running her own joint.
It was warmer inside; Ellen unbuttoned her coat and stuffed her hat in her pocket. She smelled institutional food, coffee, and gun oil. She definitely needed coffee, but first she had to find Raul. She made two circuits of the big room, boots tapping softly on the old wood floors, before realizing that there were no tables manned by a big Mexican guy with a wall eye. However about five tables were still empty; he was probably just late.
The coffee was $1 per lukewarm styrofoam cup. Ellen took one, and one of the dense-looking donuts, and settled down to some serious browsing, while she waited for Raul to show.
The crowd was light, just a couple dozen people so far wandering the aisles. Mostly men, naturally: white guys dressed like regular hunters, or like civilians off the street. More than a couple of fellows in camouflage pants, looking scruffy. In times like these, the line between "paranoid survivalist dressed in fatigues to look tough" and "veteran who hadn't shaved in a couple days" was sometimes hard to spot. There were four or five couples, the woman usually hanging back while the man talked to the vendor or examined the weapons. Ellen didn't see any other women by themselves.
Ellen put down the Derringer she had picked up--stupid little thing, wouldn't stop anything really dangerous--and nodded to the vendor, moving down to the next table. This was more her speed: this was a shotgun table, looked like an amateur's collection, but well-cared for, quality weapons. She lifted the Remington closest to her, running a hand along the stock.
"That there's a nice weapon, ma'am. The 870's the most popular shotgun around." The vendor was an older man, genial in a hat with a winged horse on it, relic of some long-dead gas station. "You looking for something for hunting or protection?"
As if there were a difference.
But for these people, there was: hunters, civilian hunters--they needed no protection. They were never prey. They never worried that the mule deer they shot at from their truck along a dusty highway would take them down unless they could reload fast enough, unless they remembered to pack the silver rounds and the salt.
Ellen had a wave of vertigo, almost. Culture shock, really. She'd been out of the world too long. "Hunting, I think," she said, finally, putting the Remington down. "For my husband."
Someone brushed past her, a kid in a green jacket, hair floppy over his eyes like a short version of Sam Winchester. He was followed by another--no, a girl, with her sleeves pulled down over her hands.
"I see! Well, can I recommend--"
The kids in turn were followed by a woman, by herself. Dark-haired and skinny under a cropped leather jacket, she sped up and put her hands on the kids' shoulders. A single mom, Ellen thought, bringing her kids to a gun show? That was a new one.
"Thanks," she said absently to the vendor. "I'll come back around." Her coffee was cold, the donut a stale lump in her stomach. She tossed the cup in the trash and wandered on.
Four tables up was a display of old weapons, the kind Bill had loved, although they'd never had the cash for him to really indulge himself. Ellen had sold the half-dozen pieces he'd collected, for the mortgage in the first year after he died, and then to cover Joanna Beth's college experiment. Kind of a waste, now, she realized with some grim amusement.
While Ellen looked over the assortment of ancient revolvers and rusting musket-loaders, the single mom and her two kids--teenagers, maybe sixteen or so? Twins, or Irish twins, Ellen guessed--stopped at the next table, where the vendor, a middle-aged white guy with his hair slicked back, smiled at them across the death of thousands. Assault weapons: MP7s, P90s, guns for military and police and men who wanted to kill lots and lots of people.
"The HK MP7 went into production in 2001," said the girl, picking up one of the guns and handling it with an comfort that chilled Ellen. "It weighs two kilograms fully loaded and can fire nine hundred armor-piercing rounds per minute. Because of the weight and its small size, it would be appropriate--" She stopped speaking as her brother (Ellen assumed) nudged her with a speaking look at the vendor.
"Stop showing off your class report, Cameron," said their mother in a flat tone. Ellen turned sideways, as if to look out over the crowd--still no sign of Raul, damn it--but watching this strange little family from the corner of her eye. The mother picked up the MP7 as well, hefting it to her shoulder with an ease that spoke of hundreds of hours on the range.
They weren't hunters, Ellen was pretty sure. Hunters didn't go for the expensive stuff, guns that needed specialized ammunition and special licenses. Old and reliable was best, for their weapons and their cars: old Chevy pickups with Remington shotguns were what parked outside the Roadhouse on Saturday nights. While she'd be willing to bet this family, trim and fashionable, was driving a shiny SUV, not an old sedan like the rattle-trap old Datsun Ellen had parked outside.
She wasn't sure what they were: they weren't hunters. But there was a burst of activity at the main door, and as Ellen turned to look, she saw the mother and the girl looking too. Identical intensity on their faces, the eyes of someone who had been prey, who was thinking about where the nearest exit was.
And then it was smoothed away as a hulking dark-haired guy shouldered his way through the crowd, carrying a big plastic bin. As he got closer, Ellen found herself pinned by his sharp and wandering gaze, and realized this was Raul. Time to get to work.
