Who: Ryan and Clay What: Yet again, the throwing of stones. When: Eh, whenever. Day 14. Where: In the field. Warning(s): Just cursing at the moment, but you never know. Rating: PG-13
Clay had given up on the notion of taking down a Laugher with rocks. Rocks. Christ. How stupid was that, when there were far superior weapons in the camp? Fuckin' GI Joe. Soldier Boy shows up with a big-ass gun, kills one of the ugly fuckers--barely lifting a finger to do it! It had been humiliating. Deeply discouraging to a would-be caveman.
It took a day or two, but he eventually decided to give the rock idea another try. Bullets wouldn't last forever, now would they? Thorne's bolas had actually brought a Laugher down, at least temporarily, that night the two of them had made their first, half-assed attempts at getting somewhere with the creatures. And the spears Jasper had introduced him to worked well enough. Not that he wanted to spear a Laugher, but they worked for less aggressive prey. Primitive weaponry, that was the way to go.
The problem with rocks was distance, Clay decided. Distance and force, but mostly distance. Accuracy was no problem. He'd proved to himself that with practice, he could hit anything he wanted to. As long as he was up close! That was the issue, when it came to Laughers. Clay suspected it would be an issue with other animals as well. Either you wouldn't be able to get too close, or you wouldn't want to.
Turning the problem over in his mind, examining it from this direction and that, a dim memory from childhood had surfaced. The story of David and Goliath, time-worn and unremarkable except for the novelty of seeing it played out on a screen in black and white, one of those old Hollywood productions with a cast of thousands. Hollywood David had put his little stone in some kind of slingshot thing. Not a forked stick kind of slingshot. Unless some brainiac invented the rubber band, that wasn't happening. No, this had been some kind of rope thing. Braided cords. Clay could remember David loading the stone into a bit of leather in the middle, then swinging that sucker 'round and 'round over his head.
The first hurdle was the sling itself, fashioned from the same cordage that everyone else in the camp seemed to have discovered. Clay had watched Ryan from a distance as he'd made some out of grass. The stuff was perfect for his purposes. He might have asked how it was done, or requested that Ryan make some for him, but why bother when he could just steal a piece? It had taken a certain amount of frustration, of throwing the project aside in a rage only to take it up again later, but the end result was a reasonably serviceable sling.
The next hurdle was to learn how to use it. It turned out that swinging it around and around was not the way. Again, there had been frustration and fury, but he'd taken care to do his experimenting well out of sight of the camp. Nobody fussing at him, trying to tell him how to do it when he damn well could figure it out for himself, given enough time.
And he had figured it out, mostly. There were still a few issues to be worked out, but they were minor. Minor enough, now, that Clay didn't feel the need to hide this activity from the rest of the camp--he just moved out across the field, far enough away that the temptation to peg somebody in the head with one of his stones wouldn't arise. Hopefully.
He'd gathered himself a little bundle of grass stems and plunked himself down on a log, braiding them with an ease and deftness that would have amazed him only a week ago. Who would have ever thought that Clay Lindstrom would take up arts and crafts?
The pockets of his jeans were loaded down with stones, and as he finished tying off the braid, he stood, selecting one and fitting it into the cup formed from a bit of old cloth he'd found and tied into the center of the sling. He let it dangle from his left hand, swinging it lightly back and forth. Clay glanced around. That roseberry bush over there, picked clean of fruit--that's what he'd aim for.