Rick swiped hard at his nose with the full flat of his palm, the heel of his glove coming away with a sheen glistening like plastic wrap. Sherri met his eyes as he glanced up before he could fight himself to make sense of his sights that ducked and bobbed like buoys on bad water. Her confusion was the only thing he could understand, the only thing that came clear as a church bell in springtime as he hunched. The muscles of his abdominal wall balled into eight individual fists and pummeled his stomach like a heavy bag with no sand or cotton inside it. He wretched. His rifle fell from his hands, steel plated knees meeting the concrete of the warehouse floor in twin claps, the muzzle brake touched the glass and as he clutched in the space before him for a thing to stop him from completely doubling over his fingers caught the natural grip of his rifle, slipped behind the guard, and dumped the spring.
