A flash fiction by

Edmond Rane

God may love all creatures as he created them, but Nelson Right preferred his duck roasted in a cast iron pot over an open flame, and that’s exactly the way he was going to have it. As he made his way back to his cabin with his kill, he watched the trail for signs that someone else had used it.

At the cabin, he checked the trail leading to town. He hadn’t been to town in weeks, and the forest was quick to reclaim what he didn’t use. Nelson knew a clever man wouldn’t use the main trail and checked the perimeter. When he was certain they hadn’t found him, he sat on the edge of the porch and began to pluck the feathers from the duck. Remembering how much his ex-wife hated the hunting cabin, he smiled as he ripped the feathers from the carcass. When he offered her the house for the cabin, it was too good to pass up. His pension didn’t fare so well. The judge added his and hers together and then divided by two. She finally got equal pay.

Nelson wasn’t ready to retire. When he tried to do what was right, they left him no choice. He loved his cabin and being alone in the woods, but in the kitchen, he grit his teeth in anger as he butchered his duck for roasting. He was taken from his task when movement outside the window caught his eye. The small birds had taken flight.

Slipping his .45 from his shoulder holster, Nelson ejected the magazine. It was full. He reinserted the mag and pulled the slide back far enough to see the round in the chamber, and then he holstered the weapon. In his rookie year, only old farts carried .45s. Nelson always planned on becoming an old fart, but in a cop’s life, making it through the day was good enough.

Opening his gun cabinet, he took out the shotgun, not the one he used for hunting, but the one made for one purpose—to kill men. Slipping three rounds into the tube, he pumped one round into the chamber and then slipped in the fourth. Throwing a bandoleer over his shoulder, he headed out the back.

Nelson knew the tactic. The main assault would come from the front, with a shooter, perhaps two covering the back. His best hope was to hit them before they were ready, and Nelson figured the birds had given him the jump. He was right, but seeing the younger man with wraparound sunglasses, a bulletproof vest, and an M-4 assault rifle moving through the woods sent a surge through his body. In Nelson’s time on the force, it was mirrored sunglasses and campaign hats. Looking like a prick was good enough. For the new generation playing the old game, they had to look like killers.

Raising his shotgun, Nelson fired. Bark and splinters flew from a tree. His aim was low and to the left. With the shotgun, close would do. The would-be attacker grasped his neck. Blood pulsed from between his fingers, and he collapsed onto the ground.

Stealth ceased, and firepower reigned supreme as the main assault team opened fire with their automatic weapons. The hailstorm of bullets penetrated the thin walls of the small cabin and exited in all directions. Diving for the ground, Nelson was struck in the leg and then in his side.

When the shooting stopped, Nelson’s hope for living through the day was gone. He mustered his remaining strength to sit up and drew his .45. The first assailant to reach the rear of the cabin was met with rapid fire from the semi-automatic pistol. Nelson saw the man go down but didn’t know if he landed a kill shot. The weight of his weapon became more than he could bear. As his arm fell, Nelson was knocked forward by the force of a bullet hitting him in the back. He took his last breath face down in a pool of his own blood. In the struggles amongst God’s creatures, Nelson Right died fighting to live his way.