You really need to get yourself to a gun range for this. Sights, sounds, smells, tastes and physical touch and sense all come into play. And a lot of it could be altered for what you need. Some ranges are more stagnant, some have a stiff breeze. Some are warm, some are cool. Some are dark, some well lit. Some are long and narrow, others wide and not too long. Some have electronic targets, some have paper targets on trolly systems. Some have steel targets. Some allow larger caliber, some do not. Some had padded walls, some have bare concrete. Some are pristine, others are dirty and have bullet-scarred walls and ceilings. Some have lobbies with glass windows, some have just a double door system to block noise. Some have video monitors, some have range officers on the line. Steel snail traps, ground rubber and even steel plates angled into a sand pit are used to capture bullets. Some allow reloaded ammo or ammo you bought elsewhere, some you have to buy ammo there. Some rent guns, including fully automatic ones, some do not. Some have rifle distances, some do not. Some are primarily male, others are mixed and some have ladies only periods.
If you cannot get to a range, check out videos on YouTube and other sites. You won't get smell, taste or feel, but you'll get a basic idea. What kind of impression or affect do you need the range to have on your character? We can probably help you achieve what you need, but it's not as simple as it might seem at first.
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Daphne showed Curt how to adjust the ear muffs to fit his head. He was wearing his Boston Red Sox ball cap, she said it would help keep hot brass from landing on his face. Daphne had lent him eye protection, simple safety glasses like he had to wear in high school shop class. Her prescription glasses would protect her eyes. She carried the range bag through the double doors, which reminded him of a spaceship airlock, and she made sure the first was fully closed before opening the second. Even in the airlock he could hear sharp cracks and deep booms from other shooters on the line.
Daphne set the range bag on the back table and got out the guns. Two revolvers, a Ruger in .44 magnum and a Taurus in .357 Magnum. She also took out a box of ammo for each, .38 specials to shoot in the .357 so he could get used to the gun without the higher recoil. She also had her Glock 19 in 9mm, with three magazines, and a Ruger Mark III in .22 long rifle. He would be starting with the .22.
Curt flinched and spun sideways as a deep boom resonated in his bones and vibrated the vessels his blood was pumping through. He could feel the shock in his heart and his lungs as the man three lanes down pumped the shotgun and fired again. A blue silhouette about ten yards out was peppered with pellet holes and a few larger rips. Curt imagined a home invader on the receiving and and doubted anyone could live through that event. Daphne tapped him on the shoulder.
"Take the Glock and the .22 to the line and set them on the shelf. We can't load firearms until they are on the line, that was in your safety briefing."
Curt looked at the sign with the same notice hanging above the table. "I remember."
"Do you remember the four rules of gun safety?"
Curt just pointed to the poster above the table that had all four rules printed in large red letters. Three sharp cracks made him turn to his left and look at the woman on the end lane. She was dressed in a tight top with no cleavage showing, just as Daphne now was. "Hot brass between the girls" was how Daphne had described her choice of dress, also choosing flats instead of the open-toed heels she normally wore. The woman, probably in her mid forties, had an average build and the same extra padding in the thighs he saw in his mother. Somehow, holding the pistol made this woman appear a lot more attractive. He looked at Daphne and imagined her shooting a big gun. The shotgun shook him out of his imagination.
"Pay attention. You load the magazine like this, push down on the button on the side and drop the cartridges in with the bullets pointing this way." Daphne demonstrated by loading the first ten rounds for the .22 in just a few seconds. She slapped the magazine into the gun, racked the slide quickly, she had called it "slingshotting" when she was showing him at home, and set the safety on before laying the gun on the bench, with the muzzle pointed down range. She clipped the target, a drooling zombie in full color, to the clips on the trolly system and pushed a switch on the side of the lane, propelling the target out to the seven yard lard line painted on the cement floor of the range. The target rocked, then settled down, slightly tilted like the zombie was leaning in for the kill. Four more cracks echoed from the end lane. The man with the shotgun was putting it in a case and getting out a handgun.
Curt stepped to the line, wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans, and picked up the gun in his right hand. He twisted it sideways, making sure to keep the muzzle downrange while thinking about the security camera perched behind his head. A cool breeze came from a vent behind him, chilling his neck slightly and emphasizing the adrenalin rising in his system, heightening every sense and making him focus on the zombie before him. He could smell gunpowder and there was a slight metallic taste on his tongue. He imagined it was the blood of the zombie, laden with copper or some other foreign metal, oozing from the wounds on his body.
Gripping the gun tightly in his right hand, he wrapped his fingers from his left hand tightly around his right and made sure he squeezed his palms together to control the grip. He laid both thumbs along the left side of the gun, Daphne had showed him this grip and said it would avoid his thumb being bitten by the slide of the gun as it cycled. He took aim between the two posts on the back sight, lining up the red bead of the front sight on the zombie's forehead and slipped his index finger inside the trigger guard. Keep your finger off the trigger until you're ready to shoot was rule number three on the poster. Or maybe rule two. He squeezed the trigger slowly, anticipating the explosion in his hand and tightening his grip, but the trigger just stopped. No explosion, no bullet and no hole in the zombie's brain pan.
"Safety," Daphne tapped him on the shoulder.
Crap! He slipped the safety off like Daphne had showed him, again lining up the zombie skull in the sights. Squeezing slowly, a loud bang in the next lane made him flinch and he fired his shot six inches over the zombie's left shoulder. The casing from the spent round ejected, rebounded off the divider between lanes and smacked his right shoulder, teasing him for being such a wuss.
Daphne leaned in and gripped his arms from behind. "Muzzle down range."
He realized he was pointing his pistol straight up at the ceiling, lowered it to point at the still intact zombie and noticed the half-dozen holes in the ceiling from past shooters. Three more sharp cracks from the end lane and another large bang, accompanied by a cloud of gunsmoke drifting across his view, completed his initiation into the world of firearms. He felt like a man and knew he belonged here. And that the zombies would never reach him.
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Hope it helps.
Jeff
