"Deer probably looking for otha wata sources with how overrun da predators got." Five years of no population control. No tags. No hunters. Wildlife was overtaking itself, struggling as certain species dominated. Humans had always helped to keep it in check, but now population had thinned to around five percent, or at least that's what had been predicted. Dusty wasn't sure if it had gone one way or another. He did know the Vultures had killed or driven off a lot of folk.<br/><br/>"Dere you go," Dusty encouraged after the first shot. The young man was getting it, and he even showed control over follow up shots. He would have a better chance in the city with some measure of protection, even if ideally he never had need of it. That wasn't the way of the world now.<br/><br/>"Now dat we're done wasting ammo, we can crack one open." No need to keep going over the same thing. He understood the mechanics and how the weapon operated. That wouldn't change. A revolver was predictable and reliable. Back over to the truck, he grabbed a small box of .38 ammo, perhaps fifty rounds, then told him to reload the gun and pocket the rest. Not for more practice, but to have the gun ready. No sense in carrying it unloaded.<br/><br/>"Always carry it loaded. An unloaded gun will get you in more trouble den if you didn't have it at all. Trigga guard on da holster, for safety." He wouldn't accidently grab it, and squeeze one off. With the weapon back in the holster, Dusty pulled his shirt over it, concealing it. Unlike Dusty, he was better off keeping his assets hidden until he needed to call upon them. With it visible, some might try to take it, testing if the city boy had the know how to use it. A gun was a valuable thing in the world as it was.<br/><br/>Dusty drug out the cooler next, opening it by the back tailgate. It was stocked with a dark stout. Unlike much of the beer left on the shelves, it hadn't gone flat over the years, but rather had simply gotten a little more potent. He often brewed his own moonshine, but certain occasions required a good beer. Like a young man's first shooting experience. Dusty's had been much the same, only he'd been about six years old. There was breaded fried catfish as well, seasoned with a spicy rub, wrapped in an envelope of tin foil. Dusty cracked a beer open and motioned for the young man to help himself. He hadn't explained what he was looking for that day but it was apparent part of this was just two strangers reclaiming a bit of their humanity after going it mostly alone.