A Girl's Guide to Guns and Monsters - Martin Harry Greenberg [85]
A second adult swallow appeared. Both perched on the side of the nest, shrieking hysterically. One made another excited flight around Melinda.
“Stay here,” she told it, feeling immediately foolish. The bird could not possibly understand her. She knew the facts of life. The snake needed to eat, and it helped keep the rodent population low, just as the swallows handled the bugs. But, currently, the farm was teeming with bull snakes, while she knew of only one set of nesting swallows.
Melinda ran through the screened porch, into the house, and upstairs to the bedroom she now shared only with Paige. Three years had passed since Mike had left them, unable to cope any longer with Paige’s condition. Melinda knew the shotgun still sat in its lockbox on his side of the bed. It took a moment to remember where he had left the key. She dug it loose, fitted it into the lock, and drew out the bolt action Mossberg 12-gauge with care. She knew he had left it for her, loaded, worried for rabid raccoons or skunks, for someone breaking in to harm her and the girls in his absence. They lived on an acreage inherited from Mike’s uncle, their nearest neighbor nearly half a mile away.
Melinda had never opened the box before, had never fired anything stronger than a BB rifle. Now, she hauled it out gingerly, watching every step, walking swiftly but afraid to run for fear of tripping and firing it accidentally. A myriad of warnings ran through her mind: statistics about accidental shootings, about a gun in a house more likely to kill an occupant than a criminal, about never keeping a loaded firearm in a house with children.
The bird’s frantic flight ran through Melinda’s mind. It had come to her for a reason, had placed its trust and the life of its own little family into her hands. Melinda burst out the door, down the porch steps, and headed for the shed.
“What’s wrong?” Kaylee called.
“Nothing that could harm us. Stay there.” Melinda glanced over to make certain both girls remained safely near the garden. “You may hear a shot, but it’s OK. I’ll be right back.”
Then Melinda rushed into the shed.
The snake had crawled further, nearly within striking distance of the helpless fledglings. The parent swallows swooped raucously through the barn.
Melinda pointed the barrel at the snake and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened.
Melinda swore. Safety catch? she wondered. She felt around for anything that felt lever-like, discovered a side latch, and shifted it. Only then, she realized she probably had to do something with the bolt on top as well. She wrenched it backward and forward. A shell shot out, though whether fresh or spent she did not know, as another one rammed forward into the chamber.
The snake reared its head. Both adult birds flew all around Melinda, seeming everywhere at once. She aimed and pulled the trigger.
A roar filled her ears. The stock bucked hard against her shoulder. The snake tumbled to the floor, bloody, torn nearly in half. An instant later, three fledglings toppled from the nest.
Guilt assailed Melinda. I killed a living thing. A second realization only added to the mass of discomfort taking shape in her brain. Did I kill the birds, too? She looked at the infant swallows on the floor, so like their parents, only smaller. They sat, dazed, for a moment. Then, one parent swooped down, herding them toward the back of the shed. The three hopped ahead, apparently unharmed. Then, the other parent swooped in, and the babies squealed, mouths open. The second bird shoved beakfuls of regurgitated insects down their open gullets.
Melinda finally managed a smile. At least, she had saved the babies; and the parents clearly had every intention of continuing to raise them on the floor. Finally, she looked up to the nest. Daylight trickled through a spray of holes in the shed roof. Great. She had not considered the possibility of roof repairs when she had made her decision to fire. As she passed the still corpse of the