The Fort (Aric Davis)

scanning the area for other VC.” Scott was scanning for North Vietnamese soldiers in black pajamas, but all he was really doing was moving the barrel of the rifle in every direction that kept it from pointing at the target the boys had borrowed from Scott’s stepfather’s range bag.
    “You see any?” Luke asked in a serious voice, and Tim responded in kind.
    “Negative on that, Command. Aside from our target, the area appears clear of VC,” Scott said in a slow whisper. “I’m going to take the shot.”
    “Steady on that rifle, Staff Sergeant,” said Tim. “The President wants that man dead.” Scott gave Tim a look, and Tim shrugged back at him. Finally, Scott laid the front blade of the sight on top of the center of the bull’s-eye, aligning it between the blades of the rear sight. He was breathing even more slowly now, just as his dad and Hathcock, the sniper from the book, had agreed was important when shooting. He slowly eased back the trigger, making sure not to jerk it, and the rifle fired.
    Scott and Luke dove to the floor of the fort while Tim tried to get the binoculars to focus on the target. Finally, Tim joined them on the floor. “These binoculars still suck. We’re going to have to go down there to see if you got a kill.”
    All three boys shouldered air rifles before descending down the same ladder, one after the other. After all, there could still be VC in the area, regardless of reports. They walked silently to the target, and when they got there, Scott spit in disgust.
    “Another miss?” Luke said. “Are we really going to do this all day? We should all get to shoot a couple times and then go look.”
    “Won’t work,” said Scott. “We won’t know who shot what. I risked getting in a lot of trouble by taking that target, and we’re not going to waste it like a bunch of stupid babies.” He looked at his friends, first Tim, and then Luke, to make sure they were taking him seriously. “Besides, half the fun is in pretending that we’re really snipers. It wouldn’t be as cool if we shot it a few hundred times. That would be like, World War Two machine gunners, or something. We’re playing sniper.”
    “You’re right, dude,” said Luke. “Sorry. But last time I checked, only queers were last ones back to the fort.” He said it as he took off at a gallop, his air rifle bouncing on his back. His friends bounded after him, all of them laughing and the forest vacating life around them as they crashed through the brush, quite unlike the men they had been pretending to be.

2
    Tim emerged from the woods into his backyard, a ten-minute walk from the branching of trails that led to the fort and the boys’ three homes. His dad was sitting on a folding chair, sitting in front of the still-very-much-in-progress patio, and nursing a beer that was sweating condensation faster than it was being drunk. There was an empty folding seat next to his father, and Tim plopped into it, the late-afternoon sun over the peak of the house instantly beginning to roast his face. Tim moved the chair forward a foot and slouched down. Problem solved.
    “Your mother means to kill me,” said Stan. “Or at least wants me to suffer. I’m not sure yet which. It may be both. Has she told you who she plans to marry when the insurance money runs out?”
    “Not yet, Dad. Is it that hard? ’Cause it looks super easy.”
    “Oh, fruit of my loins, you are beyond lucky that I recall and respect the sanctity of a boy’s summer vacation. By all rights, you should have a transfer shovel in your massively blistered hands right now, and you should be moving that enormous pile of rocks in the driveway into this hole. We may avoid church, son, but you should thank God just in case. Trust me. You are very lucky.”
    “It’s not like I’m the only kid,” said Tim. “Becca’s not helping either.”
    “Becca and Mom are currently discussing terms of war.” Becca was fifteen, and things had been moving toward a serious conflict. Tim wasn’t sure exactly why she and his mom hadn’t been getting along, only that he didn’t expect them to start getting along anytime soon, and he figured boys were at least part of the problem. “And because of that, us menfolk are much better off out here. You can either move rocks or compliment my ability to drink a beer. Choose wisely.”
    “Looking good, Dad.”
    “Damn straight.”
    Tim leaned back in the chair, enjoying the warmth, but even more so, the freedom. As