Nora flipped several M4 clips into the shopping cart. All had a clip inversely taped on so as to have as little down time once the firing started. Already having spent an hour practicing switching out clips, she felt confident she could keep a constant rate of fire up for at least five minutes if necessary. Nora passed by the grenades, although loud and dangerous to human, true humans, they would do little to her prey. After attending the three hour seminar earlier in the day, Nora was much more prepared for the following day, having learned weaknesses and strengths of every available weapon, as well as taking several minutes test-firing every weapon. Fingering a Ka-Bar she looked across the aisle at Matt and winked. What the hell, might as well, she thought as she added that to the growing surplus growing in her cot. A .45 Colt pistol, a Glock, along with ten clips for each, an M4, several M4 clips, an assortment of explosives, a dozen flares, two flashlights, rope, a MOLLE (an army rucksack), along with food supplies for up to a week, made up the landscape of her cart.
Matt was being more conservative, keeping to only that which he felt was absolutely necessary. He did plan on purchasing an M4, however. While expensive, it gave a sense of security and was by far the most preferred weapon to use. Besides, he?d still have the majority of his savings left. Although he may never live to see his unused money, his confidence told him he was up to the task and could return unscathed. Confidence had been one of the main points of a seminar earlier in the week, because without a strong confidence, panic will set in. That?s where 75% of hunters fail, at least according to the teacher, as if there was some way he could know what thoughts went across the damned just before they were turned.
Matt looked up for a moment of pleasure. Nora was grabbing a machete from the bottom shelf, and Matt couldn?t help but take a second to enjoy the view. Although Nora was not feminine in the least, she did have an attractive aura about her. Nora had grown up with five brothers, so being feminine had never been an option for her. She either had to adapt or die, so she adapted. Never had she played with dolls, instead she spent her time showing up her brothers. Now, at the age of twenty-three, she was more competitive than ever. Gifted the genes for a nice body, she hadn?t wasted them and spent two hours a day minimum in the gym building muscle and toning what she already had. Now she wore just short shorts and a tank-top, typical of her devil-may-care attitude. She probably has more balls then anyone in the group, Matt not so jokingly thought. As she stood up he quickly averted his eyes, trying to look intently at the shotgun rack to his right. Smugly she went to check-out. Matt made one last addition to his arsenal, a watch, and jogged to catch up with her.
Chuck pumped eight more rounds into his SPAS-12 pump-action shotgun. In full automatic mode, the gun could shoot four shells in one second, making it unpopular with every instructor on the island. However, Chuck couldn?t resist the sense of power holding the sawn-off shotgun in both hands, blasting away the targets on the range. After discharging his eight rounds, he flipped out his dual .45s and continued the exercise. The point was to eliminate and wave of targets approaching in packs, with only a bullet to the head working as a stopping mechanism. Destroy all the targets before they reach the shooter, and the shooter lives. It helped both accuracy and reloading, although could not accurately produce the panic one would feel in an actual situation.
Chuck would have to carry several loads of shotgun shells, along with dozens of clips for his pistols, but being a 250 pound ex-linebacker, he would feel little of the strain. Plus, the feeling of packing real heat assisted his macho-man ego. He also had a machete strapped on his back. Although little good for actual killing, it added a sense of security in that it couldn?t jam or run out of ammunition. It could become stuck into his attackers, however, but Chuck had already practiced the technique for yanking it out of flesh that day.
In the adjacent room, Takeo danced around his targets, slicing through them with his specialized katana. A seventh degree dan in Kento, a Japanese form of fencing, Takeo had long practiced his art-form, starting at the age of six. However, he had not yet received the chance to use it practically. Although technically his back-up weapon, he fully intended on getting the chance to use his beloved katana on a human for the first time tomorrow. His primary weapon, a scope mounted M21, lay oiled and prepped in his room.
Born in Japan, he had emigrated into the United States at the age of seventeen, and had quickly picked up the language. However, he was able to retain this tradition of his ancestors, and always made a pilgrimage to his homeland at least once a year. Finishing up his college, he had become a professional Kento instructor and traveled the country teaching the art and performing at regional competitions. That was, until he had met his current companions.
Finishing the course, Takeo wiped the sweat from his brow, and just then noticed how exhausted he was. The course was made to put even the most athletic hunters to work. Targets are rails and wires attacked from all directions, with the goal being to reach the end of the room unscathed. Any tough by any target was considered a failure, and the drill was to be repeated. It wasn?t required of course. No training was required, actually, but only the suicidal simply paid the bill to hunt and took no lessons or drills for the resident expert. Satisfied, he cleaned off his katana and sheathed it. Time to hit the showers.