Chapter 3 - The Coils of the Serpent
The mid-afternoon wind shifted, sweeping in from the pine forests to the west. Across the sprawling expanse of Range Four, the bright red indicator flags mounted every two hundred meters began to ripple, snapping against their wooden masts with erratic, staccato cracks. It was a treacherous wind—a thermal-heavy, swirling draft that made long-range engagements nearly impossible without comprehensive ballistics software.
Cole crossed his arms, his phone still recording. "Go ahead, grandma. Take your shot. Let's see if the duct tape holds before the range safety officer throws you in the brig."
Evelyn set the rifle down against the sandbag rested on the concrete bench.
She reached for the button at her right wrist. With a quiet, deliberate motion, she unfastened it. She turned back the faded olive fabric, folding it neatly in three precise, two-inch cuffs until the sleeve rested well above her elbow.
Then she did the same with her left arm.
The afternoon sunlight illuminated the pale, weathered skin of her inner right forearm.
Etched into the muscle and sinew was an old tattoo. The ink had long faded from its original deep indigo into a ghostly greenish-slate hue, softened by decades of sun exposure, but the outline remained unmistakably sharp. It depicted a thick serpent—its scales crosshatched with intricate precision—coiled tightly seven times around the blade of a downward-pointing combat dagger. Beneath the hilt, etched in tiny, austere serif letters, was a single Roman numeral: IX.
A younger soldier near the back frowned, squinting through the glare. "What is that, some kind of biker ink?"
Cole snorted, entirely blind to history. "Looks like cheap prison flash. Come on, lady, we’re burning daylight. You gonna pull the trigger or just stand there admiring your cardboard?"
Evelyn did not reply. She lifted the battered rifle, seated the buttstock firmly into the pocket of her right shoulder, and lowered her cheek against the scarred, duct-taped walnut comb.
Her posture transformed instantly.
The slight slouch of her sixty-odd years vanished. Her spine straightened into an unyielding, balanced pillar of structural alignment. Her elbows fell naturally into an iron triangle against the bench, locking her bones together so that no muscular tension remained.
She did not look down the vintage scope at the targets resting one thousand meters away downrange. Instead, her calm gray eyes drifted upward toward the tree line, reading the subtle flutter of the red wind flags at the three-hundred, six-hundred, and eight-hundred-meter marks. She watched the way the dry grass bent in the intermediate swales, calculating the invisible thermal currents rising from the baking earth.
Her breathing slowed, descending through her chest until it settled deep into her diaphragm. Her shoulders lowered half an inch. The world around her—the jeering soldiers, the recording phones, the distant hum of generators—simply ceased to register.
May you like
Her lips parted, dry and steady.
"One shot," she whispered.
