They had stumbled upon the museum by accident—an old, crumbling building with a faded sign that read "Frontier Legends: A Tribute to the Wild West." Most of the exhibits were covered in dust, the mannequins wearing moth-eaten cowboy outfits, their glass eyes staring blankly at the apocalypse.
But Micah? He grinned like he'd just found gold.
"Well, well," he drawled, running his fingers over a display case. Inside lay a collection of antique revolvers, rifles, and—most importantly—gun belts.
Lee frowned. "You think any of these still work?"
"Doubt it," Micah said, smashing the glass with the butt of his revolver. "But these do." He tossed a weathered gun belt at Lee, then another at Clementine. "Congratulations. You just got upgraded from amateurs to almost amateurs."
A few days later, Micah led them to an open stretch of land outside an abandoned town—far enough from walkers, close enough to cover if things went south.
"Alright, listen up," he said, spinning one of his revolvers before holstering it. "Speed's useless if you can't hit shit. Accuracy's useless if you're dead before you draw. So we're doin' both."
Lee adjusted his new holster, still stiff from disuse. Clementine mimicked Micah's stance, small fingers hovering near her pistol.
"First rule," Micah barked. "Your gun ain't a decoration. It's part of you. You don't think about drawin'—you just do it."
To demonstrate, he moved in a blur—steel flashed, and a distant bottle shattered.
"See? Simple."
Lee sighed. "You make it look easy."
"'Cause it is easy," Micah sneered. "For me. You two? You're gonna suck. A lot. And I'm gonna laugh."
He started them slow.
"Fingers loose. Don't grab like you're pullin' a trigger—sweep* the gun up."*
Clementine tried. Her draw was clumsy, the barrel wobbling as she brought it level.
"Christ, girl, you look like you're tryin' to swat a fly," Micah scoffed. "Again."
Lee fared slightly better, but Micah still snorted. "Wow. For a murderer, you're real fuckin' gentle with that iron."
Lee fared slightly better, but Micah still snorted. "Wow. For a murderer, you're real fuckin' gentle with that iron."
"I'm trying not to shoot my own leg," Lee muttered.
"Aim small, miss small," Micah said, tapping his temple. "Don't just look at the target—see* it. Like it's the last thing you'll ever see."*
Clementine squinted, lining up her sights on a rusted can.
BANG.
A near miss.
"Huh," Micah admitted. "Not completely hopeless."
Lee's first shot went wide.
"Oh, that's pathetic," Micah cackled.
After hours of drills, Micah decided to "motivate" them.
"Alright, hotshots. Draw on me."
Lee blinked. "What?"
"You heard me," Micah grinned, standing ten paces away, hands loose at his sides. "First one to land a shot on me gets extra rations tonight."
Clementine hesitated. "But—"
"NOW."
Lee went for it—fast, but not fast enough.
Micah's gun was already out, leveled at Lee's chest before his barrel had even cleared leather.
"Dead," Micah announced. Then, without looking, he fired at Clementine's feet, making her yelp. "You too."
Lee exhaled, frustrated. "That's not fair."
"Fair?" Micah holstered his revolver with a flourish. "Ain't nothin' fair about a gunfight. Only thing that matters is who's faster. And right now? That's me. So get better."
By sundown, Lee could draw and fire in under two seconds—not Micah-fast, but enough to drop a walker (or a man) before they closed the distance.
Clementine? She was sharp. Her hands were small, but she had the instincts. After a few more near-misses, she finally nailed a perfect draw-and-shot, blowing the head off a rotting pumpkin they'd set up as a target.
Micah actually grinned.
"Well, I'll be damned. Maybe you won't get me killed after all."
Lee rolled his eyes. "High praise."
"Don't let it go to your head," Micah said, lighting a cigarette. "You're still shit. Just… less shit."
Clementine, despite herself, smiled.
And for once, Micah didn't ruin the moment with an insult.
(Well. Almost.)
"Now clean your guns. And if either of you ever let 'em rust, I'll use 'em to pistol-whip you myself."