Pilot: Pvt. Connor Bishop, The Marksman

Story by MicoConejito on SoFurry

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Springfield on Fire

Story Pilot - The Marksman

Standing before the fire was a man

who had forgotten mercy and forsaken his graces. Flickers and sparks shined in

his darkened eyes, glazed and mirrored by the night sky. Nothing else in the

world existed but him and his inferno. Standing before the fire was a man who

knew there was nothing left to do. A slow burn. This was a slow burn. He

thought about the rubble it would leave behind, the bodies they'd try to

recover. The mangled identities left in the ashes wouldn't tell a soul what had

happened here. Standing before the fire was a man who felt the bliss of victory

overwhelm him.

To his knees, he fell. At his

knees, he laid his rifle. That weapon was all he had left, and it delivered him

to his mission. He came from a town nobody knew about tucked away in the hills

of a country that was an ocean away. He couldn't remember how old he was

anymore, just that he was somewhere past eighteen, his age when he enlisted. He

could, however, remember what the cold felt like as the wind bit at his nose.

It reminded him of the nakedness he felt in boot camp. His officers were always

on him, sharp and abusive. They fed this fire. They delivered him here.

"Private Bishop," called

one Sergeant Reilly. "You're up at the range for evaluation. Don't keep

them waiting."

The sun was only just starting to

come over the hill as Bishop stepped out of the barracks. His hair was still

fresh from the barber, uniform to the rest of his fur, cotton-white in the sun.

Two long ears stood like antennas on his head, and his short tail stuck out

like an afterthought in his uniform. He was smaller than his comrades. The cats

called out at him as he passed their tents. The dogs howled.

"Bunnies don't belong in the

army," sneered one. "Hop on home before you hurt yourself."

It was this teasing that made him

so stoic. How can one smile when it invites jokes to spurn his teeth? How can

one wag his tail when it is mocked by the bushy and coiled? A ear flops, he's

weak. A ear stands up, he's horny. He's taking a shower, they invite him to

share their cell, their soap, their cot. He didn't mind. If this is what it

took to serve his country, he would endure. He was the youngest of seven

brothers; this was a daily routine to him.

"A vegetarian can't live on

army rations," warned the recruiter. "No protein for strength."

He didn't need it. The other

recruits were overfed as far as he cared. Weighed down by desires, they

consumed whatever the cooks gave them and left a trail of waste in their wake. He

was efficient, eating no more than his body needed, and leaving no mess to

speak of. Stepping into the range, he stood at attention.

"Private Connor Bishop,

sir," he saluted and knocked his heels together. "Reporting for

firearms evaluation as ordered by Sergeant Reilly."

"Grab a rifle, son," the

grizzly Doberman ordered. "You've got thirty targets on the field at

intervals of five meters starting at five and ending at one-fifty. You have

thirty seconds or three fifteen-round magazines to lay down as many lethal

shots as you can; a target on the ground is considered lethal. Conservation of

ammunition, mastery of the rifle, and shot location all influence your

score."

While the dog talked, Bishop took

the time to get a feel for the rifle: M1A1 Carbine semi-automatic; red wood

body and stock. This was not the Thompson he was used to firing on the range.

Bishop heard mixed reviews of the M1A1, and he was excited to get a chance to use

it for himself; it was simple and fit well into his hands. The stock was solid,

but light, and the barrel didn't feel long enough that it needed to be

specially considered when turning. The magazine was accessible and small, a

nice change from the cumbersome drums that, a stark overcompensation for bad

aim, plagued the Thompson. First impressions were good.

"What's the average

score," Bishop asked with the rifle at his cheek. The iron sights were skewed.

Damn.

"Don't bother with

average," the officer retorted. "That kind of thinking lands you in

the latrines."

"You're right, sir." He

lowered the gun and took a deep breath in, out.

"Let's get started--unless

you've got more questions." He was being carefully sarcastic.

"I'm ready, sir." There

was no sense in sassing an officer with complaints about the weapon.

"Step up to the range and take

your preferred stance," ordered the Doberman. "After your signal, I

will count down to begin."

Bishop stepped to the marked stall.

There were three magazines laying there neatly, full of ammunition. They looked

eager. Bishop inserted the rightmost clip with his left hand, knocking it with

his wrist so it would click. Smooth, clean, satisfying. He took a breath and

crouched before the range with the sun coming up behind him.

"Ready, sir." His ears

folded back, touching the collar of his jacket as they landed.

"Begin firing in five, four,

three," the Doberman shouted. Protocol was silly. Nobody was about to walk

onto a live range. Nobody wanted to leave their tents in this cold. "Two,

one: open fire."

Bishop lined up his crooked sights

on the heart-marker on the closest target and pulled the trigger. It hit the

shoulder, but the target fell. There was laughter behind him. He took aim at

the second target center-mass and hit the heart. Calibration achieved. There

was almost no time between his second, third, and fourth shots. The targets

fell like dominoes. On five, he missed. On six, the wind strayed his bullet

into seven. On eight, he got a headshot. On thirteen, he needed to reload.