But she lingered for a moment, hip resting against the corner of the plywood table. The dark-haired woman put down the weapon she was holding and looked at her, suspicious. "What?"
"Kids," Ellen said, with a nod at the two teenagers, murmuring together at the other end of the table. "Kids and guns, can be dangerous."
The woman's shoulders hunched defensively, but she nodded. "You have kids? You let them shoot?"
Ellen's smile was thin. "My husband bought my daughter her first gun when she was six." At least Bill didn't let her fire it until she was eight.
"Seven," said the other woman, with a quick glance at her children. "Is she a good shot? Your daughter?"
Last Ellen heard, Jo was still in Duluth, but that was three months ago. And of the weapons, she'd taken only Bill's old knife; Ellen still hadn't figured what that said. Probably resentment wrapped around love, like most of Jo's postcards. "She's okay," Ellen allowed.
Raul was finished setting up: he had an array of historic guns spread out across the table in front of them. One of them looked disturbingly like that old Colt the Winchesters clung to, that damned thing that had opened the Devil's Gate. Loosing demons and god knew what into the world, things that drove men and women and children like rabbits across an open field. Nowhere to hide, now: they had to make a stand.
Maybe Bill wasn't wrong, teaching Jo so early.
The girl, Cameron, picked up another MP7 from the table and tossed it to the boy: he snatched it out of the air as if his hands were made to hold it. A smile flashed across his face, grim and fleeting. No fifteen-year-old should have to look like that, Ellen thought, and saw her thoughts echoed in the mother's face.
But before she could say anything, the moment passed; the dark-haired woman turned away with a murmur that might have been, "Nice talking with you," or "Good luck shopping," or "Go to hell you interfering bitch." It didn't matter. They'd buy their weapons, maybe take on the government, die in a blaze of glory. It was wrong, to do that to kids. But sometimes there wasn't any choice.
And Ellen had her own war to fight.
END
The ID was really good, Ellen had to admit. Her own face stared out at her from under the holographic seal of the State of California, but the name was one Erin Holland, resident of Victorville. Bobby's guy knew what he was doing. Good thing, too, because the guys at the door of the Carson City Gun Show were taking their job seriously.
Ellen didn't know, yet, whether there was a warrant out for her arrest. Maybe not. Maybe the authorities figured she died in the Roadhouse with Ash and nearly a dozen others. But if they didn't, if they noticed her truck was gone--if they saw some of what she'd stored in the basement all these years since Bill died--well. Just could be they'd want to talk to her.
So for the moment she was Erin Holland, looking for a present for her husband's fiftieth birthday. At a gun show. Because Bobby's contact Raul was paranoid, even by hunters' standards, and never let anyone know where he lived. So if they wanted this codex of his, they had to go to him.
At the door of the school auditorium, a beefy guy and a squirrelly guy checked her ID, took her $5, and waved her in, not without the skinny one giving her a look that at home would have had her reaching for the shotgun. Damn, she missed running her own joint.
It was warmer inside; Ellen unbuttoned her coat and stuffed her hat in her pocket. She smelled institutional food, coffee, and gun oil. She definitely needed coffee, but first she had to find Raul. She made two circuits of the big room, boots tapping softly on the old wood floors, before realizing that there were no tables manned by a big Mexican guy with a wall eye. However about five tables were still empty; he was probably just late.
The coffee was $1 per lukewarm styrofoam cup. Ellen took one, and one of the dense-looking donuts, and settled down to some serious browsing, while she waited for Raul to show.
The crowd was light, just a couple dozen people so far wandering the aisles. Mostly men, naturally: white guys dressed like regular hunters, or like civilians off the street. More than a couple of fellows in camouflage pants, looking scruffy. In times like these, the line between "paranoid survivalist dressed in fatigues to look tough" and "veteran who hadn't shaved in a couple days" was sometimes hard to spot. There were four or five couples, the woman usually hanging back while the man talked to the vendor or examined the weapons. Ellen didn't see any other women by themselves.
Ellen put down the Derringer she had picked up--stupid little thing, wouldn't stop anything really dangerous--and nodded to the vendor, moving down to the next table. This was more her speed: this was a shotgun table, looked like an amateur's collection, but well-cared for, quality weapons. She lifted the Remington closest to her, running a hand along the stock.
"That there's a nice weapon, ma'am. The 870's the most popular shotgun around." The vendor was an older man, genial in a hat with a winged horse on it, relic of some long-dead gas station. "You looking for something for hunting or protection?"
As if there were a difference.
But for these people, there was: hunters, civilian hunters--they needed no protection. They were never prey. They never worried that the mule deer they shot at from their truck along a dusty highway would take them down unless they could reload fast enough, unless they remembered to pack the silver rounds and the salt.
Ellen had a wave of vertigo, almost. Culture shock, really. She'd been out of the world too long. "Hunting, I think," she said, finally, putting the Remington down. "For my husband."
