“Ready on the range?” called the range safety officer.

Swanson racked a round into the chamber of his reliable Marine Corps .45 ACP pistol and clicked off the safety. “Ready,” he said.

“Ready,” echoed Powell, bringing out his pistol and getting into his stance.

“Stand by,” ordered the range safety officer. A double door swung apart to let the shooters enter the target zone and closed behind them. “The range is hot.”

Swanson and Powell were alone on Main Street, guns up. Aunt Bee was looking at them from a window, her eyes wide with fear. The bodies of two children lay dead in the street, and people were running into houses for safety, away from the rattle of automatic weapons down the street at the sheriff’s office. Smoke poured from the windows. Powell stepped forward, pistol grasped in two hands while his eyes probed the surroundings and the shadows. Swanson was five feet away on his right, matching his advance. There was a crackle in their earbuds; then the radios went silent.

“Control?” said Powell, and heard no reply. He pushed the microphone closer to his mouth. “Control?” He glanced at Swanson and tapped his ear. Something was wrong. The Marine ignored him and took another step forward, ducking into cover behind a foam block that looked like a Dumpster. Powell got his eyes back on the street scene. Part of the scenario assumed that the area behind them was already cleared. A little girl in a doorway stared at them as if they were interplanetary aliens, and a dirty pickup truck suddenly sped out of an alley and dashed across the street into the grocery store parking lot, where the driver bailed out and ran inside. Civilian. A misty smoke snaked along the ground.