A forefinger lifted to depress the

safety, a thumb to eject the clip. It fell smoking onto the ground next to his

knee. The middle clip inserted cleanly and was emptied all the same. The third

followed, the clip emptied with a hungry metallic snap. Ten seconds and three

targets remained--one of which was hit, but did not fall down. A complete shit

show; he knew he could do better. Bishop ejected the spent magazine into his

left hand and organized the others into a neat stack.

"Not bad," chimed the

Doberman. Bishop's ears were ringing still, and he couldn't hear the officer.

He stood and put the rifle and ejected magazines on the table.

"May I try again with another

rifle?" He should have known better than to open his mouth with anything

other than, "Thank you." It was too late at that point to go back.

"The sights are not properly ali -"

"Looked fine to mine," the

officer interrupted. The dog crossed his arms and cleared his throat at Bishop

when he tried again to speak. "Don't showboat, kid. That's how you attract

snipers. You'll have your results and assignment in the morning.

Dismissed."

Bishop saluted and exited the range

in the same determined stature in which he entered, looking to his destination

and nothing in between. A bell rang loud through the cold air, the kind of bell

Bishop remembered from the farm down the road from his house back at home. It

meant breakfast: the most important and only real meal of the day.

Ration-quality beef steaks served

alongside rolls and a medley of dried peas, cabbage, and carrots. It was

astounding how something like that could go so wrong, all cooked in the same

pot as the stew from the night before with no cleaning in between, all smeared

with its grease and residue. Bishop couldn't eat it; he knew better than to

try. The rolls smelled clean, so he ate the one he was given. A shame, though,

because everyone wanted their rolls. Normally, Bishop could trade for something

else.

At least he had people he knew who

understood and were willing to sacrifice the only decent part of their meal to

help. Private Geoffrey Barnes, a brown timber wolf built like a truck, and

Private Anthony, 'Cricket' Smith, a lanky and homely red fox, were the closest

things Bishop had to friends. Barnes was a gentle giant and felt the need to

protect the black sheep. Smith was afraid that Bishop might snap and wanted to

be on his good side when he did. They joked about it in good company. Bishop

could smile around them. He often did.

They gave him their rolls and split

his vegetables and jerky, unable to smell the meaty remains on them that had

made Bishop's stomach turn. This monopolizing of the cafeteria was a necessary

twice-daily chore. Where some soldiers negotiated for cigarettes and hand jobs,

Bishop spent his favors on calories.

"You could do a lot of

good," said Barnes reaching for Bishop's jerky. "If you tried making

friends, Connor."

"I have enough food," he

replied, ignoring the point.

"You're a nice kid."

Barnes was several years older than Bishop and took a liking to treating him

like a  younger brother. Bishop tolerated

the advice because Barnes was, in fact, a lot like one of his older brothers. "You

don't give them a chance to know you. Do you really expect them to treat you

with respect when you don't try yourself?"

"No; I shouldn't have to do

anything for it."

"Yeah," chimed Smith with

a mouth full of peas. "But everyone thinks you're a dick. They're kinda'

right, you know."

"Oh, don't you call me the

dick," Bishop sneered. "You don't understand how it feels to be the

whipping boy around here. I didn't do anything to them."

"Man," sighed Barnes

"You need to grow up."

There was a long pause as Bishop

tried to feel insulted, but, instead, he shook his head. Barnes was right, and

the each knew it. "I know. This waiting around sucks."

"Amen to that, brother."

Smith finally swallowed. "No goddamn whiskey out here in the fences. No

pussy, either."

Barnes groaned. He wasn't a fan of

Smith's vulgarities.

"Well," Smith began,

leaning in to the other two. "Not girl pussy. We got ladies like Garret

and Bishop here to keep our cocks nice and warm."

Bishop pushed Smith with a foot,

almost knocking him off the bench. They were all laughing together.

"Really, Garret?" questioned

Barnes. "I figured you'd like the dirty ones better. Filthy like that

mouth of yours."

"Nah, man. If I'm going to put

my dick in someone that's got a dick of their own, I need to know they're clean,

man."

"You're not joking,"

Bishop said with clear suspicions in his tone. "Are you...?"

"Look, man. All I'm saying is

the hand can only do so much after a day on the range. A nice, round ass goes a

long way. I'm no flower boy, but ass is ass. Ain't got no business with what's

in front."

"Next time I get invited into

the showers," Bishop said while laughing. "I'm giving them your

name."

"Long as you tell them I'm

pitching." The contract was sealed over soggy carrots and a damp roll.

The three only got to spend a

little time together most days, but they made the most of it. Barnes was

political and intelligent enough to back it up. His father was a governor of

his home state, so he probably got just as much teasing as Bishop. However, with

Barnes being big enough to eat most of the recruits, not many people had the

nerve to squeak out an insult unless they were willing to risk losing some

teeth. Bishop wasn't into the politics of the war, but it was nice to get news

as Barnes caught it.