Someone brushed past her, a kid in a green jacket, hair floppy over his eyes like a short version of Sam Winchester. He was followed by another--no, a girl, with her sleeves pulled down over her hands.
"I see! Well, can I recommend--"
The kids in turn were followed by a woman, by herself. Dark-haired and skinny under a cropped leather jacket, she sped up and put her hands on the kids' shoulders. A single mom, Ellen thought, bringing her kids to a gun show? That was a new one.
"Thanks," she said absently to the vendor. "I'll come back around." Her coffee was cold, the donut a stale lump in her stomach. She tossed the cup in the trash and wandered on.
Four tables up was a display of old weapons, the kind Bill had loved, although they'd never had the cash for him to really indulge himself. Ellen had sold the half-dozen pieces he'd collected, for the mortgage in the first year after he died, and then to cover Joanna Beth's college experiment. Kind of a waste, now, she realized with some grim amusement.
While Ellen looked over the assortment of ancient revolvers and rusting musket-loaders, the single mom and her two kids--teenagers, maybe sixteen or so? Twins, or Irish twins, Ellen guessed--stopped at the next table, where the vendor, a middle-aged white guy with his hair slicked back, smiled at them across the death of thousands. Assault weapons: MP7s, P90s, guns for military and police and men who wanted to kill lots and lots of people.
"The HK MP7 went into production in 2001," said the girl, picking up one of the guns and handling it with an comfort that chilled Ellen. "It weighs two kilograms fully loaded and can fire nine hundred armor-piercing rounds per minute. Because of the weight and its small size, it would be appropriate--" She stopped speaking as her brother (Ellen assumed) nudged her with a speaking look at the vendor.
"Stop showing off your class report, Cameron," said their mother in a flat tone. Ellen turned sideways, as if to look out over the crowd--still no sign of Raul, damn it--but watching this strange little family from the corner of her eye. The mother picked up the MP7 as well, hefting it to her shoulder with an ease that spoke of hundreds of hours on the range.
They weren't hunters, Ellen was pretty sure. Hunters didn't go for the expensive stuff, guns that needed specialized ammunition and special licenses. Old and reliable was best, for their weapons and their cars: old Chevy pickups with Remington shotguns were what parked outside the Roadhouse on Saturday nights. While she'd be willing to bet this family, trim and fashionable, was driving a shiny SUV, not an old sedan like the rattle-trap old Datsun Ellen had parked outside.
She wasn't sure what they were: they weren't hunters. But there was a burst of activity at the main door, and as Ellen turned to look, she saw the mother and the girl looking too. Identical intensity on their faces, the eyes of someone who had been prey, who was thinking about where the nearest exit was.
And then it was smoothed away as a hulking dark-haired guy shouldered his way through the crowd, carrying a big plastic bin. As he got closer, Ellen found herself pinned by his sharp and wandering gaze, and realized this was Raul. Time to get to work.
But she lingered for a moment, hip resting against the corner of the plywood table. The dark-haired woman put down the weapon she was holding and looked at her, suspicious. "What?"
"Kids," Ellen said, with a nod at the two teenagers, murmuring together at the other end of the table. "Kids and guns, can be dangerous."
The woman's shoulders hunched defensively, but she nodded. "You have kids? You let them shoot?"
Ellen's smile was thin. "My husband bought my daughter her first gun when she was six." At least Bill didn't let her fire it until she was eight.
"Seven," said the other woman, with a quick glance at her children. "Is she a good shot? Your daughter?"
Last Ellen heard, Jo was still in Duluth, but that was three months ago. And of the weapons, she'd taken only Bill's old knife; Ellen still hadn't figured what that said. Probably resentment wrapped around love, like most of Jo's postcards. "She's okay," Ellen allowed.
Raul was finished setting up: he had an array of historic guns spread out across the table in front of them. One of them looked disturbingly like that old Colt the Winchesters clung to, that damned thing that had opened the Devil's Gate. Loosing demons and god knew what into the world, things that drove men and women and children like rabbits across an open field. Nowhere to hide, now: they had to make a stand.
Maybe Bill wasn't wrong, teaching Jo so early.
The girl, Cameron, picked up another MP7 from the table and tossed it to the boy: he snatched it out of the air as if his hands were made to hold it. A smile flashed across his face, grim and fleeting. No fifteen-year-old should have to look like that, Ellen thought, and saw her thoughts echoed in the mother's face.
But before she could say anything, the moment passed; the dark-haired woman turned away with a murmur that might have been, "Nice talking with you," or "Good luck shopping," or "Go to hell you interfering bitch." It didn't matter. They'd buy their weapons, maybe take on the government, die in a blaze of glory. It was wrong, to do that to kids. But sometimes there wasn't any choice.
And Ellen had her own war to fight.
END