"Shoot to kill this time, okay?" Will winks and pushes me into the tall corn as we walk through the field to the gun range. I push him back and he laughs. The sky is a perfect cloudless blue and the air is hot from the summer sun. It's a day meant for picnics, not pre-end-of-the-world target practice.

"But that's why I have you," I say. I fiddle with the leather strap attached to my rifle, sliding it back and forth across my shoulder until it rests comfortably in the crook of my neck. Turning my face up to his, I'm sure that I'll see his lips curl into a smile at my routine grumbling, but instead he's frowning.

"What if I'm not with you when we're attacked? You can't assume someone else will pull the trigger for you all the time." His hand tugs absently at his ear, a sure sign that he's not joking anymore.

I swallow back my answer and look out past the corn to the prairie beyond. The unspoken words drop into my stomach, making it hurt. The gun range is up ahead. Marie and Brian are already there. The popping sounds of their guns carry over the cornfield, punctuating the sudden awkwardness between Will and me.

"I'm just saying that maybe it's time you took all of this seriously." Will reaches out for my non-gun-toting hand. I hesitate, my fingers twitching in the air. He dips his head and gives me a sidelong smile.

I know he means well. He always means well. He cares about me I am the problem. Exactly three months until the end of the world and I still can't muster up the proper response. I pull in a long breath, glad for the abundance of air around me. Thinking about the end of things always makes me feel like I'm suffocating.

Will chases after my hand with his own until he snares it. He laces his long fingers through mine. "I worry about you, Lyla. I can't be with you every second, even once we're in the shelter. I just want to know you'll do what you have to to survive."

I can't keep a sigh from escaping. We've had this conversation so many times. It's intensifying now because of the target shooting. This is only our fifth time out on the range, and his pestering is reaching epic proportions.

"Come on," I finally say, like he's the one who's holding us up. He squeezes my hand lightly. We walk the last few yards to the open grass and the gun range. I fish my earplugs out of my pocket and stuff them in my ears before Will can say anything more. He leans down, his lanky frame casting a shadow over my face. He's like a barometer--constantly measuring my moods and reporting them back to me in his expressions. His stonewashed-blue eyes are troubled and his freckled nose is crinkled with concern. This means that he thinks that I'm overly anxious. I want to reassure him, if only to get him to look away, but it's as if clouds have suddenly formed and gathered over my head.

Brian's standing behind Marie, his face buried in her dark curls. He's gently guiding her rifle to her cheek for what I'm sure is the hundredth time. Together they aim her gun at the large collection of hay bales across from them. Each hay bale has a life-sized cutout of a person bound to its front. They're aiming at a woman. It's a silhouette, but still it makes my skin tingle when the gun goes off and I see a piece of the plywood lady's chest fly out into the grass. Marie grins at us and her cheeks flush pink.

"Did you see that?" she asks. I can't exactly hear past my earplugs, but I don't need to. She says the same thing every time she manages to land a shot. I paste a smile on my face and walk toward them and out of Will's shadow.

"Nice!" I holler back. I take my usual spot in the grass, across from the hay bale with the man cutout. I'm pretty sure this makes me sexist, but the man target is the only one I can stomach shooting. I lower the rifle from my shoulder and try to psych myself up.

Not enough room for everyone. We can't take them all. They had their chance. We have to protect ours.

I play this litany over and over in my head, hoping that somehow it will make my heart understand. It didn't work the last time and I don't hold out much hope for this time either. How can I take someone's life when he's just scared and looking for help, even if it saves my own?

I glance over at Will. He's shooting at two plywood cutouts: a man and a woman. His rifle is tucked into the space between his chest and his shoulder, and his cheek is welded to the gun's stock. He keeps both eyes open, lines up his sights. There's no hesitation once he gets the sights level. The rifle jumps as he takes the shot and the plywood man's head flies backward. His featureless face searches the sky. Will readjusts and shoots the plywood woman in almost the exact same spot. Her head stays upright, but it's missing its rounded top. He smiles as he lowers his gun and looks at me.

I turn back to my own hay bale and the silent man-board waiting there for me. I pull my rifle up into position and ready my stance. I can feel the others watching me, hoping that for once I'll shoot one of the mandatory targets: head or heart. My bangs are plastered to my forehead and sweat tickles my back as it runs down my spine. I still my body, put my finger on the trigger, and pull. The recoil makes me wince and I shut my eyes. When I open them and look out at the silhouette man, I let out my breath in one relieved rush. The bullet hit exactly where I wanted it to.

"Really, Lyla? The kneecap again?" Marie has her hands on her slim hips and one foot jutted out as if she's suddenly become a seasoned assassin. She can't seem to wrap her mind around my continued reluctance to shoot right.

"It's her tribute to Terminator Two," Will says. "Where the kid orders the Terminator to take nonlethal shots all the time." He doesn't look at me as he walks back to his spot and aims at his target again, but I know that our discussion isn't over. It won't be until I manage to find a way to do what they want, to give in and fight.

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Excerpted from Gated by Amy Christine Parker
All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.