Civil war was particularly brutal.

Everyone there tried to distract themselves from the likelihood that they might

have to shoot their friends someday. There were a lot of measures taken by the officers

to make sure none of them were defectors or traitors. Bishop fought for the

Nationalist Party, or "the cleaner of two toilets," as Barnes would

so eloquently say.

The enemy was part of some grand idealistic

coup, the People's Liberation Army, who wanted an independent monarchy (which

meant a dictatorship according to the Nationalists) instated after ninety years

of stable oligarchy. The classes were subjugated by laws and regulations

designed to keep families like Bishop's from every entering a state power. People

fighting for the Nationalists were willing to accept their sorry state in fear

that the new one would be even worse. Those fighting for the Revolution

believed they were really going to win despite the massive advantages held by

the Nationalists.

Propaganda was prevalent on both

sides. Nationalists were plagued by Stockholm-syndrome, in love with their

poverty, and desperate to defend their abusive masters. The Revolutionaries

were rebellious snakes--coincidentally, one of their leaders literally was

serpentine--bent on instating anarchy and famine to the State. Bishop knew the

score, and Barnes was right: both sides sucked.

That night was quiet apart from the

orchestra of snoring soldiers. It ended with the loud entrance of Sergeant

Reilly the next morning before dawn.

"Get your sorry asses out of

bed!" He barked at the recruits like the German shepherd he was.

"Privates McAllen, Brandt, Bishop, and Johnson: report to Captain Tanner

immediately."

Before his feet touched the ground,

Bishop lost his balance, nearly falling back into his cot. After a bit of

flailing, he assimilated into the position taken by the rest of the soldiers.

"What, does your candy ass

hurt, Private, are you drunk?" Reilly stormed over to Bishop and circled

him, eyeing him. "I didn't order an interpretive dance--or is that stump

you call a tail not enough to keep those ears from turning you over?"

Smith broke into a quiet chuckle,

but Sgt. Reilly caught him. "Smith, are you laughing at your squadmate?

You're on latrines for a week if I hear you out of line again."

"Sorry, sir."

Even Bishop thought it was funny,

but he'd learned a long time ago that laughing around Sgt. Reilly was akin to

shooting yourself in the kneecap. Those who were called left the tent and

marched to the Captain's personal building. It was strange to be back inside an

actual structure with walls and a solid roof.

"In reference to your trials

at the range yesterday and the week before," began Captain Tanner in an

official tone. "You have been selected as the most skilled marksmen of

your squads. You will be further trained in that field and work to become a

specialist in higher-ranged weaponry than your squadmates. Your jobs will be to

quickly, accurately, and effectively neutralize designated priority targets

that your squadmates can't reach.

"You've probably noticed that

you're the only ones who haven't been training with the M1928, the Thompson.

You will be outfitted hereafter with semi-automatic rifles," he continued,

holding up the M1A1 from the day before. "... which suit engagements at

longer ranges. You can expect training on the M1A1 Carbine to begin this

afternoon." He set it back down on the desk. "You may inform your

squad leaders of your new positions when you return from breakfast. Do you have

any questions?"

None of them responded.

"Alright then. Good job,

gentlemen. Keep this up, and you may yet make the sniper academy. Don't get a

big head. You're still just grunts. Dismissed."

The grunts left the building and

returned to the tent they had been sleeping in only fifteen minutes before.

Bishop shared his news with Barnes and Smith, and they congratulated him.

"I got put on support,"

said Barnes. "I get the fun job of carrying ammo and supplies through

crossfire."

"At least you got

something," sneered Smith. "I'm still just regular infantry. I'm

gonna' marry that fuckin' Thompson at this rate."

"I'll be keeping an eye out

for you two from now on, I guess," Bishop said before stealing a grin.

"Seeing you smile," Smith

groaned, "Scares the shit out of me."

"Maybe this will get you a

little respect from the other squads." Barnes was optimistic.

"Marksman isn't a little thing to those guys."

"Maybe," Bishop

dismissed. "I think they're just bored. Everyone's eager to shoot

something."

"Tch! You're not?" Smith

cocked his head at Bishop and leaned back a little.

"Of course I am. I just don't

let it go to my head is all."

"You should let Gavin know you

got placed," Barnes said. "He's at the mess hall waiting for

breakfast I think."

"Isn't it about ti-"

Smith was cut off by the breakfast bell. "Well fuck me with a fork; look

at that timing."

"Classy," Bishop snerked.

"Damn right, powder

puff." He groaned and rubbed his rumbling stomach, taking the opportunity

to scratch himself. "Let's get some food."

This time, the vegetables smelled

clean. It was nice for Bishop to eat without negotiations for once, but that

stroke of luck would be the last any of them saw that day. An hour after

breakfast, there was an explosion nearby the mess hall. Near, of course,

meaning it took out one of the corners of the building, but it didn't seem to

land on anything--or anyone--important.

Mortars marked Bishop's first real

taste of war, the first of countless more.