Sharpshooters

Meeting Grimes.

"My name is Lex Blanton. I am 25 years old from northern Georgia. My area of expertise? Weapons coordinater, y'know, dealing with firearms, blades, explosives, you name it. You'd be surprised how fun the military can be. This, of course, was before the shit hit the fan..." I cooed proudly, southern tone sounding aloud. I sighed quietly as the words replayed the memories of the good ol' days - I remember how I used to wake up every day with a huge smile on my face, knowing that I would be going to the base. People there were determined and hardy - friendly too, oddly enough. The machinery was just... Hell, it was an honour working with everything I could. What can I say? I adored that job no matter how dangerous it could be, and I can say my years of practical, tactical brilliance has brought me this far.

Raising a hand from my lap, I rested it on the wooden table, heated sharply by the sunlight streaming through the window panes, and began tapping my nails casually against the grain. The RV I was situated in began to feel incredibly hot and I could feel beads of sweat rolling down my forehead and nose. I ceased tapping for a brief moment and wiped my forehead with the same hand with a slow exhale of exhaustion. Despite the heat, I still continued to wear my black, leather jacket; this particular article of clothing was my pride and joy and I could not think of one thing that might separate us. It was a gift from my father, given to me the day before I was commissioned out to Canada, and I have had it in my possession ever since.

I focused my attention on a small, black beetle skittering carelessly across the table. Surprisingly, it remained between us for quite some time on the table, soaking in the sun. Stupid beetle. It shouldn't have to face this agonising heat. I disengaged myself from the conversation to flick it away. As I flicked, it let out a quiet squeal, landed somewhere on the shadowed floor and crawled away under the cabinets. "You were sayin'?" My gunmetal-blue eyes darted up to the man sitting opposite me. He sent me a warm smile and looked at me with kind eyes.

"Rick Grimes," he retorted. From what I could tell, he had quite a smooth American accent, with an odd British twist.

"Nice to meet ya, Rick," I responded, flashing a small smile, whilst holding out my other hand (the non-sweaty one). He lifted his hand from under the table and grasped my hand, giving it a firm shake. After the gesture was over and done with, I began to make my observations of this man:

Late 30's, I'd say. Toned and strong. He sported the classic Atlanta cop uniform: gold star badge, sewn on patches on his mocha-hued jacket with shoulders saying 'SHERRIFF'S DEPT.', an off-white shirt, black pants held up with a brown belt and a holster strewn on the side that held a small, dull grey, unidentifiable gun in its holster, and lastly: a pair of black boots. Quite clearly he belonged to the police department. His hair was short, slightly-waved and slicked back. It was a dark brown, greyed out colour - it suited him. The more intriguing features of this man though were his baby blue eyes and pinkish lips, surrounded by light stubble, which gave him a very young physique.

"So, ah, Lex? Might I know what kind'a weapons you have on you?" He asked. I straightened myself up and blinked a few times; the sound of his voice pulled me out of the daze I found myself in. Damn, I need to pay attention here...

"It ain't much, but it's gotten me through some hell," I paused for a moment and reached down to my small black back-pack beside my ankles, pulling out my holster-belt that harboured a 9 mm pistol and Glock. I sprang up quick and planted my weaponry on the table. Rick jumped at the sudden bang and I quickly began to mouth an apology. I suddenly remembered my other bits and decided to bring my bag on the table, but I kept that close to the window side. Out came two sharp, moderately-sized knives shortly after. Rick exhaled and rubbed his stubble chin with one hand, his expression twisting to that which seemed to ponder. I questioned silently with the tilting of my head. A thin, wispy strand of charcoal hair fell into my face, which I blew it back and ignored the tickle it left on my cheek. "Were you expectin' somethin' like... Hell, I don't know... An AK-47?" My tone of voice carried a playful harshness and sassiness. To really add to this, I pulled my light pink lips in a straight line and raised one corner in a discreet smirk. He grunted and let out another short chuckle.

"Took the words right out my mouth," he spoke, the corners of his lips curling into a smile. I'm really taking a liking to this 'Rick'. My legs soon started becoming quite agitated from sitting in one position for so long, so I leaned back and tucked my feet up to my chest. The worn, peachy-coloured seats let out a sigh as I shuffled into a new position, legs tucked up and an arm resting on the back of the chair, pressed against the wooden headboard.

"My apologies," I licked my bottom lip slightly and took a look down at the displayed weapons. He grinned and shook his head approvingly.

"And these- " he gestured towards the knives, "what experience d'you have with these?" I nodded and allowed him to examine them. I looked up from the table and sent him a warning glare as he went to pick one up. Better not damage one. Suddenly, as I began to speak, I heard the familiar 'chink' of a gun being pulled off safety outside, followed by the sound of thudding. Rick didn't show any sign of hearing the noises. He just looked down and tilted a blade at different angles, getting a good look at it. Slowly, I slid my legs back under the table and placed both hands on the surface, preparing to stand. Just as Rick put the knife down, a distant scream sounded. We both jumped to our feet, simultaneously. My knee bashed the table on the way and I uttered out a loud yelp, "Son-of-a!"

After sending a childish glare down to it, I looked up at Rick. He had pulled out the gun from his holster, (it was a small, colt python revolver), and began roughly loading the slots after unlatching the safety trigger as he made his way to the door. While he slung it open and prowled outside, I grabbed my pistol, shoved it under the back of my jacket, and tied a belt - taken from my bag - through the belt loops of my jeans. The knives soon snuggled into the DIY 'holsters' on the belt as I dashed after Rick. We listened closely and started to quickly walk to the source of the noises.