Free THUGLIT Issue Four by Roger Hobbs, Eric Beetner, Patti Abbott, Sam Wiebe, Albert Tucher, Christopher Irvin, Anton Sim, Garrett Crowe Page B

Old Man considered it. The best vantage would be one of the houses, or the trees behind them. The yachts would offer an advantage of proximity and escape. But he wasn’t sure the Bastard would employ the water. The stooped way he’d moved back on the mainland…
    The Old Man chastised himself. He was falling into familiar patterns of thought, patterns that hadn’t helped him back before retirement. You couldn’t anticipate the Bastard. You couldn’t outthink him. The Old Man would have to trust his instincts, and treat Protection Island as if every square foot could be weaponized.
    He clambered out of the boat onto the jetty. He’d bent to retrieve the bag when a bullet punched through the windshield close to his cheek.
    Off-kilter, he tipped clumsily back into the boat and flattened himself. His hearing was still keen, but he hadn’t heard the shot.
    Lying staring up at the stars he put the trajectory together. It had come from Newcastle Island. A precision shot, more than half a mile. He hadn’t expected the Bastard to use a rifle.
    He turned onto his belly, spun around and peered up through the screen. He could see nothing on the other island save the outline of trees. The adrenaline chill was a comfort.
    He set to work. First he slipped down into the seat and brought the engine to life. Keeping his head low, he corrected the course so the boat would graze the western point of Newcastle Island. It might run aground. It didn’t matter either way.
    A nylon cord would keep the wheel from correcting. He eased up the throttle and secured that, then flicked on the pair of powerful lamps built into the prow of the boat.
    He heard the crack of the second shot, and the third, both aimed at the neon lamps that lit up the beach on Newcastle. The Old Man slung the bag over his arm. He killed the lamps and in the sudden darkness dropped into the water.
    The water was cold and he couldn’t quite touch bottom. It took effort to pull the floating bag underwater. He couldn’t have it bobbing above the waves as he swam.
    He’d scouted Newcastle well and knew that the rocky eastern beach offered the best cover and the shortest stretch of exposed ground to the trees. Northeast, the sandbars rose and it was there you could walk between islands at low tide. The Bastard might wait for him there. He might already be waiting at the eastern beach. In the past the Old Man had often felt that the Bastard had access to his thought processes. He wondered what preparations the Bastard had made. Perhaps none. Maybe that morning the Bastard had simply taken down the rifle, stuffed his pockets with cartridges, and set out to ambush the Old Man. There was no accounting for the Bastard.
    Water crept into his nostrils. He swam awkwardly, the bag upending him, careful his strokes didn’t break the water’s surface. He paused to take in air and check that the Bran Mak Morn was still on target. It seemed to be slowing. He reached the rocky isthmus and felt his waterlogged shoes touch the island. Above the lap of the waves he could hear little. He pulled himself up, remaining behind the barnacle-flecked rocks. He’d imprinted a map of Newcastle in his mind. He knew the distance he’d have to cross to reach the forest.
    In the forest he could outflank the Bastard. He could stalk him. The advantage would be his. A person could never really know a forest, and knowing that fact would give the Old Man his much-needed edge. He climbed up over the boulders. Grass and a few weather-beaten logs separated him from the nearest trees. He started across the sand.
    He realized his mistake too late to amend it. A bullet clipped his shin. The Old Man pitched forward, landing on the sand with the bag behind him. He kicked the bag back down into the rocks and lay quiet.
    “Clever business with the lights,” he heard the Bastard say.
    Bullets punched the sand around him. The Old Man kept his head down the way a new soldier does who’s unaccustomed to fire. He’d